I don’t even realize I’m crying until my dad hugs me, his arms bracing me as I lean against him.
“It’s going to be okay,” he says gripping me tightly. “I know it hurts. I miss her every day.”
“Why’d she have to go? There are so many fucked-up people in the world. Why her?” My words come out broken as my body trembles. I can’t lose control again, not in the damn driveway.
“There’s no answer for it,” he says. I pull away from him and run my hands down my face, trying to wipe away the tears. His face is still as tears pool in his own eyes. “Things just happen sometimes. There’s no rhyme or reason.” Using one hand, he grips my shoulder as large tears roll down his face. “But we can’t focus on the things we can’t control. We can’t live that way.”
Stepping backward, I look at him, wondering how he can be so strong. Loving someone so much and just losing them. I can’t imagine losing Xia the way he lost Mom. It would be like a huge piece of me was missing and I don’t think I could recover.
Everyone says the more time that goes by the more you heal. But healing means forgetting, doesn’t it? The sound of her laugh, the way she smelled, the little details of her face. It will all start to blur into a memory surrounded by sadness. I don’t want to forget my mother; I don’t want time to heal this pain if it means forgetting.
“Then, how do we live, Dad? How do we stop focusing on the pain but keep our memories of her so we don’t forget?”
“We’ll never forget her, Jordan. But we have to choose how we want to remember.”
“How, exactly? Because every time I think of her I want to break down. There is no choosing, there’s just pain. And I don’t know how to run from it anymore.”
“Then stop running,” he says, squeezing my shoulder. “Grab the bags and come inside. I’ll show you.”
A sad smile breaks across his face and I watch as he walks back toward the house. I squeeze my hand into a fist as what almost feels like fear creeps through me. I need to do this because clearly what I’m doing now isn’t working.
The bags crinkle as I walk up the steps toward the door. My father stands just a few feet inside. The sweet smell of the citrus candle reaches my nose the second I cross the threshold. It’s what Mom uses—or used to use—and I guess Dad continued, and something about that makes my heart warm.
I look immediately to the coat rack. Her favorite blue sweater still hangs with her house shoes tucked beneath. It huge and worn, but she loved it. My father sees me staring and sighs before speaking.
“It hurts to see it, I know. But instead of thinking of the pain, think of the great memories.” He reaches out to touch the cotton, letting his fingers run down the sleeves. “Your mother wore this sweater every day.”
“I know.” I step inside, shutting the door behind me. My eyes are burning but I try to focus on his words to avoid crying again.
“Yeah, but do you know why? This sweater was a gift from your grandmother. Your mother wore it while she was pregnant with you, and no matter what was going on in our lives, she’d put that sweater on each night, curl up on the couch, and be at peace.” I nod, imagining her sitting on the couch in her sweater, sipping a cup of tea. It was her nightly routine.
“I kept this because it reminds me of her happiness. It’s the same with some of the other things I kept.” He gestures around the room pointing at her knickknacks and a throw pillow that sits neatly on a small bench by the stairs. “She will always be with us, but we have to choose to keep our memories of her doused in joy, not pain. She wouldn’t want us to live in pain. She loved us too much.”
We spend some time talking about her, reminiscing everything that made her beautiful. Like how she found humor in the silliest things, how she’d snort when something made her laugh really hard, and how her sneezes sounded so tiny.
“Remember when you broke her coffee mug?” He chuckles. I do remember. My father used to yell at me for throwing my football around the house. When I was around sixteen, my friends and I came in through the back door still playing a game of catch, but the ball slipped from my hands and knocked her mug to the floor.
“Yeah.” I grimace. Dad had just bought her that mug for one of their anniversaries. It had their names in a little picture scripted on it. Fortunately, when it hit the floor, it didn’t totally shatter, but the handle broke off into two pieces.
“She didn’t want us fighting anymore so she glued it back together and didn’t tell me until later that summer,” he says.
“She grounded me good for that.” I smile. “And every time you asked why I was sitting at home I had to tell you a different excuse.”
By the time we sit down to eat, our food is cold, but we pull the sticker from the tiny white boxes and eat it anyway. We are quiet and I take time to look around the space. He’s changed it a lot since Mom died, it seems. The few times I’ve been inside I’ve only zoned in on Mom’s things. Now I notice he has a brand new living room set, has added a bench to the dining table, and even changed some of the décor.
“Why’d you get the bench?”
“Once Lisa left us our neighbors wouldn’t leave me the hell alone. They didn’t just bring food, but they’d actually stay. You remember?” I nod. “I had to have somewhere for them to sit.”
I stayed home with Dad for about a week after the funeral, until it got too painful. Our neighbors rallied around us and as hard as it was being around people then, I appreciate their efforts now. My gaze is drawn to a large picture of the three of us hanging above the fireplace. Dad and I have rehearsed smiles on our faces, but Mom, she’s glowing. Her brown hair flows in curls over her shoulders as her eyes twinkle with happiness.
“Choose to remember the things you loved most about her and know that she’s somewhere still loving you just as much,” he says.
My heart swells with appreciation for my father as I nod, finally understanding what he’s been trying to tell me all along. To live in love, not in pain.
We are silent for a while longer as we finish our meal. Once we are both finished, I follow him to the kitchen for a drink.
“How’s school going?”
“It’s going well, now. Twenty-four hours ago I may have given you a different answer.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Don’t worry, it all worked out. Now there’s just three weeks till the end of the semester and once I start my fall classes Satchi will get another assistant to help us out with his courses.”
“Good, I was worried about you taking on too much. So, how’s Xia?”
“I haven’t seen her yet today. I’ll go across the street soon to see how she’s doing.”
“You don’t think she went to the hospital? Ben texted me that he was there. I figured she’d go too.”
“What do you mean? Ben texted you—where—why are they at the hospital?” I ask, rushing toward the living room window.
“Oh, I thought you knew. I don’t know exactly what happened,” he says, his voice trailing behind me. “I saw the ambulance leaving… he just said that Della was in the hospital.”
When I make it to the window, I notice Xia’s car is no longer in the driveway. “I’m going to go see what’s going on.” There’re only two hospitals in town. If I can’t find her at one, she’ll have to be at the other, so I grab my keys from the table and head out the door.