"She has less than three weeks before her memory is wiped clean, Jon." My mother was on the verge of hysterics, running her fingers through her strawberry blonde locks as she paced in front of the television. "Three weeks." I watched, cowering behind the doorway, out of sight, as she hiccupped—a sure sign that she was about to burst into tears—and pressed her palm to her forehead as if it would deter the thoughts poisoning her mind. "And then what? The doctor said she probably won't make it to Christmas. Are we supposed to just accept that and move on? Remember all the good times we once had with her and pretend everything will be okay? Because I can't do that, Jon. We can't do that."
My father, who was sitting on the couch, his knee bouncing in tandem with the racing of my heart, pressed his face into his hands, on the verge of releasing his own fountain of tears. His shoulders were shaking, trembling. He looked as if even the slightest touch would set him off, over the edge and into merciless waters ready to swallow him whole.
I couldn't stand to see them both in this much pain. Seeing them so broken down, all their sorrows exposed for anyone who walked in to see, and knowing that I was responsible for this – that they would never forgive me if they knew what really happened that night – was like a knife being plunged into my chest, over and over and over again. It tore my flesh apart from the inside, out, leaving my heart in shreds on the floor, irreparable.
Despite all this, I couldn't force myself to move. I couldn't walk away from my parents. I had to know what was happening. I had to know my baby sister would somehow be okay, and so would everything – and everyone – else. It had to be.
I would never forgive myself if she didn't make it . . . I don't know what I'd do.
She didn't deserve any of this in the first place. I did.
With tears in my eyes, I watched as my father stood up and enveloped my petite mother in his arms, blocking her from view. "I know, Loraine," he said, softly, as I heard his breath catch, his voice crack. I had to grab onto the wall for dear life, leaning into it for support; my knees trembled as erratically as my father's shoulders. "I know. We'll have to figure something out. There's no way we're going to let her go that easily. Not after all this time. She's ours. She's not leaving us yet."
Yet. No, not yet. Not ever.
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Copyright 2015 | All Rights Reserved | S. J. Evans ©
