Her Name is Memory

25| different memories

Chapter 25

To hear your voice again
And call you
But I know you won't be there anymore

~Nathaniel's Lyric Journal

I WAS SUPPOSE TO GO TO JAVIER'S PLACE WHEN I GOT A TEXT FROM DAD TO COME HOME IMMEDIATELY.

"I got your text. What happened?" I asked out loud as I entered the apartment.

Despite only entering in a few moments ago, the atmosphere was tense. My dad was sitting on the living room couch, his fingers laced in his hand, his elbows were on his knees as he was hunched over. Next to him, Camila was on the couch, her arms wrapped around herself and red-eyed.

Carlos was not here. Probably on his way home.

Dad got up slowly, his eyes heavy just as the sigh he emitted. "Your Abuelo passed away," Dad announced, taking another deep breath before looking away.

I looked at Camila, who was constantly wiping her eyes.  My shoulders slumped and my body felt like it was going to fall any second. I swallowed painfully, my eyes getting moist. This was not a surprise as he was getting more frail and sick to the point he couldn't come to New York anymore, but it still hurt nevertheless. 

Abuelo and I were close when he was able to come visit and was always there for me growing up. Dad's father died before I was born so Abuelo was the only grandfather I had around. 

"How is Mom?" I managed to ask hoarsely. 

Dad shook his head.

"Not well. She's in her room if you want to see her," Dad said, gesturing to their bedroom down the hall.

Following his direction, I dropped my bookbag at the beginning of the hallway. Walking down the hallway, I looked at the closed bedroom door. I knocked at the door loudly.

I pressed my ear by the door, but I heard no response. I opened the door to see a dimly lit room. The curtains were shut, darkening the entire room. I saw a figure on the bed, curled in a fetal position. Her breathing was heavy. She turned under the sheet, pulling the sheet down to look at my direction. Her eyes peered to see me. Her posture straightened. 

"Hi mijo," she greeted hoarsely.

I took a seat on the edge of the bed.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

She pulled herself, and leaned over to turn on the lamp. "I'm okay."

Her hair was loosely tied, pieces were slipping out. Her eyes were red and puffy. Her usually tan skin appeared more pale than normal. Her lips were trembling as she was speaking, her voice cracking at the end.

I placed a hand over her own.

"Do you need me to book you a plane ticket to Alabama?" I asked her. I sat on the edge of the bed, wanting to do something more and hating that I couldn't. 

She aggressively shook her head.

"No es necessario, mijo. That won't be needed," she repeated once again, shaking her head quickly. She turned her head in the other direction, pulling her hair tie out to run her fingers through her hair restlessly. "You know that I can't go."

This was not a unique conversation. Mom's aversion to Alabama was an enigma- something my Dad got frustrated about easily. In fact, it might be the reason he was sitting outside frustrated.