I make my way to the chair, never taking my eyes from the sofa. I sit down and stare at that empty spot for the rest of the night, waiting for her to come back, my fingers curled around the armrests. Every time I start to drift off, the fact that I actually saw her jolts me awake, like a full can of Red Bull.
I don’t even realize the sun has risen until I hear my mom’s footsteps coming down the stairs.
“Good morning, then,” she says.
I blink and look up to see her in a pair of black pants and a dress shirt, her hair neatly brushed. I force myself to stand, my bad leg aching from sitting in the chair all night, tense and unmoving.
She leans against the banister and raises her eyebrows at me.
“Wanna explain?”
“I, uh,” I start to say, stretching to buy myself some time to think of an excuse. “I couldn’t sleep.”
I can tell she doesn’t buy it, but I slide past her, hobble to the basement door, and duck inside before she can pry any further.
Leaning back against the closed door, I let out a long exhale. For the first time since Kim’s death, I have something to focus on.
I have to see her again.
* * *
For the next three nights after my mom climbs the stairs up to bed, I sit vigil in the living room chair, alert to every flicker of light or creak in the house. But no Kim. No white fuzzy blanket or blue butterflies.
I’m practically holding my eyes open by the time my mom’s alarm goes off each morning, and I have to slink back downstairs before I get slammed by a sunrise edition of twenty questions.
By the fourth night my head is killing me and it’s proving harder and harder to stay awake. I squint at the empty couch cushion, trying to fight the exhaustion. Kim did always like to keep me waiting. It’s the only thing I hang on to. The only thing that keeps me going.
The clock in the entryway is barely ticking past midnight, so I prop my bad leg up on the coffee table in an attempt to get slightly more comfortable.
I doze off for what feels like a fraction of a second, and when I open my eyes, the vacant spot is filled once again.
By my mom.
“Wanna explain now?” she asks as she crosses her arms over her patterned navy-blue pajama shirt.
I know it shouldn’t, but her question pisses me off.
Do I want to explain that I think I’m seeing the ghost of my dead girlfriend? Not really. I already start to feel a little ridiculous just thinking about vocalizing it.
I swallow hard on that bit of insanity and shake my head. Before she can pry any further, I get up and limp down the hall toward the basement.
“Kyle.” Her feet gently pad after me, but I close the door just as she gets there. I’m not in the mood to be questioned about something I sure as hell can’t even begin to explain to myself. I only know what I saw. At least I think I do.
I slide down onto the top step as I wait for her to go. My head rests against the wood and my eyes slowly begin to close, but a whisper pulls me back to consciousness, her voice coming from the other side of the door.
Mom.
“I lost your father like this,” she says softly as I listen. “Watched him waste away.”
I stand slowly, my hand reaching out to lie flat against the door as she keeps talking. Soft hallway light creeps under the door. “Oh, Kyle.” She sounds so sad.
Sighing, I twist the handle. She’s sitting on the floor, her back pressed against the wall, eyes closed. She looks so sad. Instantly I feel terrible.
“Your old bones okay?” I ask with a small smile. “Sitting on the floor like that?”
She looks up at me and rolls her eyes, clearly not amused by my jab. “Ha ha.”
I reach down and pull her up, her hands wrapping gently around my forearm.
“Okay, you win. I’ll go to bed…，” I say, nudging her toward the stairs. “If you will.”
“I love you. You’re going to be okay,” she says as she studies my face, deciding, before finally giving my arm a squeeze and heading off in the direction of the stairs.
I pull the door closed behind me and sit silently at the top of the basement steps, holding my breath, waiting for what feels like an hour, until I’m certain she won’t be straining to hear the creak of the door opening or my feet on the hardwood floor. I check my cell phone, and the screen lights up to show it’s only 3:30 a.m., a few hours still left before the sun rises.
I creep quietly into the living room, ready to take my spot in the armchair, but a shape on the couch stops me dead in my tracks.
It’s my mom, curled up into a ball, fast asleep. Her light snores are the only sound in the room. I take the quilt off the back of the couch and cover her with it, something about the image making all of this worse.