Wide Open

t h i r t y s i x

I should have known this question was coming. After everything that was confessed at the junkyard, 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, it's a wound still too fresh. A legion in my skin that's split open, stinging, aching, begging me to quickly sew it shut. Even after all this time, talking about it will only cause it to ooze. But I want Taylor to know. He's shown me that even when I'm vulnerable, he'll hold out a bandage to at least keep me from bleeding out in front of his eyes.

"A car accident," I say. "She went grocery shopping. Her favorite time to go was late at night because it's empty and everything is newly stocked. She was on her way home. 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 tried to merge into her lane. She didn't have anywhere to go so he hit her. But we found out later that the truck driver had been driving 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. "It was fast, 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 need to look up to know that Taylor is staring at 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. He has nothing to be sorry for though. 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 have long been calloused over until it's nothing but a ripple in their skin, a minor imperfection. Nothing that deserves any fuss or attention.

I breathe deep and steal a glance at Taylor. I watch as he plays with his straw wrapper, twisting and untwisting it around his large fingers. "What about your mom? What's she like?" I ask. I wait impatiently for him to answer. I'm always curious about other people's moms and the relationships they hold. Do they measure up to what I had with mine? Or was ours an anomaly? From the picture in his room and the little tidbits he has shared about his mom and sister, I get the impression that Taylor's mom is special too.

The relief that flashes over his face is the first sign that my assumption was right. "She's the best." But it's a simple answer, one that 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." Guilting someone into doing what you want is a trick my mom taught me.

Taylor laughs and tells me he has to think of a good story. He's given ample time to think as our food is delivered. We spend the next few minutes working through silent bites and stolen glances.

"It was just us growing up. Me, my sister Nora, and my mom. Shea, that's her name. I remember this one summer, I think I was eleven or twelve so Nora was around six. We paid a lot of money for me to be on this traveling football team so I couldn't miss a game and it also meant we couldn't afford to take vacations. But we would go back to school and all these kids 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 an ultimate staycation for us. Each night had its own agenda and when she got home from work she would transform our entire house into something new." 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.

"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. She bought our favorite candy and we each got to pick a movie to watch. But I think the best part was taking apart the couch and using the cushion to make a fort. Then we laid in our fort on the floor 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 grows the widest I have 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 setting before, but I don't need to because his eyes are like a cinema camera projecting the scene for all to see. "She sounds a lot like my mom, very selfless," I respond. They are always 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. I pause, giving myself time to think about my response. I used to think it was, 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 be no new aspects to discover, no new memories or thoughts to be created. It was always a reminder that every part of my mom that I knew would forever be all that I would know of her, and her of 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. Just another little piece of my mom in the now.

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 as the waitress returns again, she sets down the milkshake I ordered after we had eaten. I take two unopened straws and rip the paper wrapping off of them. I slide both 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.

I pull it out my phone instinctively, letting the lens point 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 I needed to. I click the icon in the bottom left corner, allowing the picture to fill the whole space. Taylor with a mouth full of milkshake and the half curve of a smile. I want to add it to the timeline. The moment I knew for sure, I had a friend in him.