“Hi, Sunshine.” Relief floods my chest when I hear those soft words until I’m practically running toward her. She wraps me in a tight hug and I soak in the sweet smell of vanilla and lavender, her two favorite scents.
I pull back and stare at her face. She looks tired, like she’s somehow aged, but I notice something vital that allows me to breathe.
Mama’s eyes aren’t golden.
Chapter Eighteen
Mama and I spend the night talking about her new job and hobbies. She seems happy, lighter than I remember. The relief knowing she’s doing okay is short lived because of my conscience telling me she was only hurting because of me.
But you knew that.
Knowing Mama likes her new job and joined a crafts club at the Community Center makes everything easier to handle. She needed to find herself. To get through the loss of Lo, and in many ways, the loss of me.
I almost forgot what Mama’s smile looks like. It’s the same type of foreign anomaly as her laugh—airy and eager like bells. I want to tell her how much I love the sound, but I’m afraid it’ll make her stop.
Before Grandma comes back, Mama notices my bracelet. Her smile doesn’t falter. That’s how I allow myself hope, like we can be like how we were.
Emery and Mama.
Sunshine and blue skies.
You’re my sunshine, baby girl.
Then you’re my blue skies, Mama.
Logan would always be the rainbow, colorful and happy and effortless no matter the storm.
I want to play the song, but I’m afraid.
I want to ask about Lo, but I’m afraid.
I want to be there for Mama, but…
I’m terrified.
I’m terrified that talking to her about anything other than our lives as they are now will break her. Will she shut down again? Cry? Freeze? Go silent? Will she stop seeing me as Emery and start calling me Logan again?
I want to know about her job and what she has for breakfast and what she does with her spare time. But I also want to know if she visits Lo and talks to Grandma and sees a grief counselor like everyone has suggested.
But I can’t.
Because Mama’s smiling.
Because Mama’s eyes are green.
Because I love her too much to hurt her.
In my head, I sing the song.
In my head, Mama sings with me.
Instead, she touches my bracelet, stares at the letters, and then kisses my cheek before going to bed. It’s early, but not as early as she usually went to sleep. I wonder if she still takes sleeping pills.
Grandma doesn’t come back right away, so I clean up the kitchen and living room before heading back to the place I hold the most memories. My bag rests on my old bed—the new white and blue comforter set on it is one I haven’t seen before. It’s tucked in and folded at the corners like you’d see at a hotel, and I know it’s Grandma’s doing because she used to be a housekeeper.
The room is exactly as I remember it. By the nightstand is a dent in the wall from the time Lo and I were jumping on my bed and I knocked over the lamp in the process. It smashed against the drywall before shattering on the ground. It was Mama’s favorite.
It hasn’t been repainted, the off white I remember it once being now looks more cream. The entire house could use some upgrades like Dad always told Mama he would start when we were little. She wanted a new apple-themed kitchen, something red and bright and welcoming.
Pushing the thought away, I examine the bookshelf. I had books galore covering every inch, along with hidden picture of Lo in between books I knew Mama didn’t want to read. The ones I left behind aren’t on the shelf anymore, which makes me walk over to the closet.
It’s empty.
Heart hammering, I look under both the beds for any of the frames I’d taken down for Mama’s sanity. They used to haunt me while I slept, guilt seeping into my bones worse than the aches did. Now they’re gone, the space under my bed dust free like someone cleaned it special for me.
I vaguely hear the front door open and Grandma call our names. Panic buries itself in my chest as I open dresser drawers and plastic storage bins to see what happened to Lo. Every memory taken of her is missing, and I need to see them. I need to know they’re there.
“Emmy?” Grandma’s voice is closer, but I struggle to hear it. My chest is so tight I think I might be dying from suffocation.
Someone shakes me.
Someone calls my name.
“Breathe,” a soft voice commands.
Not Grandma’s.
Mama’s.
I’m crying into her chest while she sits next to me on the floor, rubbing my back and hushing me like she used to a long time ago. She was humming. It wasn’t our song.
It wasn’t our song.
It feels like forever by the time I’m able to pull away, and I only do when she somehow produces a tissue and wipes down my face. It makes me want to cry harder because I never liked being this way with Mama, even if I dreamed of her comfort.
Where were you then, Mama?
I needed you.
I choke down the words because they mean nothing now. Not when Mama is here and holding me and comforting me and being the woman I want her to be. I left her like Kaiden said, but only because she needed me gone.
Kaiden is wrong though.
I need Mama more than she needs me.
“I don’t want to forget.” I hiccup and glance at all the empty space in the room. “I don’t want to forget her, Mama.”
Her eyes glisten and the familiar tone of gold breaks through. There’s anguish and something more, something deeper. Guilt.
“You will never forget her,” she whispers, brushing the pad of her thumb across my cheek.
Grandma walks back in holding a large leather book. She passes it to Mama who opens it slowly and smiles at the contents. When she turns it to me, my heart dances.
It’s a photo album of Lo.
Of all the pictures…
I look at Mama and wonder how I got to the conclusion that has made me doubt her so much. When I think of her, I think of her sadness, reclusion, and brokenness. I don’t see the woman who sang to me or baked me cookies because I was sad or told me how much she loved me because she could.
I’ve judged her.
Criticized her.
Wondered why she let me leave.
She knew you’d be better off…
“You put them in an album,” is my quiet response. It isn’t a question, just a surprised statement.
Did Mama know how I felt about her?
Another tear falls.
“Baby,” she whispers.
I close my eyes.
Mama falls asleep next to me in my bed that night, holding me and combing her fingers through my hair. The notion hurts, but I don’t tell her that my scalp aches or that I wince every time her nails get caught and tugs. I try to remember what it felt like before the pain. It comforted me. Lulled me. Eased me.
When we wake up in the morning, she sees the hair on my pillow first.
Her lips part.
Her eyes widen.
She whispers, “Not again.”
She chokes on tears and fear and worry as she sits up and stares at the chunk of hair resting beside me on the cotton pillowcase. Her eyes can’t travel anywhere else.
“Not again, Logan.”
And I know the truth.
I’m going to wreck Mama.
But not as Emery …
Because Emery doesn’t exist.
Chapter Nineteen
I skip breakfast and escape to the one place I can find peace. Grandma tries to stop me and tell me to at least take a granola bar, but my appetite is diminished by the truth embedded in the walls that surround me.