Denying Dylan | ✔️

(16) "Morning sickness?"

Aspiration pneumonia. My mother died from a silent struggle with her own eating and drinking. Not uncommon for someone with neurological disorders. Food went down the wrong way and unfortunately, like most people of good health, her gag reflex didn't work. Which meant that bacteria attacked her lungs, she developed pneumonia and her immune system was too weak to give her a fair chance. She died at two in the morning on the fourteenth of January.

Warm arms wrap around my middle while I lie on my old bed, a firm chest against my back while I stare out of the window and watch a snow fall outside. Dylan presses a kiss against the back of my head. "Do you want me to give you a ride back to Allie's?"

"Not right now."

The funeral service had been held at a church here in New York. One that mom took us to once in a while. Sometimes if she'd been upset the night before, we'd go into church and she'd sit me in the pew while she went and talked to the pastor. I didn't think much of it when I was a child. But now I wonder if she'd been seeking support to continue her marriage. Advice. Council.

Or she might have been having an affair with the pastor. Nothing seemed surprising to me anymore. I wouldn't have blamed her for stepping out on Kevin. Such a bastard. He'd hosted mom's wake this afternoon. Had a caterer come, a planner, candles were lit and a slideshow was on. He paraded around like a grieving husband. Like he hadn't considered her dead from the moment that she was diagnosed.

I'd tolerated it for about ten minutes, and then I'd escaped to my old bedroom. No part of me remained in here. The walls were bare and the bedspread was folded and tucked into hotel standard cleanliness. Never mind. It gave me somewhere to surrender to led limbs and it wasn't long before Dylan crept in beside me.

We hadn't talked about the night that I serenaded him with a booze fuelled rendition of Pat Benatar. Her ballads had been our jam from the moment that I actually enjoyed one of his classic playlists. He loved Pat too and so she was our common ground. Along with Cindy Lauper. But it was something we kept private. Our little dance sessions.

And I sang to him in front of an entire kitchen full of people. It was a blur, but I remember enough to feel ashamed. But we hadn't talked about it at all. Mom died. I mean, she just died and there hadn't been room for anything else to exist right now. So neither of us brought up the subject. He just stepped up and took care of me. Just like he does. He hasn't left my side. He's been with me at Allie's or we're both at his moms house.

Charlie hasn't been around. There's been no mention of her or what she's doing. I haven't seen Dylan getting constant phone calls. But perhaps I'm just not noticing because my mom died. She died. She's dead and she's never coming back I mean—

"I didn't go and visit her one last time," I mumble, a tear rolling over my nose. "I kept on thinking about it. I kept on reminding myself and I just didn't go. I ca— can't believe tha—"

"You can't have known, Bea."

He's right of course. Mom didn't even know who I was. But that wasn't the point. I didn't get one last conversation. I didn't get one last hug. Or one last look at her face. I didn't visit her as often as I should have, because it hurt so much. But now I didn't even have that option. I'd never see her again. I would never hear my mom's voice or see her smile or hold her hand.

"Can I get you anything?" Dylan asks and it feels like he's shifting to get up. So I turn over and watch as he stands beside the bed in his now wrinkled black dress shirt and slacks. "I'll be right back, Bea."

"I'll come," I stand and feel lightheaded. No doubt the lack of appetite I've had for the last week is coming back to bite me. My arm slips through Dylan's and I hold him tight. I'm scared that if he disappears again, I might not get him back. Mom was taken from me before I could tell her how much I love her. Tomorrow isn't promised and I'm not making that mistake again.