A Missing Heart(40)

CHAPTER TWELVE





A YEAR LATER


Thirteen. I have a teenage daughter and it sounds almost impossible, seeing as your mom and I were teenagers when you were born. How have so many years passed since the day I held you in my arms—the first and last day I held you in my arms—the day I handed you over to two strangers that I hope have given you the life you deserve. 4,745, little girl—that’s how many days it has been. I miss you more today than I have the last 4,745 days because every day that passes feels like I’ve walked another mile away from you.





WAKING UP TO the one-year anniversary of one of the worst days in my life is preventing me from opening my eyes. Is she thinking about it too—the night she tried to end her life? Whenever we mention anything about last year, I’m afraid of setting her off and triggering another breakdown. I don’t think I was responsible for what happened that day, but I never did get more information out of her…nothing other than some old memories popping in and out of her head, causing her turmoil. We live with secrets—she with hers and me with mine. Though, my secret seems small compared to the Pandora’s box she keeps hidden within the confines of her mind.

“Good morning,” she says with a hoarseness to her voice. “Can I make you something for breakfast before you leave for the day?”

“Mmm, I think I might love some French toast if you’re up to it,” I tell her as I open my eyes slowly. A sense of relief fills me to see her calm and “normal” demeanor upon waking up today.

“You got it. Gavin seems to love French toast too.”

“I’ve noticed that,” I tell her, trying to act as normal, as normal can be here. “What are your plans today?” The words coming from my mouth feel like the same words I uttered last year on this day. Everything started so normal, then it erupted into an earth-shattering event.

“I’m meeting my mom for lunch, and I have a few errands to run. I was going to clean out a couple of the closets if I have time, but we’ll see.” I’ve noticed that she constantly plans to keep busy. She rarely sits down to turn on the TV or the computer. She has been this way since she was released from rehab. There’s nothing wrong with it, but sometimes it stresses me out at night when she can’t sit down and relax. Although I’d rather endure life like that rather than the alternative, I suppose. “Why do you look so nervous?”

I pinch my lips and shake my head. “I’m not,” I lie.

“I know what today is, AJ. Let’s just not focus on it, okay?”

“Okay,” I agree, placing my hands up in defense.

Moving through the motions of eating breakfast and getting ready for work, I say very little. I typically say very little. I’m scared to say too much. It’s as if I’m stuck in this spinning wheel of emotions, and every day things feel a little more claustrophobic. The person I was two years ago seems like a distant memory of an acquaintance I once knew. It’s making me question what I’ve done to myself, while trying my hardest to be a dam in front of a waterfall—one that’s continuously flowing over the unbreakable barrier. The constant thoughts make me feel scared of drowning in the middle of my surroundings.

I take my lunch from the fridge, grab my coat, kiss Gavin goodbye, and leave without another word. This is our routine. We never expected our pasts to be such an integral part of our present and futures, or we would have known that someday we’d eventually have to stop talking.

Almost the moment the cold air hits my face, the tension in my shoulders, chest, and head lessens. I can breathe a little easier and a twinge of happiness finds me. I often remind myself of Hunter and the way he was during the years after Ellie died. With the general mood in the house, it feels like someone did die.

The job site is a little farther into town than our normal locations, but it’s a three-thousand-square-foot house needing hardwoods in every room. Since it’s just Hunt and I, we’ve been at it all week. Normally, Hunter is at the jobs before I am since he has to get the girls to the bus stop at a sickeningly early hour in the day but this morning, his truck isn’t in the driveway when I pull in. He must be running late today. Weird.

I hop out of the truck and bring my tools in to set up, and as always, Mom is calling me. She waits until I leave the house most mornings and takes the time to check in and see how I’m coping. Coping. That’s what she refers to my living situation as now. I’m just coping with the aftermath of a mental disaster.

“Hey, Mom, I’m just walking inside of this gigantic cluster—”

“AJ,” she says abruptly.

“I didn’t say it, Ma,” I laugh. She loathes my cussing. I have to let it all out when Gavin isn’t in earshot, but she still can’t deal with it. I explained it’s just a form of release but it still doesn’t fly.

“It’s not that,” she says. Listening to her speak, I realize something is going on.

“Is everyone and everything okay?”

“Yes, everyone is…well, maybe you should be the judge of that,” she continues.

“What are you talking about?” I drop my toolbox down by the front door as I dig around for the spare key I have in my pocket. “What’s going on, Mom?” She tends to be a little over dramatic, and I’ve become accustomed to her long, drawn out explanations for Hunter’s daughter having a sore throat or Dad’s back going out. She always makes it sound like someone is on their deathbed, but there’s a different inflection in her voice this time, and I can’t put my finger on what it could possibly be.