It isn’t like the concept of pain is foreign to me, pain is a constant in my life—the one thing my body is used to. But the feeling in my chest is deeper than anything my disease can cause, despite it being the very reason for the ache in the first place. Nobody wants to break their Mama’s heart…
When I see Lo’s grave, my heart gives into the hurt. The stone is clean, not a speck of grass, dirt, or bird poop on it like last time. The area around it is kept up unlike the lawn surrounding the house. Someone has been here, maybe even Mama.
Dropping on the uneven ground, I run my fingertips over the edge of the smooth marble before tracing the letters of her name. They’re rougher, the indentations causing my skin discomfort, but I pay it no attention.
Logan Olivia Matterson.
Beloved daughter, sister, and friend.
I drop my hands into my lap and just stare at the stone like something will happen. Maybe if I believe hard enough, I’ll see Logan. It can be like one of the books I’ve read where the loved ones get a second chance with the deceased.
“This isn’t a book,” I whisper to myself.
The breeze picks up and causes me to wrap my coat tighter around me. There hasn’t been any snowfall yet, which seems odd for early November. At least here. Dad told me that they don’t get nearly as much snow in Exeter.
I settle on my butt, crossing my legs under me and stuffing my hands in my coat pockets. “I’m sorry I haven’t been here for a while. I decided to live with Dad for the rest of junior and senior year.”
Shifting on the ground, I chip at a stain on my jeans. “I know you’re probably wondering why I’d want to do that after what he did, but…” I shake my head. “Actually, you’re probably not. You’ve always been forgiving of people. I guess it doesn’t really matter, huh?”
I’m not sure why I pause like she can respond. Sighing, I glance at my ragged nails from my constant picking and biting. “Dad tries, so I can’t really fault him for anything. You would have told me it isn’t worth holding a grudge over. Anyway, he’s got a new wife and stepson and they’re … nice.”
The wind blows a little harder, then dies down completely until nothing but bitter air remains as usual. I wonder if that’s Lo telling me to keep talking.
Licking my lips, I say, “Our stepmom’s name is Cameron, but she goes by Cam. Dad really seems to love her. I don’t think I ever saw him look at Mama the same way. She cares, Lo. She knows about us, about you, and she wants to help however she can. She even took me to get my hair cut.”
I drag in a deep breath. The air hurts my lungs, but I suck it up. “Sometimes I wish that Mama would come visit me there, or call more, or…just be there like Cam is. She misses you so much, Logan. She’s hurting and I can’t fix her. It takes one little reminder that I’m sick for her to spiral, and I know that means being here won’t do her any good.
“Kaiden, Cam’s son, made me wonder if I was being selfish by going away, but I realize now I’m not. Hopefully you can forgive me. I know I promised I wouldn’t leave you, but you would have too if you saw Mama.”
There’s no wind.
No subtle breeze.
I hold my breath.
Selfish people don’t put anybody first.
Selfish people don’t sacrifice everything.
They never come second.
They never feel torment.
My torment is in a five-foot-five form with blonde hair streaked with silver and mossy green eyes filled with sadness in every crevice. I want to believe facing the torment means building my strength, when really it tears me down a little more each day.
Because Mama is selfish.
“Mama is selfish, Logan.”
Once the words are uttered, my body reacts. It’s like an anvil is about to crush me before someone saves me in the last second. It’s a weight I don’t need burying me under everything else that’s already trying to put me in a grave next to Lo.
I stare at the ground.
At the grass.
At the dirt.
“I don’t want to die,” I whisper.
My family has never been religious, never even gone to church. Mama said when she was little she’d been dragged every Sunday and hated it. Dad never went a day in his life. They told us we could decide when we were older if it’s something we wanted to do, but it seems pointless.
What good comes out of praying to someone nobody truly knows exists? Faith shouldn’t be blind if it’s meant to be followed. Where’s reason? Where’s proof that believing in God actually makes death any less terrifying?
Maybe you’ll see Lo.
Maybe…
It’s not enough though.
Doubt creeps into the cracks that one day may allow me to see Lo. Doubt is Fear’s best friend—the little demon I’m well acquainted with that rests on my shoulder and whispers everything I have to be afraid of in my ear.
What if death is death?
What if I never see Lo?
What if Mama loses it completely?
What if.
What if.
What if.
I’m fed every insecurity and internal dread that can beat me down. One day, I may not get up. I may not survive it. It could end me.
Exhaustion swipes over me as I stare blurry-eyed at Lo’s headstone. I want to reach out and touch her name like I’m touching her hand, her hair, her face. I want to hug her just one more time.
Just one more.
I curl up on my side on the ground, right over her grave, and pretend she’s right here with me like I’ve done in the summertime.
Sometime later…I fall asleep.
There’s cursing. Cursing and shivering.
Why am I so cold?
Suddenly I’m being cradled in warmth, floating in air. Everything hurts. My limbs. My face. My muscles. I think my teeth are chattering but I’m too numb to know for sure.
Forcing my gaze over the muscular shoulder of the person holding me, I see Lo’s headstone fading away. I squirm, cry out, and plead for the person to set me down.
“Lo!” My voice is hoarse as I reach out behind me.
“Stop, Emery,” a familiar voice demands. The grip on me tightens, keeping me in place against him. “Dammit, Mouse. What the hell were you doing sleeping out here? It’s fucking forty degrees.”
Mouse.
Slowly, my gaze lifts up to meet his face. He isn’t looking at me though. He’s facing forward with a locked jaw that’s popping in anger. If he looks down, I bet his eyes will be dark, hard—full of judgment.
“W-wanted…L-Lo.”
He scoffs, walking the path in front of him like he’s done it thousands of times. When my shaking becomes too much, he swears again and holds me closer, his breath warming the tip of my nose as he picks up the pace.
“You would have been with her for good if you stayed out here any longer,” he murmurs, shaking his head.
I want to laugh. If he’d known what I’d been thinking of before I fell asleep, he would see the dry humor in that too. Or maybe he would tell me I’m an idiot.
Burying my face in the crook of his neck, I feel him tense. I want to ask him if he believes in the afterlife or heaven or hell. Does he think he’s going to one or the other? Does he not believe at all?
I bet Cam took him to church.
Instead of asking him anything, I absorb the heat his body offers me. We’re silent, though I’m sure he has lots to say to me. I’m grateful he doesn’t say any of the things he’s probably dying to toss at me—to yell, to call me out on.