Life In Reverse(20)

It’s too much, and the back of my throat burns. I need to do something—anything—so I keep talking. “Sometimes, it hurts too much to remember. I keep expecting to see him when I pass by his room. Or wake up to him crunching cereal at the table. Or hear him yell ‘hurry up, squirt’ when I’m taking too much time in the bathroom. Sometimes, I… I think it would be easier if I could just forget.”

“Don’t say that. You don’t want that, trust me.” Something sharp slices through his words and catches me off guard. As if he senses this, his tone warms. “I mean, without our memories, what are we? We have nothing. We are nothing. We’re…,” his Adam’s apple bobs in his neck, “alone.” He eases forward and plucks a white dandelion from the grass, twirling it between his hands as if he needs a distraction.

“Zack used to say if you make a wish on one of those and blow the petals in the air, your wish would come true.”

“My mom,” he admits quietly, “she used to say the same thing. Here.” He holds the stem out in front of me and I take it between my fingers. “Make a wish.”

His stare is intent on my face as I pucker my lips and blow against the feather-light petals. They disperse in the air, the subtle breeze carrying them away. I want to feel like that—light and airy. Free. I close my eyes and inhale through my nose, breathing in the fragrant scent of lilacs surrounding the porch. When I open them again, Vance is still watching me. And somehow I do feel lighter.

“Thank you,” I tell him with a half-smile, my cheeks covered in dried tears.

The lines around his mouth soften. “Don’t mention it.”

“Oh, but I think I will.” That earns me more than a slight curve of his lips, and I’ll admit, Vance Davenport smiling is a pretty glorious thing.

I might like to see it happen again.





“SHE LOOKS SO lost today,” Julian whispers as we watch Mom doze by the window. The sun paints her face in shadows, her delicate fingers curved against the armrest of the worn leather chair. Her dress is too big for her frail body. It hangs loose around her neck and the sleeves of her arm.

“She’s like this a lot now,” I counter with a heaviness in my chest. It kills me to come here, and yet, it keeps me alive. “She’s alone, Julian. All alone in her head. She can’t remember the important things, and pretty soon she might not remember the little things either.”

“Yeah.”

We sit in silent contemplation for a long time, both in various places in our heads until Julian barges into mine.

“It’s like I’m eight years old when I see her and all I can think is that I want my Mommy.” He glances from her to me, his eyes reflecting the same gut-wrenching sadness that tears me up every day. “How messed up is that?”

“It’s not messed up at all.” I rub my palms back and forth over my jeans like I’m trying to start a fire, garner energy. It’s useless, though. I’m depleted. “We were lucky. We had a mom who was always there, present, in all the ways that mattered. It’s only natural that we want her back.”

“But,” he swats away a fallen tear, “she’s not coming back.”

“Don’t say that.” Though I do, in fact, know how this works. Anger churns and swirls within me, but this isn’t the time or the place to let it out. “I won’t give up hope, Julian. I can’t.”

My eyes wander to my mother’s face, peaceful in sleep. Premature creases line the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her dark hair is a messy nest over her shoulder, tiny frame swallowed up by the chair. She’s so young, but this f*cking disease has aged her well beyond her years.

I need to hit something. To bleed for her, the way she bled for us. Abruptly, I push the chair back against the faded tile floor, the screeching sound harsh and loud. She doesn’t wake up. And why would she? What does she have to wake up to?

Julian calls for me as I bolt out of the room, needing to find the nearest exit. Mr. Hinkle also yells out and asks if I’m okay. I pay him no mind. I’m a ticking time bomb, ready to explode—right the f*ck now.

The brick wall on the back of the building is ready for me, standing its ground when my fist connects with it. It hurts like a son-of-a-bitch but I welcome it—inviting the numbness into my heart, my chest, and ultimately into my life.

I need more.

The sight of blood dripping down my knuckles gives me that extra incentive. I exhale a heavy breath and draw back to pummel it again when my wrist is grabbed from behind.

“Vance. Stop. You don’t want to do this.”

“The hell I don’t. Let me go,” I ground out, attempting to yank my arm from Julian’s grasp. He latches on tighter and any additional fight is useless. Involvement in sports has always made him fiercer in the muscle department.

“Mom wouldn’t want you to do this to yourself,” he pleads, playing dirty and using the only weapon he knows will stop me.

“Let me go.” I repeat again through clenched teeth.

“Are you going to stop acting like a crazed lunatic?” I give him a stiff nod and he releases me. “Jesus, Vance. Look at your hand.”

Blood trickles down my fingers, skin cut up and hanging off my knuckles. Still, it’s not enough. Nothing is enough to anesthetize the torment of watching my mother slowly disappear. Hoping beyond all hope that one day when I walk in, there will be some glimmer of recognition. That she’ll remember chasing after me on the beach or teaching me how to drive a stick shift, her patience always conquering my impatience.