Wide Open (currently editing)

t h i r t y s i x

I should have known this question was coming. After everything that was confessed in the rage room, it's a logical progression. I've only talked about it a handful of times. Usually because it's being coerced out of me by a professional being paid to do so. Even with that practice, the wound feels too fresh. Each time I've been forced to talk about how my mom died, the stinging ache begs me to quickly sew it back up. And even after all this time, I know talking about it will still make it ooze.

But I want Taylor to know. If last night, and today, have shown me anything, it's that even when I'm vulnerable he'll rip his shirt to pieces to make a bandage for me. He's not going to let me bleed out in front of him and do nothing to stop it.

"A car accident," I say. "She had just gone grocery shopping. Her favorite time to go was late at night because it's empty and everything is being stocked. Normally she would take back roads to and from, but for some reason that day she didn't. She went to merge onto the highway... It was dark. The semi truck driver claims he didn't see her as he moved into her lane. She didn't have anywhere to go so he hit her. We found out later that the driver had been on the road too many hours, that he had been trying to pull over to sleep." The reason still tastes sour on my tongue even to this day. "We were told it was fast, that she didn't suffer at all. Not that it makes her any less dead," I add as I pick at what skin is left around my thumb, which isn't much given the past few days.

I don't have to look up to know Taylor is watching me. His gaze is a laser fixed upon my face. He clears his throat before giving me the typical I'm sorry, I didn't know response. I tell him he has nothing to be sorry for. It's not like my dad or Cal parade around with a "ask me about my dead wife/mom" button on. Even if Taylor did ask them about it, the scar from their wound wouldn't ever show. Theirs is calloused over into nothing but a ripple in their skin, a minor imperfection.

Nothing to fuss over.

I steal a glance at Taylor and watch him as he plays with his straw wrapper, twisting and untwisting it around his large fingers. "What about your mom? What's she like?"

I have this image in my head now, and I'm curious if I got it right. From the tidbits he's shared, I think she's special to him, just like my mom was, is, to me.

The relief that flashes over his face is a sign my assumption is right. "She's the best," he says.

The simple answer doesn't match his expression. I hold up a hand, "She's the best is what you say about a pet golden retriever who gives you kisses when you get home. I just told you about my dead mom, the least you can do is make me feel better with stories about yours."

Taylor laughs and tells me he has to think of a good story. After about three seconds though, I toss a french fry in his direction. "Okay, okay!" he shoots his hands up in surrender.

"It was just us growing up. Me, my sister Zoey, and my mom. Shea, that's her name. I remember this one summer, I think I was eleven or twelve, so Zoey was around six. We paid a lot of money for me to be on this traveling football team so we couldn't afford to go on vacations. But we would go back to school and everyone would talk about these amazing trips their family took to the beach or other countries. My mom has never liked us being left out so she created a staycation for us. Each night was something new. When she got home from work she would transform our whole house." As he talks, I picture the women from the picture frame watching her kids be the only ones without anecdotes from their travels. I wonder how hard it was for her, to be a single parent, to have to work that much harder to provide the vision she had for her family. To maybe give up on a dream of hers so Taylor had a real shot at his.

"One night was a movie night. She borrowed one of those popcorn machines on wheels from a coworker. The whole house smelled like butter for weeks." Taylor laughs at the memory, and I can't help the smile that fills my face as I picture it. "She bought our favorite candy and we each got to pick a movie to watch. We took the couch cushions apart and made this little fort. Then we just laid in it and ate popcorn and candy while we watched the movies until we were too full and sleepy to make it to our own rooms. We all passed out right there on the floor."

Taylor's smile is the widest I've ever seen it as he relives the memory in his head. I stare into his eyes, feeling as if I too, can see it playing out in front of me. I've never met the characters or seen the location, but I don't need to. His eyes are like a cinema camera projecting the scene for me in my own personal theatre.

"She sounds a lot like my mom, very selfless," I say. Putting others first, using that as a way to find her own happiness. Taylor simply nods in agreement shifting in his seat. He clears his throat as he picks at the last few fries on his plate.

"Everything okay over there Reed?" I ask, the sudden change in his expression is too dire to not.

"Is it hard to talk about her?" Taylor asks and then clarifies even though I know what he means."Your mom, I mean."

I pause, giving myself time to think about my response. I used to think it was, but just because talking about her could only happen in the past tense. She did this, or her favorite thing was, or remember that one time. Reliving parts of her simultaneously solidified that there would never be new memories created. Talking about her felt like a reminder that everything I knew of her would forever be all I would know of her. And her, me.

"Yeah," I say honestly. "But she was everything good in my world, so even bringing a little bit of that hurt to the now makes it worth it." I mindlessly wrap my fingers around the Wren hanging at my neck. It was a random gift that I don't even really remember receiving, but it was from her so even now, especially now, I never take it off. It's just another little piece of my mom in the present with me.

The waitress returns to check on us now that we've had a few minutes with our food and to refill our glasses. Our conversation doesn't continue, but it doesn't need to. Everything that needed to be said today has been. Except she sits down the milkshake I ordered before I food came, and two unopened straws with it.

I take both, unwrapping and sliding them into the brown slush before pushing the glass to Taylor's side—knowing he would try to steal it from me anyway—mouthing thank you to him as I do. Taylor only gives me a tight lipped nod in return.

Without warning, I pull out my phone and point its camera lens towards him. I press down on the screen before he even has a chance to react. It's not my ideal way to capture this moment, but the feeling in my gut makes it feel like an obligation. To myself, to the fact that I survived the day. I click the icon in the bottom left corner, bringing the picture back up on the screen.

Taylor with a mouth full of milkshake and the half curve of a smile.

I want to add it to the timeline. The one I haven't thought about, or updated in a long time. But I need to keep track of this day. Not as the day after the fourth anniversary of my mom's death, but as the day I knew for sure, I'm better if Taylor's in my life.