Bring Me Back(33)

I walk around the space, taking measurements and allowing myself to visualize what can be done with the space. Unfortunately, I’m not getting many ideas like I normally would. It’s like I’m all tapped out.

I head to the front desk and let them know when we need the space. I give them Jessica’s contact information so they can get ahold of her for the deposit and then I leave to head home.

I’m exhausted by the time I walk through the door and it’s not like I did anything. I hate feeling like this—like I’m walking through sludge.

“Hey, sweetie,” my mom says before I can close the door.

“Hey,” I reply, kicking off my heels and shrugging out of my coat. I drop my coat on the chair instead of hanging it up and putting it away in the closet.

“How’d it go?” she asks.

“Good.”

“Good?” She raises a brow from where she sits on the couch in the front room. “That’s all I get?”

“We saw the space, she decided to book it, and left because she had to get to work. There isn’t much to tell, Mom.” I collapse on the chair in front of her.

She sets the book she’d been reading on the coffee table. “So I was talking to this woman at the grocery store today about your situation, and she told me about this group—”

“Mom,” I groan, “why do you have to talk about my business with strangers?”

My mom has always been that way—telling everyone everything. When I was twelve she told the neighbors I’d started my period. I couldn’t look them in the eyes for six months.

“Because you never know what you might learn when you talk to people, Blaire,” she admonishes. “Anyway, she told me about this grief group. I guess it’s sort of like alcoholics anonymous only for sad people.”

“For sad people? Really, Mom?”

She shrugs and smiles. “I didn’t know how else to say it.”

“So what do they call it? Sad Saps Share?”

She laughs. “No. It’s just called Group.”

“Sounds like an illness.”

“That’s croup.” She shakes her head. “I think you should go. At least once. It might help you to cope, and it might be better than seeing a therapist. These people have lost someone too.”

I shake my head and push up from the chair. “The last thing I need is to be surrounded by more people like me.” I head for the kitchen and she follows. I grab the orange juice from the refrigerator and pour a small glass. “I’m fine … Okay, I’m not fine,” I add when she glares at me, “but I’ll get there.”

“Not on your own,” she whispers and tears pool in her eyes. “You need help, Blaire.”

I lay my hands flat on the counter. “Mom, Ben died.” I choke on the word. “I don’t know how you can expect me to be okay so soon. It doesn’t work like that.”

“I know,” she agrees, “but you’re not even trying.”

I close my eyes. We have this argument practically every day.

“Here,” she says, and I open my eyes. She’s pulling a scrap of paper from her pocket and she slides it across the counter to me. It has a phone number scrawled across it in unfamiliar handwriting. “That’s the number of the guy who leads the group. Call him. Please. But don’t do it for me. Do it for you.”

I take the piece of paper and hold it in my palm. I stare at the ten numbers. I want to throw the paper away, but for some reason I don’t.

I close my fist around it and hold on.





“Here, Kid.” My dad holds out a plastic bag from Walgreens.

“What is this?” I raise a brow and take it from him. I peek in the bag and pale. “Dad. No.” I shake my head back and forth rapidly and shove the bag back in his hands. “I’m not pregnant. I got my period this morning.” I sniffle and look away. I hadn’t wanted to tell him, or anyone. I’d been holding onto one last ounce of hope that I was pregnant. When I saw the pink stain in my underwear it was like a kick to the gut. Now, I think my illness was normal and probably a result of not eating much and not being able to eat much. Grief, I’ve learned, is crippling.

His shoulders sag dejectedly. “I really thought …”

“Me too, Dad,” I whisper. I wipe away a tear. I think a part of me believed a baby would fix this. Fix me. But I realize now it would’ve only made things worse—how on Earth would I raise a baby by myself?

He tosses the bag in the trashcan and covers it with stuff so my mom won’t find it. I have to smile to myself over the thought of my dad going to a drugstore and buying a pregnancy test. I mean, he dresses like a lumberjack—jeans, flannels, and heavy boots—and he just has the aura of being a tough guy.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop, working on ordering decorations for a corporate party.

“How you feelin’, Kid?” He pulls out the chair across from me and peers at me from over the top of my laptop.

I shrug. “Better than I thought I would. This is … It’s for the best,” I say. He raises a brow like he highly doubts that. “Look at me,” I add. “I’m a mess. I can’t raise a baby right now.”

“Your momma and I would help you.”