I’m used to waking up in a puddle of my own sweat. Moist and damp. In a way I like how my clothes cling to my body, like they need me. Like I am all they have left or they are dangling from a cliff and I am their last hope. It’s nice to feel needed.
The night sweats started almost immediately after my mom died. We weren’t exactly close. In fact we were probably the opposite. We got into a lot of fights. Mostly over my friends, who, surprise, she was painfully right about. We fought about what I ate, about what I listened to, and about my hobbies. When we weren’t fighting though, things were really good. We did the stereotypical mom and daughter things like watching movies together, having boy talk, and getting manicures together. As much as I immensely disliked her sometimes, my love for her was as deep as a bottomless pit.
Two years ago, on the first day of spring, she left. I woke up one morning to a note on my desk, a still warm glass of soy milk, and a broken heart. In the note, she wrote that she had watched me sleep for hours before leaving. That this was the hardest decision she had ever made. And what I found most important: that she felt trapped. But what I still can’t understand is how she kept it a secret for fifteen years. How she could have considered my Father and I a ball and chain for so long. She always seemed so happy. She had a secret smile. One where her nose crinkled and right dimple became exposed. I always worked so hard for those.
Really, I should have seen the signs. One time she had such a distant look in her eyes. Like she was a whole other person entirely. I had to call her name multiple times. She had also started saving money in a jar. She said it was to buy me all the dairy-free ice-cream I wanted. My father later told me that she had had a bag packed under the bed for two weeks. I’m envious that he had time to prepare. That for him it wasn’t as if a semi-truck hit him head-on. As if his favorite TV show was suddenly cancelled. Or a rug was pulled out from under him.
I drag myself to the bathroom, turn the shower on, and wait for the steam to cloud the mirror. Sometimes it’s hard to look in the mirror. People say I look exactly like her. I have the same skin tone, the color of cinnamon. The same big hazel eyes. The same long, dark, thick hair. There is one difference though. One that can’t be seen. It’s a promise I made to myself; that I would never run from my problems.
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“Daddy?” I say as I poke my head around the door to his office.
“Yes, Pumpkin?” came his reply as he spun around in his chair.
“I’m going out for a little while. Bicycling, not driving.” He smiled his permission and I grabbed my house keys on the way out the front door.
Going for a bike ride is definitely one of my favorite things. Especially when the reward is an opportunity to both people watch and sketch in the park. Did I mention the way the wind feels as it combs my hair? The feeling of being one with the wind and the freedom that then consumes me is more than enough happiness for a lifetime.
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I’ve been taking pictures ever since I was capable of holding a camera. I would say that I’m pretty decent. I’ve won a few local contests for them. My best photos are usually candid ones. Like a woman’s smile when she thinks no one is looking. The awkward beginning stages of a romance. The unapologetic way a child runs away from their parent. A man glancing at the woman he loves.
And…the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Through my lens. Right now. She’s on a bike, hair blowing in the wind. She just looks so…graceful. I wonder if she sees herself this way. I quickly click the shutter button before it’s too late. I follow her with my camera until she is out of sight.
“Helloo! Earth to Tanner! Come back to earth already.” And that would be the voice of my girlfriend.
“Oh, hey. Sorry. I just got in the zone.”
“Well, snap out of it! I’m ready to go.”
“Okay, Okay. Just give me a minute.” I mutter. And sit on the bench to pack my bags up.
“Hey,” she says while joining me on the bench. She places a hand under my chin and leans in. Her lips are soft and familiar. “I’m sorry.”
I stand and place the bag strap across my body, lace our fingers together. We begin walking towards Stephanie’s house, but I can’t think straight. All the greens of the park seem to blur together forming one solid background. I don’t even know her name.
