Underneath the Sycamore Tree(40)

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.

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.