Never Lost, Always Found

Chapter Eight

        I don't want to be awake. I want to stay asleep. Alone, perhaps. Mom doesn't want me to heave around the house for fifteen minutes waking up, so she leads me down the stairs and greets me with a breakfast of cinnamon buns and coffee, something of which I have always loved.

"I bought some at the store this morning," she says, frying some eggs for herself on the stove. I sit in the dining room, taking a small bite from the bun, which is actually quite large for its thin structure. Whatever it is, it tastes delicious. The glaze is still fresh, and it sticks to my hands. I make sure to avoid my cast though.

"Hey Mom, do you have any ideas on how to live happier?" I ask. "I'm no therapist," she says, "but I think if you just write a few positive things down every day that that might help. That way you can feel better every day you read them." "But how many?" I ask, taking a sip from my coffee, attempting to rub a small amount of sleep from my eyes. "Well, for an instance, you can write five today," she answers, grabbing a plate from the kitchen cabinet and sliding the egg onto it. She reaches into the fridge and pulls out a bottle of ketchup. She drizzles some on the side, then puts it back in.

She puts the pan that was on the burner in the sink and sits next to me. She thoughtfully stands back up and grabs a piece of paper and a mechanical pencil. She arranges them on the table in front of me. "We're going to start right now," Mom says, taking a bite of her egg. She reaches for a cinnamon bun but hesitates. "Do you mind if I have one?" she asks. "Not at all," I say. She takes one and smiles. "You shouldn't have to ask, you're my mother," I say respectfully.

"I understand that, but they are for you," Mom says. She takes another bite of her egg, forcing the pencil into my right hand. She takes painstaking caution when she lifts my left arm and rearranges it on the paper. "Mom, my arm doesn't hurt that bad," I say. "You have to be careful," she says warily. "I'm aware of that," I say to Mom.

She asks me, "So, what is a positive word that comes to mind?" "Optimistic," I mutter. "Good, write that down," she says, clasping her hands together. "Upbeat?" I wonder aloud. She nods in approval. I list three more words, scribbling them down messily. When I finish, I drop the pencil and take a long, calm sip of coffee.

I finish up my bun and say, "Thanks, Mom." "Anything to help," she says. But behind her eyes that show happiness is weariness, something I can't find normally in her. I mean, it's recurring now since Dad's death, but before then, it would fade into happiness into her upset and hurt state of mind.

I walk upstairs and into the bathroom, get dressed, brush my teeth, and head downstairs, shrugging my backpack over my shoulders. "I'm leaving to catch the bus," I call to Mom. "Love you, honey!" she yells over the running water as she washes the dishes. I leave the house and head to the bus stop, where I see Bailey waiting for me.

"Hey," she says when I get there, her eyes meeting mine. "Hi," I say awkwardly. I rub the back of my neck, and beads of sweat form around my forehead. "Hey, uh. I'm sorry for reacting like that yesterday," I say. She looks down, kicking the gravel with the sole of her shoe. "It's fine. I would do the same thing if that happened to me. You know, rubbing a sensitive spot," she says. She gives me a calm, warm smile. "You're alright, though. I'm not leaving your side."

"Thanks."

"It's always my job."

"I like having a friend like you."

"Same here."

"I missed you yesterday."

"Same. Benji wasn't talking much."