Paint Me Love

Five

It feels like the school is silent the next morning. I know it's not, and I can hear people talking, but it's like I'm underwater, and their voices are far away. 

Brooke doesn't talk to me. I think she knows I don't want to talk about it. She's right - I don't want to talk about my worry, but I want to talk about anything else. Maybe she's just worried she'll say something wrong and I'll break down during class. I don't know, maybe she's right. I want to cry at the slightest mention of a mother or a family or art or music and I have to stop myself from screaming out in anger whenever a teacher says, "How are you?"

I'm not in a good place, and people are starting to notice. Even people I don't really talk to. I just keep catching people looking at me like they want to ask me questions. They want to ask what's going on. I want to ask that, too. 

I don't even look at my phone during class. I want to keep sending Martin texts, but at this point, I'm too scared of what he'll say. I know it's stupid of me, but I don't want an answer if it's not the one I've been waiting to hear for nearly four months. Mom's coming home.

It's during the last five minutes of history when an office aid comes in. He looks worried and almost hesitant as he calls my name. "Gabe Johnson?"

Brooke perks up faster than I do. She's anticipating the answer as well. I avoid her eyes as I grab my bag and stand up. I avoid everyone. I just keep my eyes glued to the floor as I leave the class room.

The journey to the office feels like a lifetime. I know I'm going to get my answer, whether I want it or not. I already know who's waiting for me. I don't have to look up to know it's him.

"Why didn't you call me?" I ask, my voice low. 

"I need to talk to you," Martin says. "Alone."

"Why didn't you at least answer my texts? I've been trying to get a hold of you for thirty six hours!" I finally look up at him, tears burning like fire in my eyes. 

"We'll talk about this in the car. Come on."

The office ladies exchange a glance, and I can tell we're making them uncomfortable. "Alright, fine," I snap, "but then you tell me everything."

"Yes. I'll tell you everything." 

He nods, and I follow him out to the car, my heart thudding like a war drum. I sit in the passenger seat and suddenly can't breathe. I just stare out the window, unable to form coherent thoughts. 

"You don't want to know, do you?" Martin says softly as we pull out of the parking lot.

I shake my head. I'm too afraid.

He doesn't say anything until we get home. Then he gets out of the car and opens the door for me, asking if he can take my bag or help me get out or something. I already know what he's going to say. He's being overly nice and it's scaring me. 

When we get into the kitchen, I put my bag down on a chair and he sighs softly. "Sit down, Gabe."

"I'd rather stand."

He hesitates again, shifting his weight uncomfortably. "It's ... it's about your mother."

I know, I want to tell him. My voice doesn't come out.

"She's ... your mother is ..." His eyes won't meet mine. Instead, they flicker across the kitchen like they're searching for the right lie to tell me. "The surgery failed," he finally says, his voice quiet and barely audible. It wavers like a watercolor ocean - uneven, unplanned, and very, very blue. He drops to a whisper. "Your mother is dead."