On the edge of everything

Part 14

I wake up to the light. It is dancing on the ceiling due to some specific angles of reflection and refraction from the setting sun outside. For a moment everything is forgotten, lost in the twinkling beams, followed by the intense recollection that staggers by breath, making the inhalation weak and the exhalation forced.

"Hi, sweetie," my mom says, realizing I am awake by the awkward breathing. "Are you in any pain?" she gestures to my wrist, stabilized to the side so the shifting of my sleep wouldn't displace the work that was done.

It hurts more than that occasional ache or twinge that has plagued me for the last decade or so. And it's a constant pain, not one that rolls in and out like the tides. Still, this pain is supposed to make me feel better. If only we could get better without the pain.

"I'm fine" I respond vaguely. Then, I decide to continue, saying, "I've felt worse." Then it all just sort of flashes through my mind, like I'm watching a slide show where each image is given only a quarter of a second to be shown upon the screen. I see my wrist, blotchy and purple, I see Vien from the car window, I see seven faces projected, I see Jessie's face as she tells us, I see the casket. All of this, on repeat, for what seems like minutes. My mom comes and strokes my hair, removing the tangles and I smile up at her. She smiles back, the rosy cheeks puffing up and making me feel better.

I want to go straight home, but it takes several hours for the doctors and nurses to send me on my way. Finally, around midnight, they declare me totally fine, and, in terms of my wrist, it might finally be true. An hour later, Dad helps me carry my bag from the hospital room towards the car mom drives up and we are heading home. My mom has been unnaturally chatty all afternoon, seeming, like my dad, to be afraid of the silence. Maybe they are trying to distract me or maybe they want to avoid it all themselves; either way, I remain extraordinarily silent.

There's just a fear that seems to be gurgling under my surface at all times; it's brought on by the unanswerable, horrifying question of who comes next. Despite my fear of death, not once has this fear forced my mind to consider my being the next one to fall off the mountain or get hit by a car or suddenly fall ill. This sensation has always lent itself to the contemplation of my parents, Lacey, my dearest friends— Jessie, Sara, Elena, Samantha, Margot. Rose. The list goes on and on and on and alternates who it focuses on moment to moment, day to day. I can feel the darkness in the contemplation of their lack of existence overpower me like a velvet sheet draped over a coffin. I can so easily, so vividly, picture myself at their memorials, recalling the memories of this spirit now departed from the body. It's disturbing, really, the places that the mind can go in the lands of worry and fear.

The next day, Monday, I don't go to school and mom and dad both stay home from work. I don't remember the last time that it was just the three of us doing anything together, let alone on a weekday. My dad suggested going to the beach for the day, just avoiding the world and everything and driving to our beloved Oregon Coast. But, as one might expect of Oregon in early spring, the forecast for the day calls for heavy rains. So, we do the only thing that I really want to do.

All three of us sit in the living room, each with our respective preferred teas in the seats that were designated to each of us years ago. Since Lacey isn't here, and given the fact that I had surgery yesterday, the couch is entirely mind. I sprawl out under a large blanket my dad brought from upstairs. At first, they just sit in their chairs, silently sipping their tea while I read the sixth Harry Potter, my favorite. They don't say or do anything either. I can just feel their eyes on me from behind the book cover that I use to block their faces from my view.

After a while I get up and walk to my room. I can hear my mom asking what I am doing but I ignore her and head straight to my bookshelf. When I am back in the living room, I toss a book to each of them: their Harry Potter of choice. My dad gets the seventh and my mom gets the third and I tell them, "Now I know you won't just be staring at me." My dad opens his mouth undoubtedly for a snippy retort, but my mom stops him.