My hands clench into fists and my eyes fly open. “How can you say that? He’s your son. Was. Was your son.” I lean my head against the headrest and bang my fists against my thighs. It isn’t fair.
Her lower lip trembles and the red from the stoplight reflects over her face. “It kills me to say that, Blaire, but it’s true. You will move on.”
I shake my head. “Shut up.”
She turns to me. “We have to stay strong. For ourselves. For each other. Can you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, Blaire. That’s not the fighter I know you to be.”
I wipe at the tears that have continued to fall. “I need to scream,” I tell her.
“Then scream.”
I do. And she does too.
We both sit there at that stoplight, even as it changes to green, and scream.
I scream until my throat is raw and aching and sore. I scream until I can’t scream anymore and then I collapse back against the seat.
Loraine drives us back to the house and we don’t say a word. Not as she parks the car and not even once we’re inside. We both head into separate bedrooms.
I sob as soon as I see my bed. The bed Ben and I had been rolling around in only hours ago and now he’s dead.
I’ve never had to deal with death head-on before.
My dad’s parents were dead when I was born and my mom lost her dad shortly after. The only death I was around for was my grandma when I was five and I didn’t know her well so it didn’t hurt. Yeah, I was upset, especially because my mom was but my five-year-old brain couldn’t process grief. Not this soul-crushing, suffocating feeling.
I strip out of my clothes and stay in my underwear and bra. I don’t have time for pajamas. I climb beneath the covers, burrowing myself over to Ben’s side. I wrap my arms around his pillow and inhale his scent.
How long until that smell fades?
I cry. I let the tears soak my hair and the pillow. I cry until I’m too tired to cry and can’t keep my eyes open anymore. I let my dreams take me away. To a heaven where Ben still exists and life doesn’t suck so much.
My eyes feel like they’re taped shut. I try to open them and I can’t. I rub at them and sit up in bed. I look around me at the mess of covers and daylight shining through the windows. The clocks says it’s nearly noon. I narrow my eyes.
Last night …
Oh God.
“No, no, no, no, no.” I start up with the chanting again and rush out of my bed. I hurry down the hall and peek in the guest room. My heart sinks at the ruffled bed.
It’s not dream—not some dastardly nightmare. It’s real. It’s so fucking real.
I clutch at my chest, like there’s a visible wound there and slide down the wall as sobs overtake my body again. In my sleep I’d been able to delude myself into believing it hadn’t really happened. Dreams are liars. They show you what you want to see, what you hope for, and it’s nothing but a lie.
I draw my knees up to my stomach and sob into my hands. How I have any tears left to cry is beyond me.
I feel so lost, so scared, so alone.
What am I going to do?
I wipe at my face and pick myself up off the floor. I have to find Loraine.
I make my way downstairs and find her standing by the front window, clutching a mug of tea. She glances over her shoulder at me with red-rimmed eyes. My lip trembles. I’m trying so hard to hold it together, but I can’t. I don’t want to.
She takes a seat and sets her cup of tea on the coffee table there. Her drink is practically untouched. I take a seat in the chair across from her. I know I should say something, but words evade me.
She crosses and uncrosses her legs. She’s restless and I am too. Neither of us knows what to do. I don’t know if there’s anything we can do.
“I don’t know where to go from here,” I say. I wrap my arms around my body like the gesture alone can hold together the crumbling pieces of my life.
Her lips press together in a thin line. “As cliché as it sounds, I guess you take it one day at a time.”
I nod. I don’t know what else to do. I feel like an imposter in my own body going through the motions. I don’t want to eat, or drink, or even talk.
“I’m going back to bed,” I finally say.
She nods and doesn’t fight me on it. In fact, she even says, “Me too.”
Neither one of us wants to deal.
For now, we don’t have to.
I stare at the closed casket as one of Ben’s high school friend’s, Tyler, drones on and on about what a great guy he was. I want to yell at the guy because he hasn’t even talked to Ben in recent years. But he’s here sharing in a grief I don’t feel like he has a right to claim.
The flowers overflow the casket in colors of purple and yellow. I think his mom chose those colors. I can’t remember. I’ve been too checked out the last few days—only mumbling responses when spoken to. I left all the funeral planning up to Loraine. I can barely stomach the word funeral. It’s so final.