Nanny Diaries

Chapter 14 - Use Somebody

“I’m so sorry.”

At those words, I stiffen. My heart freezes, my veins ice over, my limbs turn to wood. and suddenly, I’m eleven again. At the doorstep of my house, watching dozens of dozens of cars troop through our street all day long, to pay their respects. As if half of them even knew my mother, let alone gave a fig before she passed. I know that’s not fair, that’s almost always how it goes in life. An artist is not famous until he’s dead, and out of nowhere, he’s a genius. Most girls in my school didn’t listen to Michael Jackson until he overdosed. But still. It made me sick. The fake, pretend looks and gentle hugs, as if I’d shatter into a million pieces at the slightest touch. 

It wasn’t what anyone could do for me. 

It was what they couldn’t do. 

And that was leave me alone. 

My dad could barely take it, either. He appreciated the support, and of course he never said so, but I could tell all he really wanted was to grieve in peace. Just the family. So many people who were barely connected came by and slipped up, mentioning her name or the crash. One of us would lose it, and I could barely contain my rage. Let us be! You have no idea, so don’t pretend you do!

I remember how every day seemed like a struggle, getting out of bed was like climbing a mountain. Eating was a task better left alone. 

I had no appetite anyway. 

Getting dressed was something for the living. 

And I would rather have been with the dead. 

My young eyes looked on as my father barely kept it together, my uncles had silent tears making rivers down their faces, my sister wore a mask of calm, my brothers were mentally absent. They were sane, but just barely. They could hardly carry on a conversation. And I, the oldest, falling apart each day. But acting like I wasn’t. Like I hadn’t lost my best friend. My confidant. My sunshine. My rock. My rainbow. 

I was hardly alive myself. I felt like a zombie. Not present. A placeholder. I couldn’t sleep. My thoughts were drowned out by a high pitched buzzing. I found myself more than once on my knees, clawing the floor, asking, why? I don’t care about me. Why did you have to take her? Take me! Bring her back! Brett, Beth, Jonah and Todd, they need her. My father needs her. My uncles need her. Grandma and Grandpa need her. Everyone does. Don’t take her away!

I eventually realized it was hopeless. My mother was gone. She was never coming back. I wouldn’t smell her perfume again, or feel her embrace, or hear her voice. It was all gone, and I was a mess. 

It was the burial that did it. It was all a hazy nightmare until then. But as I stood there on the green carpet under the tent, in the cemetery, looking around at all these other headstones, I tried to stay in denial. It got harder and harder as time passed slowly, the hands of time trying to torture me further. 

My mother is not dead. She’s not. She can’t be. Jonah is one years old. He can’t grow up without a mother. My dad won’t remarry. I just know him. She was the love if his life, and he’d die himself before he dated again, let alone wed. 

I was numb as I listened to the priest recite a prayer I couldn’t have repeated or retained if my life had depended on it. I slowly rose with the rest of my siblings and my dad, watching the hired men bring my mother’s casket over to the grave. THE GRAVE. 

I can’t be using the words mother and grave in the same sentence. I’m too young for this. This can’t be happening. But it was. 

They set it on the frame, and slowly lowered it down. Down. Down. 

My breath was trapped in my chest, making me feel as if I was the one in the coffin. Being suffocated. 

Someone behind me lost it and started bawling, and I felt compelled to do the same. Cry for her! You’ve been doing nothing else for the past two weeks! Cry for your mother!

But I couldn’t. 

And I let my mother go without so much as a goodbye. 

.  .  .

“Please don’t say that.” I whisper hoarsely. It brought back too many memories. Too many feelings that welled in my throat and threatened to unleash a childish wail. Again. 

I can’t look at his face, I know I’ve hurt him. I can’t stand to have hurt someone that I care so much about. I can’t apologize for it either. I can’t take it back. 

His arms wrap around me, he stretches his legs out so I’m resting on his lap. I rest my head on his chest, tears welling in my eyes again. I cry fat, rolling tears. 

“What’s wrong now?” he asks, brushing hair back from my eyes. 

“I’m home.” I say in a wobbly voice. I feel safe for the first time in the longest time. 

I feel something wet slide down my neck and I twist my head to look at his face. More water blurs my vision and feel him curl an arm around my stomach. I was right. I’m home. I snuggle closer, at peace with the world. And it hits me why I’m crying. I’m happy. 

Totally happy for the first time in the longest time. 

“Thank you for letting me tell you.” I whisper. I really am thankful that he stuck around to hear me ramble on. I couldn’t ask for a better boyfriend. 

“Anything for you.” he says back. 

I relish the feeling of his arms around mine, the warmth heating my insides the way the peppermint tea did. The only different is it’s a million times better. 

Suddenly I bolt upright, nearly breaking Zack’s grip but not quite. Wincing, the subtle pain subsides and the realization dawns on me. 

“Oh my God.” I hear Zack whisper. 

The baby kicked for the first time. I can’t believe that the baby already can kick. It’s so surreal, but also that I’m sharing this moment with him. A few months ago, if you told me I would be pregnant and dating someone that wasn’t the father of the baby, I would’ve screamed and run away from you. Because who in their right mind would predict that? 

I grab his hand tighter so he can feel the baby better, and all sadness and horrible memories that were surfacing moments ago are washed away in this new memory. This new event that I will never forget.