Our Sunlit Bay

Good Mourning

August hit like a tsunami. That large wave enclosed me in such a plethora of emotions that I couldn't quite go a day without breaking down. It was only the seventh and here I lay on the cool tiles of the bathroom, worrying myself sick - literally. The core of my was drowning in pain. Nausea overwhelmed me. How was it August already? July didn't even occur. I was supposed to be in college by the end of the month. I was supposed to be with Colbie.

Colbie. My dead boyfriend. My dead ex-boyfriend. Does death count as a breakup? I never really felt secure enough to let him go. I liked the title - my boyfriend. It made Colbie more than a special, intelligent, spectacular human being. He was mine. But my mourning time was supposed to be fading. It only became worse. In daily activities I was emotional, particularly sad and angry. I never was so out-of-control of myself.  I never threw up sadness.

Mom told me I should go to therapy. I almost told her she should learn how to parent, but that was something I'd long ago learned was purely destructive to our already abyssmally shitty relationship. I guess more than parenting, I wanted her to see what I saw in Colbie. She saw a teenager who was caught up in his adolescents and screaming for attention. If she stopped and took the time to listen to him - really listen - she might've noticed that she was wrong. If anyone was the screwed-up teenager, it was me.

"She told me to leave again," I sniffed indifferently. I stared straight into the harbor. A single boat was unloading several wooden crates. An orange glaze was falling over the bay which reflected a warm pink. The seaman was finishing his work for the day; he worked dawn until dusk.

"She doesn't want you to leave," Colbie responded cheerfully. He pulled the sleeves of his periwinkle sweatshirt over his knuckles. Then he wrapped an arm loosely around me. I exhaled slowly. I needed to read.

"Okay," I said. Sometimes his positive attitude just didn't match the inner turmoil I would feel. When that happened, I would try and push past whatever subject it was that upset me. My mother was not a bad woman. She took care of me, some, and never hurt me. That was far more than thousands of children could ask for.

"I feel like cynicism is just tedious, you know? I suppose there are many reasons to dislike many peope-"

"Like my mother?" I snorted half-heartedly. He paused for just a second to stuff his lengthy fingers into the compressed pockets of his sky-blue skinny jeans.

"There just isn't any worth in focusing on the wrong of people. We all make mistakes and there's con that lives in each of us." The creamy glow of the sun was becoming weaker. The last seaman was working on unloading a final crate. His workday was near complete.

"It's not an excuse, though, Colbie. I don't seek to hurt people or perform some sort of self-proclaimed karma-related revenge. But my mother says awful things to me, you know that. I'm allowed to be upset. Just once, tell me that she shouldn't have done or said whatever hurtful things she finds acceptable in the moment of her anger. Tell me that you wish I didn't have to hear it. I know it's selfish! But... I want to be," I released a breath of frustrated air that had pent up in my lungs. Colbie overlooked me with a sad smile as the clouds maneuvered gracefully in the sky that stood behind him. He leaned his head on my shoulder and stroked my hair gently.

"I think you're stronger than she is, Summer," he admitted a bit guiltily. He took another deep breath. "And, I know it's wrong, but sometimes I resent your mother. How can she inflict so much pain onto her little girl? Her beautiful, intelligent, absolutely wonderful baby girl." So I nuzzled into him and cried some. It was one of the few times he, let alone anyone, saw me cry.

My mother knocked on the white-washed panel door that stood between us. I was still curled on the cool tile-tile floor, and most likely she heard my heaving. This morning was a particularly rough morning. I ignored the soft taps and breathed slowly through another surge of nausea.

"Summer," she said softly. She sounded worried, loving, and perhaps apologetic. I knew that she could change tones in an instant. So I answered this time.

"Yes?" I tried to sound impassive. I think it worked. The lines on the door seemed to shift as I peered up at them.

"Can we talk?" She asked; hope drenching the disgustingly high-pitch tone of her voice. "When you feel a little better?" She added after my silence left the space between us empty - empty except for the the bathroom door.

"Yeah," I agreed, "I'll be out soon." I could tell she was smiling even though she wasn't visible. I had shut the blinds in the bathroom ever since light had begun to upset me. The room was dark. Colbie would have hated it. "Sunshine is better than Prozac," I quoted Colbie aloud, shifting my dirty-blonde strands to my right side.

Mother awaited me in one of the beige couches we hosted in our annoyingly bright living room. Her legs were folded beside her as if she'd forced them to be casual. She smiled at me as I sat in a cranberry armchair placed across from her. I forced a smile in return. The problem with my mom since Colbie's death was we hardly spoke at all. She'd ask what's wrong, suggest I go to therapy, try and check up on my redundant, mundane life. All of it was fake - worse than the yelling. She came to a point where she was watching me flounder in teenage despair. As usual, I knew Colbie wouldn't have agreed. Just as he wouldn't have liked my new preference for darkness.  Where are the damn curtains? But Colbie wasn't here, it was just Mom. So I stood up and untangled the fine, golden ropes which hugged our on-sale curtains, and let them spread over the open windows. Mom frowned again, but then she plied another smile onto her face and overlooked me as I sat back down. Worry never left her eyes.

"I'll be straight with you, Sum," she looked down at her fingers as if there was something interesting to see. She just wanted to avoid my expression.

"Okay," the same mock-impassive voice. I wonder if she saw through it.

"I would like to take you to a doctor," she looked over at me quickly, "not a therapist! Your doctor. She can see if anything is wrong, and then, maybe if she suggests it, maybe then a therapist." My mother seemed frazzled beneath her curled ebony locks. She blinked rapidly and struggled to read my body language.

"Okay," this time the impassive voice wouldn't hold. My voice broke a little. I almost hoped that something would be wrong with me, just so I would know why I hurt. I'd never felt so sick and depressed all together. Maybe it was just a coincidence? Maybe she would make me feel better, and I would recover from Colbie like anyone else mourns over a loved one.

"R-really?" She stuttered, I hadn't realized how tightly she'd held her hands together. Mom was so nervous, just to take me to the doctor.

"Yes," I said quietly, my emotions quickly becoming hard to control. Mom hopped up from her chair and looked for one of our misplaced land-line telephones. The kitchen was bright, the living room a subtle gray, but my room and the bathroom were dark. So I seeped my way back to the comfort of my duvet and curled into another dream-filled sleep. Like usual, images of Colbie flooded my mind. It was a bittersweet kind of thing.