Mischief Managed

28: Healing

I despise tragedy. I despise the way everyone looks at me when they recognize my face- I despise the pity in their voices when they tell me how their hearts go out to me, that they can't imagine how awful it must be

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The next days were silent. I could feel ice creeping over my vocal cords, and the screams of all the words I wanted to say echoed off the walls of my head. The quiet became a routine. Everything was taboo.

In the mornings, I would slid my pink coffee mug from the rows of glasses in our kitchen cupboard. Careful not to brush the navy one.

World's Best Dad.

Then I'd sit at the tiny, round table crammed by the countertop while my mum would still be sitting in bed. I should get her to move out. I knew that. There was too much here. I was walking in a landmine, around bombs of belongings. Smoke of memories.

I would practice my violin in my room. Every once and a while, I would pause and look about my room and the memories would rush me all at once. I didn't try to stop them now, and soon, I promised myself, I could live with them. They would stay with me beyond this house, beyond these physical reminders. Because he was always going to be my dad; I was always going to love him.

Sometimes I tried to bring lunch to my mum, but oftentimes she was curled in a pile of blankets, her eyes unreachable as she waved me away.

I had managed to get her to eat dinner with me every night. Progress, I supposed.

The seventh night, we were eating spaghetti.

I'd made a big bowl of it, but the strainer still sitting uncleaned in the sink- cleaning wasn't my forte. I'd set out smaller bowls and water glasses on the small circle table.

I'd even piled some of the noodles onto her plate, but she had yet to touch them. She just sat there, between the cluttered counter and the empty wall that used to have a family picture, and wrapped her fragile fingers around her glass of water. Her expression was empty. Numb.

I dropped my fork into my pasta bowl, and the clang! sounded painfully through the empty house. Anger coursed through me, sudden and violent, and the silence very quickly became unbearable.

"Wake up, Mum!"

She twitched at the harshness of my tone, and lifted her head jerkily from where she had been staring at the table. Her eyes were hazy.

"Yes?"

"I said wake up!," I said. Her emptiness, her grief, her quiet made all the nerves in my body white-hot. "You're so distant- you're so gone! It's like you're not even living anymore, but I can't stay here forever, Mum. What are you going to do when I'm gone? You'll run out of food, out of money, and what then? You're acting like your life is over. Well, surprise- it isn't."

Tears dripped from her eyes, and I couldn't help but feel a horrible sense of satisfaction. She was listening now.

I curled my hands into fists and continued, "Yeah. Dad's gone." She flinched, and I hesitated, but the words I needed to say were already on my lips. I needed to say them. "I miss him. Lots. And I know you do, too, but I'm still here. You're still here. And, Mum, I need you right now- you're my mum, I'm always going to need you. I love you."

Her eyes met mine, and something sparked deep inside them.

"You still have me. Why isn't that enough for you to want to live?"

Her face fell. Her lips moved as she struggled to find the words, and her voice came out hoarse. "I'm sorry."

She should be sorry. She was supposed to be the one comforting me. Holding me when I broke down. Reassuring me that I- we - could make it through this. She was supposed to be strong. She'd been strong my whole life, always laughing or smiling or yelling or feeling something.