here without you

10

It's Sunday, which means "Funday". Every day on Sunday, our family spends time together, doing whatever one of us comes up with. It was my mother's idea a long time ago because she and my father are both so busy during the rest of the week.

Funday used to be fun, back when Olive was alive. I remember having memorable days when I couldn't have been happier. Of course, not all of them were good. Sometimes they could be annoying, or end with us fighting. It happened rarely, but it did.

However, I wish I could have them back, and I mean all of them, even the bad ones, because it would mean having her back. Back then, we were two parents with two daughters. Your picture perfect family.

Ironically, Funday is the opposite of fun now. It's only both of my parents and me, having dreadful dinners at home and occasionally at fancy restaurants.

I wish we wouldn't do this. Without her it's just not the same anymore. She's missing, and all of us know it, all of us feel it. Her laughter should be filling the room, and her jokes should be where now is only uncomfortable silence. She should be here, but she is not.

Regardless of her absence, my mother keeps insisting on having Funday. I have a feeling that it has become even more important for her to keep up this tradition now that one of her children is gone.

It is late in the evening. We are sitting at the table in our dining room, plates in front of us filled with lasagne. It was her favourite meal and therefore one of the worst choices my mother could have made. Something tells me she did it on purpose, but not to cause any pain, or anything like that. I think she's only trying not to forget Olive. She's trying to hold on to her - or what is left of her.

While I hear my parents exchanging how their days went, I stare at the lasagne, not being able to eat it. Maybe I'm being overdramatic, but that's how it is. Ordinary things can have a crazy impact on me just because they are connected to Olive.

My mother wants to know why I'm not eating. I say nothing. Shouldn't she know why? I look at my father, who has barely touched his plate. He puts down his fork and clears his throat.

"Maybe lasagne wasn't the best choice, Addison," he says.

Silence.

"Why is that?"

I can see him trying to stay calm, but I can see he's struggling to. He lets out a deep sigh. "Come on," he says. "Please don't act like you don't know why." His jaw is clenched, and he shakes his head, as though it couldn't be more obvious. All of a sudden, he slams his fist on the table, causing it to shake. Somehow it feels like the whole room is shaking.

"She's dead, Addison. Why can't you just let her be gone?" His last few words are whispered and full of hurt. Instead of angry he looks tired now, and I can see tears in his eyes. It's like I can almost feel the pain which he is feeling. Actually, I do. We all do.

He gets up, mumbling something that sounds like an apology. He takes his jacket, and my mother and I watch him leaving. I look at her, while she's still staring at the spot where he stood, even though he's gone now. I wait for her to say something.

"I was only trying to... I mean... I don't want to forget her," my mother says. "I can't." Her voice sounds like it's breaking. I hate this. I hate that there is nothing I can do to help her or him, or to make any of this better.

"I know." I want to add something. I want to comfort her, tell her that it's okay, that it isn't her fault. I want to tell her that I miss her too, and I want to tell her how I feel. But I can't. I don't know how.

Before I can say anything at all, she gets up, tells me that she's sorry and leaves too. I think of going after her, but I don't. I know she wants to be on her own right now. So I sit there, left alone.

I'm not going to pretend that I'm not used to this. Pretty much every time when what's left of our family tries to do something as simple as having a meal together, we fail. Usually, we end up having a fight - or my parents do, most of the time I try to stay out of it. Or we just don't speak at all. Neither of those options are enjoyable. It's terrible, but how else would it be? Having a dead daughter or sister just makes everything terrible.