I poured some detergent under the stream of water and loaded Mom’s clothes, paying special attention to treating the new spot on my uniform. When the lid was closed, I made my way down the hall to my room to put on some pajamas and collect my dirty colored clothes. I’d do them as well.
My hamper sat just inside the door of the jack-and-jill bathroom connected to my bedroom. I dumped its contents onto the floor and separated the whites, putting them back into the basket.
With my arms full of colored jeans, shorts and t-shirts, I turned to walk back the way I’d come. I had only gotten a few steps when the nightlight in the next room caught my attention as it so often did.
Shifting directions, I went on through the bathroom and walked into the adjoining bedroom on the other side. I took a deep breath. It still smelled of gardenias, but just barely. The scent was fading. One day, it would be completely gone.
A poignant feeling of melancholy washed over me. I looked at the perfectly made bed and the perfectly placed vanity items. It was almost as if Izzy still slept in there every night and got ready in there every morning. It didn’t look as if she’d been gone for three years. But she had.
In a way, it felt like she was just there, like I’d seen her only yesterday. But in another way, I could feel her fading, like the gardenias. It was getting harder and harder to remember what her laugh sounded like, what exact shade of blue her eyes were. In a dimly lit corner of my mind, I feared that one day her memory would be nothing more than a whisper, nothing more than a faint bittersweet smell.
********
The next morning, I woke up at 7:45 and squinted angrily at the sun peeking through my fuzzy pink curtains. My head started to throb immediately, so I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow. I knew Mom would be sleeping off her hangover and Dad’s flight wouldn’t get in until 3:30 so I went back to sleep.
Three hours later, I forced myself to get up. Mom’s day-after drama would be starting any time now and I wanted to be—needed to be—energized with some coffee before that happened.
After using the bathroom, I padded into the kitchen and started a pot brewing before I went out to get yesterday’s mail. As I walked back to the house after collecting the mail, I unrolled the paper to see what the headlines were.
The front page read, “Community Rallies Around Recovered Attack Victims.” I scanned the first paragraph.
“Friday evening, following a miraculous recovery, the two surviving victims of a recent Southmoore Slayer-type attack were released from the hospital. Doctors say that both David Hale and Jarrod Brown made a stunning and sudden recovery from the unknown anemia that had plagued them since the grisly attack earlier this month. Though authorities are pleased with the victims’ speedy recovery, neither Hale nor Brown was able to provide any information helpful in the apprehension of the perpetrator(s). Police are still working around the clock to…”
A pang of sadness shot through my heart so I folded the paper back up and carried it to the house with the rest of the mail. I had just laid it on the counter and was pouring myself a cup of coffee when Mom stumbled into the kitchen.
She eyed me blearily and ran a hand through her hair. “How long have you been up?”
“Just a few minutes. I just went out to get the mail,” I said, pushing it toward her, hoping she wouldn’t see the paper.
She asked wryly, “Anything that’s not a bill?”
“Not that I saw,” I said, leaning on the counter to obscure the newspaper from her view.
“Is that the paper?” She was craning her neck to look around me.
“Oh, yeah,” I answered casually, not offering to get it for her. “How’d you sleep?” Subject changes never worked out well for me, but I thought it was worth another try just this once.
“Ridley Elizabeth Heller,” she said, using her most maternal tone. “Give me that paper.”
I handed the paper over, hoping that I’d be wrong and that it wouldn’t cause the outburst that I suspected it might. Only it did.
Mom unfolded the paper and immediately began to read the same article I’d just read, only her interpretation of the news would be much different than mine. It always was.
“Oh,” she cried, putting her fingers to her trembling lips. “This is what should’ve happened with Izzy. She should’ve had a write up in the paper about her miraculous recovery. If only those doctors had—”
“Mom, Izzy died. The doctors had nothing to do with it,” I reminded her gently.
“But maybe they—”
“It happens all the time to people in a coma, Mom. Remember what the neurologist said?”
Mom glared at me with her teary hazel eyes. “You’re just like your father. You both gave up too easy,” she spat hatefully.
“We didn’t give up, Mom. Izzy did. She just couldn’t hang on any longer. Her body gave out. You know that.”
“But—”
“No buts, Mom. You’re just torturing yourself. She’s gone. There’s nothing anybody could do.”
“And the baby,” she sobbed.
“Mom,” I said, stepping over to hug her. “This is why I didn’t want you to see the paper. I knew how upset you would get.”
“Don’t treat me like an infant, Ridley,” she hissed, pulling away from me. “You have no idea what it feels like to lose a child, to bury your daughter.”
If I didn’t see it for what it was, bitter anguish, I would almost have sworn that there was hatred in her eyes. But she didn’t hate me. She was just trying to make it through life with a part of her heart missing. We all were.
“I know, Mom. I’m sorry,” I said, casting my eyes down.
After nearly a full minute, Mom turned and walked away. I breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been, as it had been in the past. Maybe she was finally coming to terms with it. Surely that would happen eventually. Wouldn’t it?
“You need to go to the store sometime before your father gets home,” she called back from the living room.
“I’ll get ready and go in a few minutes,” I said, more than happy to oblige. It would be a welcome respite.