The In Between

Chapter 30

Tara

12am. 2:22am. 4:15am.

I toss frantically from side to side, my hand on the ace bandage, but I can't get comfortable. Whatever sleep I do manage to get is dreamless and fretful.

Twice in the night I flip my phone to the photo I took at the quarry, as if the Forever will magically appear. But it never does.

By morning, I can't help but come to the conclusion that Gabby must be right. Which means I'm nuts. Worse than that— far far— worse, it means that Justin did not send me a sign, that Justin is truly gone after all; that there is no 'forever' for us. 

The thought stabs at me and I push it away.

There must be another explanation. The light fell the wrong way when I took the picture. My hand jiggled. Something. Anything.

I have third period gym today and since I have a medical excuse for pretty much as long as I want (one of the few times it's actually been justified), I decide I'll ride out to the quarry then. If the Forever isn't there, I'll forget all about it—or at least try to. I'll chalk it up to grief and the concussion and my own desperate longing for a different ending. But it will be there.  It has to be.

I dress as quickly as my bruised body will allow and go downstairs, hoping I can get out of the house before anyone else gets up. I'll leave my mom a note saying I have to meet with a teacher to go over what I missed. I just don't want her looking at me with that inquisitive way of hers. I don't want to answer any questions.

Unfortunately, when I make it downstairs, Mom is already in the kitchen having her first cup of coffee. I've learned the hard way it is better to say as little as possible to her until she has downed an entire mug, but this morning she has clearly been waiting for me.  

"You're up early, sweetie. What can I get you for breakfast?"

"I'm not hungry."

"You have to eat something."

"Whatever."

"I'll make you some toast." I can tell she's annoyed but she makes a decision not to engage. This is not a good sign. It usually means worse is to come.

I pretend to be interested in the morning paper. I usually devour it the way that Gabby does tabloids. But today, the words just blur together.

Mom sits down beside me while the bread toasts, resting her hands on the table. "Tara?"

"What?" I don't look up.

"I was wondering if you want to talk to someone."

I should have seen this coming. "What do you mean?" I ask warily.

"You've been through so much, physically and emotionally. I just think it would help.  I'm always here for you, you know that, but if you want to talk to a...counselor..."

"You can say the word 'shrink,' Mom."

She frowns. "There's no shame in getting help. Anyone in your situation would need it."

My situation? She has no idea what my situation is. Not now, not ever.

I start to protest, then stop, remembering my decision to fake whatever they want to see on the outside so that I can have the freedom to think and feel whatever I want on the inside.

I take a deep breath. "I'm fine, Mom. Really."

"There's a kids' grief group in the basement of St. Martin's I want you to check out. I thought I could meet you after school and after we could go and get some food."