Secret Lucidity(9)

“I feel like you’re pushing me away.”

“It’s not about you, Kroy!” I walk over and sit on the bed, and a second later, he’s kneeling in front of me with his hands on my knees. Dropping my head, I release on a bleak whisper, “It’s not fair.”

“I know, babe.”

“I just don’t understand why God would do this to me. Why did He choose to leave me fatherless and not someone else?”

Kroy leans in and rests his forehead against mine. “I wish I had the answers to give you.”

Wrapping his hand behind my neck, he brings me closer, pressing his lips against mine in a soft kiss. I want to get lost in it, the way I always have, but . . .

“I can’t,” I murmur when I pull away. “I just want to be alone right now.”

“You know I love you, right?”

“I know. I just . . .”

“I know. You don’t have to say it again.”

With a kiss to my forehead, he walks to the door.

“Can I call you later?”

“Yeah.” I say the word but already know I’ll ignore the phone when it rings.




(June)



I got my stitches out this morning. The doctor said that, with time, most of the scarring will be minimal, if nothing at all. But there is one laceration that cut deeper than the rest. That one will stay with me, a jagged pink line, skating its way across my right cheek.

An everlasting reminder.

Holding the tube of vitamin E in my hand, I stand in front of the mirror in my bathroom and look at the fresh scars that web across my face.

I look like a monster.

I’ve never been self-conscious about my appearance before. I’ve been lucky to avoid breakouts and blemishes. My skin has always been a smooth canvas painted in a natural sun-kissed hue of light bronze with green eyes rimmed with long dark lashes. And now that canvas has been clawed apart by the hands of a drunk driver that I can’t even yell at because he died too. I’m left with no one to spew my hate and anger toward, so I bury it deep down in a lame attempt to suffocate it into extinction.

My body starts when my phone buzzes against the granite countertop. Kroy’s name reads across the screen, and I hesitate before reaching to answer it. I know he’s worried about me.

“Hello.”

“Hey, babe. How did the doctor’s appointment go?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“The stitches out?”

“Yeah.” I hit the lights and walk over to my bed.

“Perfect timing.” He says this with such enthusiasm it makes me wonder if he thinks my getting the stiches removed will take away all the other damage. “Linze and a few others are heading down to the lake for the weekend. What do you say? Boating? Jet-skiing?”

“I don’t know . . . my arm . . .”

“Okay, no jet-skiing then.” He jokes with slight laughter and then carries on, “It might do you some good to get out of the house. It’s been almost a month, Cam.”

I wasn’t aware there was a timestamp for mourning.

For others, the world merely slowed for a few days before they moved on and got back to their lives. But for me, the world didn’t just slow down. It came to a complete halt and has yet to regain any momentum.

“Come on,” he urges. “If it becomes too much, we’ll leave. No questions asked, okay?”

“I feel weird about leaving my mom here all by herself.”

“Maybe if she sees you getting out of the house, it will encourage her to do the same. This could be a good thing.”

I can tell he’s not going to let up. “Maybe just for the day and not the whole weekend.”

“We’ll play it by ear.”

With a reluctant sigh, I give in. “Okay. I’ll go.”

We talk for a few minutes longer, and after we hang up, I hear a shattering from downstairs. Opening my bedroom door, I holler, “Mom?”

“Everything’s okay. I just dropped a glass.”

I make my way down to check on her, and when I walk into the kitchen, my mother is on her knees picking up shards of a broken wine glass.

“Mom, stop.” She’s not even trying to be careful, and lines of red are blooming from fresh cuts. I help her up before grabbing the dust buster from the hallway utility closet.

I suck up the glass while she tends to her cuts at the kitchen sink. She sways in her stance.

“Have you been drinking?” I ask after I turn off the sweeper.

She peers over her shoulder at me; her face is splotchy and she’s wearing a lopsided grin. It’s a look I’m not familiar with. After drying her hands on a towel, she walks around the center island, opens the door to the small wine fridge, and pulls out a bottle, saying, “Your father and I used to enjoy a glass of wine after dinner.”

This I know. But I never saw either of them the way she is now.

“Are you drunk?”

She laughs lazily. “You always were so smart, darling.” She then steps to me and scans over my face, making me shift uncomfortably on my feet. “Is that one going to scar?” she questions, pointing her finger at my cheek.

“Yes.”

She steps away as tears puddle in her eyes, and before she breaks down in front of me, she grabs the bottle of wine and heads upstairs to her room. I’m left in the kitchen feeling as if my marred beauty is a disappointment to her.