Where Dreams Lay

[twenty one]

[twenty one] "you don't have to feel like a waste of space, your original, cannot be replaced." -katy perry

Margret left Sunday morning for England. She came to say goodbye, which took a long time. I remember seeing tears in Casey's eyes. They were faint, close to being nonexistent, but deep down I know that she had a close relationship with Margret, so letting her go was hard.

I kept mom's letter in my room. It's folded back into the envelope properly in my storage drawer, where only I know would be. I didn't tell the kids about it, because they wouldn't understand. Even if I wanted to, it was something she wrote to me, a year before Luke was even born.

I took them to see mom after Margret left. It was weird to ride the bus with all three of them. I got stares from people who were judging based on what they saw. I kept replaying the fear in my head of seeing someone from school. Someone like Lindsay who doesn't know the whole story, and thinks that one comment can't hurt me. People like that are wrong.

I tried to hold it together when we entered that hospital room. Joey's hand never untangled itself from mine, and we sat there for what felt like eternity.

Luke was quiet the whole time. He didn't say anything to mom, not even a 'hi' or before we left, a 'goodbye'. Unlike Casey, who rambled on about something that happened at school the other day. I told her that she could talk to mom, pretending that she's listening. It took a while for them to understand what's happening to her, but they got it soon enough. Maybe I misunderstood them. Perhaps they understand more then I thought they do. Like death: I didn't think Joey and Casey would understand what it means to die, but they did. The topic of dad got brought up in the hospital, and it took every ounce of me to talk to them about it and him without shedding a tear. It's been over a week, and I know that I can't expect myself to move on in such a small amount of time, but I still feel like for their sake . . . I need to pull myself together. I'm the only one they have left to look up to.

I brought them to school earlier on Monday morning, and went through the rules about telling people about mom. Luke I know wouldn't say a word to anyone—not even his closest friends—but my main worry was Casey. She doesn't have much of a filter, and if the topic comes up, she could spill out everything.

My day went on as usual. I got stares from people, who I noticed whispered something to their friends when I passed by. But I ignored every person I saw doing that. My head was held up a tad higher that day. The mess that went down at the cafeteria is over and I'm grateful, but there are students who haven't forgotten it. Lindsay was out of my sight the whole day, other then in my science class with Aiden, but I didn't bother to look her way. I exchanged a few words with Aiden in that class. They were mostly about the project . . . sadly.

However, I recall him asking me about my mother. The subject was intense and the air thickened when he mentioned her coma. I acted like it didn't hurt when we talked about it, but I know he saw right through me.

My days are full of the same thing now: go to school, ignore certain people, work and go see mom. The other day I didn't bring Luke, Casey or Joey—they were still in school. I went right after my last class was finished and held her hand when I talked to her about my day.

She used to ask me how school was every day. If I had trouble on any homework, or new grades that I needed to present to her. My answer was always the same: my homework was easy, but challenging enough, and on most days, no new grades. I didn't realize that she didn't just want to know the answers to those questions; she wanted to know how I  was that day. How I felt about certain things or people, how I thought about my teachers, if they were too strict or not strict enough.

Going to the hospital was better then being alone at home, but going also meant that I had to see her in a form I didn't think was possible for a mother: unable to reach her children when they needed her.

The doctors and nurses are taking good care of her I noticed. Her hair was clean, her robe wasn't old looking, and her face may be emotionless, but that doesn't mean there isn't anything left in her. She still has a heart beating and body that's alive. That's what gives me hope, that even though her brain is unconscious she is physically still here.

One day I went to her on my own with her letter. I read it out loud, while gently holding her free hand. I imagined her listening and taking in every word like I was, processing them into inspiring words. Obviously, she didn't say or do anything but lie there on that bed.

I've gotten better at staying in control over my tears. When the doctors would come in as I'm talking to her, they would update me on anything new. I always felt burning in my chest and I know that's a sign for tears. I've learned to hold them back without mentally killing myself.

Every night I would lie in my bed and pray—but not for the things I want, but for the little things I'm thankful for. There isn't much though. However, like in the letter mom wrote to me: God knows exactly where you are, and he has a good plan for your life, believing is something I am beginning to find easy.

* * *

One day during this past week, I noticed a few things.

My dad had always told me that I'm too nosey. However, I've told myself that he joked about that. Sometimes I couldn't really tell if he was talking to me seriously, or messing with me. That's one thing I wasn't a big fan with about my father.

So me, being a tad too observant, ended up catching a certain someone looking my way a few times throughout that day.

Can you guess who?

His light brown hair with hints of darker area's, tall built body and chocolate eyes looked at me like he had a secret to tell. Or . . . like there was something he wanted to say—but didn't.

Let me just say: it absolutely killed me.

Having a boy keep glancing your way, or even taking a minute or two to stare is not fun. I mean, how do girls like it when guys are always looking at them? I hate it when people look at me.

But his stare wasn't one that other girls get (from what I've noticed) it was hard to pin point the expression. I've seen the look boys give girl when their tights are extra tight. Or when their top sags a bit lower then what her parents would tolerate. He didn't give me that look. The only thing I could tell from my eyes sneaking a glance towards him, was the nervousness his body language showed. It wasn't crazy—like sweating or excessive shaking—more like constant movement of the feet, tapping the ground in a continuous pattern. To rephrase that better: he had the urge to speak, and I assume the words stuck in his head . . . were meant for me.

That day he ended up offering me to go over to his house and work on the project. I told him no. No, as in I can't even if I wanted to because my siblings have no one but me to care for them.

But let me tell you that the urge I had to say yes, was strong.

However, what frightens me the most, is that I wanted him. In that moment he asked me to go with him after school, those eyes he owns showed me that perhaps I've haven't seen the world properly. Maybe . . . I haven't noticed that his strange looks or weird talks, were something a girl shouldn't ignore.

What scares me the most, is that something in my gut is telling me that tomorrow will be the day my hair will go up. It'll go in a high ponytail, where he can get a proper look at me, because I know it'll be quite a show.

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Lyric video-Firework by Katy Perry