Watch over Me
Page 19
Turning my engine off, I pocket my keys and unbuckle my seatbelt, but I don't move to open the door. I haven't been back to this place in a year. A year ago today. It's probably not healthy for me to be here right now, today of all days, but I don't know where else to go.
"Yeah, I think so," Meg replies through the line as I watch a man pull weeds around a headstone a hundred yards away from where I'm parked. "I remember telling you to stay far away from Chronic Halitosis Man. You didn't go to him did you? I warned you about him."
The napkin note I found taped to the wall of the office last night sits in my center console right next to the gearshift. I don't need to read the words again. I already have them memorized, and they repeat on a loop, over and over in my head.
"No, I didn't go to him. I went to that woman you suggested. The one you said you really liked," I tell her, hoping she'll confirm that I'm not crazy.
"Oh awesome! I just spoke to her last night. I have an appointment with her tomorrow as soon as I get released."
I let out the breath I was holding, feeling a little bit less crazy than I did the other night. Maybe she just moved offices or something. That would make much more sense than the ideas I actually have floating around in my brain about spirits and people talking from beyond the grave.
"So did she move? Get a new office or something?" I ask, glancing down at the napkin again.
"No, I don't think so. My appointment is at the same address where I met with her a few years ago," Meg replies.
"On East Avenue, right? On the second floor?"
I hear Meg talking to a nurse in her room, and I wait impatiently for her to finish, tapping my fingers against the steering wheel.
"Sorry, they had to take my blood pressure," Meg tells me, coming back on the line. "Did you say East Avenue? Dr. Thomas isn't on East Avenue. She's on Clifton at the corner of Butternut, and she's on the first floor."
My blood runs cold as I pick up the note and stare at the handwriting.
"You mean Dr. Thompson?" I ask, stressing the difference in the name.
"No, Dr. Thomas," Meg replies. "No P. Who the hell have you been talking to for the last year?"
I don't have an answer for her because I'd like to know the exact same thing. I quickly end the conversation with her, telling her I'll call her later and shove my phone into my pocket. My whole body is filled with dread as I open my car door and slowly climb out. It takes everything in me to force my feet to move off of the blacktop and onto the grass, making my way to her grave. Memories of my last time here flutter in and out of my head, and I try to block them out as I walk up the small incline and pass other headstones of people I don't know. My eyes stay focused on the one I'm heading toward, and it's not long before the sights and sounds around me disappear. I see nothing but the flat cement marker with her smiling face on it, nothing but her name, date of birth, and date of death, nothing but the ground below it that is no longer covered with disturbed earth but freshly mowed grass after a year of upkeep from the groundskeepers.
I don't hear the birds chirping or the tree branches swaying in the breeze. I don't hear the sounds of traffic on the outskirts of the cemetery as people race to get to work or school or wherever else they need to be. I hear nothing but the words I spoke as I sat in the very spot I now stand with nothing but death and ending the pain on my mind.
"I don't know how to live."
"I don't know how to be here without you."
All of the feelings of emptiness and desolation come rushing back. Everything I've tried to keep locked away so I can breathe and function without her surround me, and I clutch my arms around my waist to try and keep it all in. I don't want to let it out. I don't want to feel like I did a year ago. I was in a black hole of depression and nothing could force me out. I close my eyes to ward off the memories, but it doesn't work. I remember birthdays, holidays, vacations, and every conversation we ever had, good or bad. It all comes at me like fireworks bursting right before my eyes. I remember it all, but I don't remember her. In my memories her face is fuzzy, and I can't hear her voice. I'm forgetting what she looks like, and I'm forgetting what she sounds like, all because I chose to push it all away and keep it buried where it can't hurt me. I hear her voice in my head telling me to watch my language when I would get fired up about something or complaining to me about how my dad just wanted to watch television instead of going out to dinner. I hear it, but it's not her. It's not her voice echoing in my head; it's Dr. Thompson's. I just want to hear her voice again. I want to hear it so badly that I wonder if any of the past year has been real. Dr. Thompson or Thomas or whoever the hell she was reminded me of her. She had the same color hair, the same mannerisms, and the same addiction to hazelnut coffee, but it wasn't her. It couldn't have been her. It's not possible and it doesn't make sense.
I stare at the headstone and realize it's the only one within my line of vision that doesn't have any flowers on it. It's the only one that shows no sign of anyone having visited it or having carefully picked out just the right decorations to show that this person was missed and someone was thinking about them. I feel guilty that I haven't been back here. I feel ashamed that I haven't let her know how much I've missed her. She should have a hundred different flower bouquets and notes littering her grave. She should have silk flowers and real flowers, flower pots and flower baskets. She was worth more than this barren four-foot by seven-foot plot of land with nothing to show how amazing she was but a patch of sod.
Slowly lowering myself to the ground, I sit in the exact same spot I did a year ago where I let the blood pour out of my veins and into the earth. With the index finger of my right hand, I trace the white scar on the inside of my left wrist as I stare at her picture.
I used to come here all the time after she died. I would come here and talk to her, and every time the wind blew or a bird flew by, I used to imagine it was her trying to answer me. After I got out of the hospital, I looked back on those times when I asked her a question and a windsock hanging from a nearby tree would blow in the breeze, and I called myself all kinds of stupid. The dead don't speak. They don't force a bird to fly by to give you a sign when you're thinking about whether or not killing yourself is a good idea. They don't make the musical notes of a wind chime ring out when you ask if she can hear you.
I pull the crumpled up napkin out of my pocket and stare at it yet again. I trace the cursive handwriting that looks so familiar instead of the scar on my wrist.
"This isn't real. None of this is real," I whisper to the headstone. "I've wanted it too much and my mind is playing tricks on me."
I hold my breath and look around for a leaf to flutter by or a bird to land on the next plot over. Rolling my eyes at my idiocy, I wad the napkin back up in my hand and throw it angrily into the grass.
My mother always believed in spirits. She believed in the afterlife and she believed people would watch over you after they were gone and they'd find a way to communicate. I always scoffed at her when we would discuss it, but she was adamant.
"Don't laugh. Your grandmother is watching over me. Sometimes I can just feel it," she said to me as we sat at the kitchen table eating dinner while my dad was at work.
"Mom, that's just creepy. Do you really think Grandma is like standing over you watching you make cookies or something? Or going to the bathroom? Oh my God, what if she's watching you and Dad when you…you know…" I asked, trailing off with a laugh.
She picked up the kitchen towel that sat on the table next to her plate and whipped it at me, laughing when it hit me square in the face.
"Well then, she'd definitely get an eyeful since you're father and I…you know…all the time. We're like rabbits," she told me with a wink.
"Oh, eeeeew! La-la-la-la-la-la, I'M NOT LISTENING!" I shouted with my fingers in my ears so I didn't have to hear her.
She reached over and tugged on one of my hands so I would pull a finger out of my ear.
"Seriously, though, you don't believe that your loved ones would want to watch over you after they're gone? Make sure you're okay? Just because they're gone doesn't mean they've forgotten about you. I think it's sad to think of a being in heaven and NOT be with the ones you love," she told me wistfully.
"Well, I think it's weird. There are entirely too many things that my loved ones do NOT need to see me doing," I informed her as I took a bite of my spaghetti.
"Just wait. When you're older and wiser like me. You'll change your mind."
I never did change my mind, though. If anything, after she died, thoughts of my loved ones watching over me made me angry. The bible says Heaven is a place filled with unimaginable beauty. It's a place of joy where there are no tears or sounds of crying. If Heaven really exists, and my mother is there, why in the hell would she ever want to look over her loved ones? There's no joy that can come of that. We're sad and we're depressed and we miss her so much we don't know how to go on living. Why would she want to see us like that? Why would she want to step out of the supposed beauty of Heaven and come back to this hell on earth? The answer: she wouldn't. She wouldn't want to watch over me and see me like this. There would be no everlasting happiness for her if she saw what her death has done to my father and me. She would be miserable and her heart would break if she had to be a spirit, fluttering around us day in and day out, seeing how damaged we've become without her.
"I know this isn't real. I wish it was, but it's not. I've wanted to talk to you so badly, so many times…"
I trail off and stare at her picture, trying not to cry. After a few minutes, I push myself up off of the ground and take one last look at her headstone.
"Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I miss you."
I know she isn't really watching over me and she doesn't hear the words I say, but maybe, somehow, she knows. Wherever she is right now, I hope she knows, but probably not.
I turn away and stare angrily at the crumpled up napkin in the grass, refusing to take it with me. It's not real. It was probably just someone playing a trick on me, sticking the knife in a little deeper and twisting the handle. It can't be real.
Walking past the napkin, I head toward my car without a second look back. Coming here was a bad idea, especially today. I thought it would give me answers to the questions plaguing me, but all it did was raise more. I know I can call Meg and she will talk me through this, but my fingers hesitate over the numbers on my cell phone as I unlock my car and get inside.
Slumping back against the seat, I scroll through the contacts in my phone until I get to the z's. A lump forms in my throat when I see his name. More than anything I wish he were here right now, sitting next me in the car, telling me I'm not going crazy and wrapping me in his arms. I should call Meg and let her be my friend. She would say something to make me laugh, and she would know exactly what I should do. The only problem was she never knew my mother. No matter how much I try to explain to Meg what she meant to me, Meg will never fully understand. She never saw us together, she never spent hour after hour with her, week after week, forming a bond with her and making her promises, and she never cared for her or mourned for her or felt an ounce of worry that the promises she made might someday be broken.
I close my eyes and lean my head against the back of the seat, and a small sob escapes my throat.
I pushed him away. He just wanted to protect me, and I pushed him away.
Thinking about all of the time we spent together, each memory fractures my heart into even more pieces because he's not here right now. He lied to me, but I lied to him as well. I was never fully honest with him, and he knew that. He knew that I'd been keeping part of myself hidden from him. Why would he want to confide in me when I couldn't do the same with him?
I need him. I need to know that he was real. I need to feel his hands on my face telling me he loves me. I need to stop keeping everything locked in a vault and just let it all go. I want to break down right now; I want to rage and scream and cry, just like I did a year and a half ago, just like I've wanted to do every day since then, but instead kept it bottled up. I need to grieve. I need to cry for her and remember her, and I need to stop thinking that if I just pretend like she wasn't real and never talk about her with anyone, that it would hurt less. It doesn't hurt less. It hurts more. It hurts so much that I actually contemplated the idea of my mother "speaking" to me through Dr. Thompson and thought it was possible.
I want to pick up my phone and call him, but I can't. Not right now. Not until I can find a way to get through this on my own. He deserves a woman who is whole, not someone struggling to stay sane.
Chapter Nineteen
I can see her a few feet in front of me. Her short, blonde hair is blowing in the wind and her back is to me. I smile when I see her walking along the beach and race to catch up with her.
"Mom!"
My shout for her goes unanswered, but she probably didn't hear me. The waves crash roughly against the shore, and the wind picks up, whipping my own hair around my face so I have to keep pushing it out of my eyes as I run.
I yell for her again and push my legs to carry me faster so I can reach her before she gets to the mountain of large rocks that jut out from the beach and into the water. She can't climb over those before I get to her. If she does, I'll never get a chance to talk to her.
She continues to walk at a steady pace, not turning her head to look back at me no matter how many times or how loudly I yell.
I'm running as fast as I can now; my chest hurts from breathing heavy as I run, and the muscles in my legs are starting to burn, but it doesn't matter. I need to make it to her. I need to push just a little harder and I'll be there with her. If I can just make it to her, I can tap her on the shoulder and she'll finally turn around. I'll finally see her face and her smile.
"Yeah, I think so," Meg replies through the line as I watch a man pull weeds around a headstone a hundred yards away from where I'm parked. "I remember telling you to stay far away from Chronic Halitosis Man. You didn't go to him did you? I warned you about him."
The napkin note I found taped to the wall of the office last night sits in my center console right next to the gearshift. I don't need to read the words again. I already have them memorized, and they repeat on a loop, over and over in my head.
"No, I didn't go to him. I went to that woman you suggested. The one you said you really liked," I tell her, hoping she'll confirm that I'm not crazy.
"Oh awesome! I just spoke to her last night. I have an appointment with her tomorrow as soon as I get released."
I let out the breath I was holding, feeling a little bit less crazy than I did the other night. Maybe she just moved offices or something. That would make much more sense than the ideas I actually have floating around in my brain about spirits and people talking from beyond the grave.
"So did she move? Get a new office or something?" I ask, glancing down at the napkin again.
"No, I don't think so. My appointment is at the same address where I met with her a few years ago," Meg replies.
"On East Avenue, right? On the second floor?"
I hear Meg talking to a nurse in her room, and I wait impatiently for her to finish, tapping my fingers against the steering wheel.
"Sorry, they had to take my blood pressure," Meg tells me, coming back on the line. "Did you say East Avenue? Dr. Thomas isn't on East Avenue. She's on Clifton at the corner of Butternut, and she's on the first floor."
My blood runs cold as I pick up the note and stare at the handwriting.
"You mean Dr. Thompson?" I ask, stressing the difference in the name.
"No, Dr. Thomas," Meg replies. "No P. Who the hell have you been talking to for the last year?"
I don't have an answer for her because I'd like to know the exact same thing. I quickly end the conversation with her, telling her I'll call her later and shove my phone into my pocket. My whole body is filled with dread as I open my car door and slowly climb out. It takes everything in me to force my feet to move off of the blacktop and onto the grass, making my way to her grave. Memories of my last time here flutter in and out of my head, and I try to block them out as I walk up the small incline and pass other headstones of people I don't know. My eyes stay focused on the one I'm heading toward, and it's not long before the sights and sounds around me disappear. I see nothing but the flat cement marker with her smiling face on it, nothing but her name, date of birth, and date of death, nothing but the ground below it that is no longer covered with disturbed earth but freshly mowed grass after a year of upkeep from the groundskeepers.
I don't hear the birds chirping or the tree branches swaying in the breeze. I don't hear the sounds of traffic on the outskirts of the cemetery as people race to get to work or school or wherever else they need to be. I hear nothing but the words I spoke as I sat in the very spot I now stand with nothing but death and ending the pain on my mind.
"I don't know how to live."
"I don't know how to be here without you."
All of the feelings of emptiness and desolation come rushing back. Everything I've tried to keep locked away so I can breathe and function without her surround me, and I clutch my arms around my waist to try and keep it all in. I don't want to let it out. I don't want to feel like I did a year ago. I was in a black hole of depression and nothing could force me out. I close my eyes to ward off the memories, but it doesn't work. I remember birthdays, holidays, vacations, and every conversation we ever had, good or bad. It all comes at me like fireworks bursting right before my eyes. I remember it all, but I don't remember her. In my memories her face is fuzzy, and I can't hear her voice. I'm forgetting what she looks like, and I'm forgetting what she sounds like, all because I chose to push it all away and keep it buried where it can't hurt me. I hear her voice in my head telling me to watch my language when I would get fired up about something or complaining to me about how my dad just wanted to watch television instead of going out to dinner. I hear it, but it's not her. It's not her voice echoing in my head; it's Dr. Thompson's. I just want to hear her voice again. I want to hear it so badly that I wonder if any of the past year has been real. Dr. Thompson or Thomas or whoever the hell she was reminded me of her. She had the same color hair, the same mannerisms, and the same addiction to hazelnut coffee, but it wasn't her. It couldn't have been her. It's not possible and it doesn't make sense.
I stare at the headstone and realize it's the only one within my line of vision that doesn't have any flowers on it. It's the only one that shows no sign of anyone having visited it or having carefully picked out just the right decorations to show that this person was missed and someone was thinking about them. I feel guilty that I haven't been back here. I feel ashamed that I haven't let her know how much I've missed her. She should have a hundred different flower bouquets and notes littering her grave. She should have silk flowers and real flowers, flower pots and flower baskets. She was worth more than this barren four-foot by seven-foot plot of land with nothing to show how amazing she was but a patch of sod.
Slowly lowering myself to the ground, I sit in the exact same spot I did a year ago where I let the blood pour out of my veins and into the earth. With the index finger of my right hand, I trace the white scar on the inside of my left wrist as I stare at her picture.
I used to come here all the time after she died. I would come here and talk to her, and every time the wind blew or a bird flew by, I used to imagine it was her trying to answer me. After I got out of the hospital, I looked back on those times when I asked her a question and a windsock hanging from a nearby tree would blow in the breeze, and I called myself all kinds of stupid. The dead don't speak. They don't force a bird to fly by to give you a sign when you're thinking about whether or not killing yourself is a good idea. They don't make the musical notes of a wind chime ring out when you ask if she can hear you.
I pull the crumpled up napkin out of my pocket and stare at it yet again. I trace the cursive handwriting that looks so familiar instead of the scar on my wrist.
"This isn't real. None of this is real," I whisper to the headstone. "I've wanted it too much and my mind is playing tricks on me."
I hold my breath and look around for a leaf to flutter by or a bird to land on the next plot over. Rolling my eyes at my idiocy, I wad the napkin back up in my hand and throw it angrily into the grass.
My mother always believed in spirits. She believed in the afterlife and she believed people would watch over you after they were gone and they'd find a way to communicate. I always scoffed at her when we would discuss it, but she was adamant.
"Don't laugh. Your grandmother is watching over me. Sometimes I can just feel it," she said to me as we sat at the kitchen table eating dinner while my dad was at work.
"Mom, that's just creepy. Do you really think Grandma is like standing over you watching you make cookies or something? Or going to the bathroom? Oh my God, what if she's watching you and Dad when you…you know…" I asked, trailing off with a laugh.
She picked up the kitchen towel that sat on the table next to her plate and whipped it at me, laughing when it hit me square in the face.
"Well then, she'd definitely get an eyeful since you're father and I…you know…all the time. We're like rabbits," she told me with a wink.
"Oh, eeeeew! La-la-la-la-la-la, I'M NOT LISTENING!" I shouted with my fingers in my ears so I didn't have to hear her.
She reached over and tugged on one of my hands so I would pull a finger out of my ear.
"Seriously, though, you don't believe that your loved ones would want to watch over you after they're gone? Make sure you're okay? Just because they're gone doesn't mean they've forgotten about you. I think it's sad to think of a being in heaven and NOT be with the ones you love," she told me wistfully.
"Well, I think it's weird. There are entirely too many things that my loved ones do NOT need to see me doing," I informed her as I took a bite of my spaghetti.
"Just wait. When you're older and wiser like me. You'll change your mind."
I never did change my mind, though. If anything, after she died, thoughts of my loved ones watching over me made me angry. The bible says Heaven is a place filled with unimaginable beauty. It's a place of joy where there are no tears or sounds of crying. If Heaven really exists, and my mother is there, why in the hell would she ever want to look over her loved ones? There's no joy that can come of that. We're sad and we're depressed and we miss her so much we don't know how to go on living. Why would she want to see us like that? Why would she want to step out of the supposed beauty of Heaven and come back to this hell on earth? The answer: she wouldn't. She wouldn't want to watch over me and see me like this. There would be no everlasting happiness for her if she saw what her death has done to my father and me. She would be miserable and her heart would break if she had to be a spirit, fluttering around us day in and day out, seeing how damaged we've become without her.
"I know this isn't real. I wish it was, but it's not. I've wanted to talk to you so badly, so many times…"
I trail off and stare at her picture, trying not to cry. After a few minutes, I push myself up off of the ground and take one last look at her headstone.
"Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I miss you."
I know she isn't really watching over me and she doesn't hear the words I say, but maybe, somehow, she knows. Wherever she is right now, I hope she knows, but probably not.
I turn away and stare angrily at the crumpled up napkin in the grass, refusing to take it with me. It's not real. It was probably just someone playing a trick on me, sticking the knife in a little deeper and twisting the handle. It can't be real.
Walking past the napkin, I head toward my car without a second look back. Coming here was a bad idea, especially today. I thought it would give me answers to the questions plaguing me, but all it did was raise more. I know I can call Meg and she will talk me through this, but my fingers hesitate over the numbers on my cell phone as I unlock my car and get inside.
Slumping back against the seat, I scroll through the contacts in my phone until I get to the z's. A lump forms in my throat when I see his name. More than anything I wish he were here right now, sitting next me in the car, telling me I'm not going crazy and wrapping me in his arms. I should call Meg and let her be my friend. She would say something to make me laugh, and she would know exactly what I should do. The only problem was she never knew my mother. No matter how much I try to explain to Meg what she meant to me, Meg will never fully understand. She never saw us together, she never spent hour after hour with her, week after week, forming a bond with her and making her promises, and she never cared for her or mourned for her or felt an ounce of worry that the promises she made might someday be broken.
I close my eyes and lean my head against the back of the seat, and a small sob escapes my throat.
I pushed him away. He just wanted to protect me, and I pushed him away.
Thinking about all of the time we spent together, each memory fractures my heart into even more pieces because he's not here right now. He lied to me, but I lied to him as well. I was never fully honest with him, and he knew that. He knew that I'd been keeping part of myself hidden from him. Why would he want to confide in me when I couldn't do the same with him?
I need him. I need to know that he was real. I need to feel his hands on my face telling me he loves me. I need to stop keeping everything locked in a vault and just let it all go. I want to break down right now; I want to rage and scream and cry, just like I did a year and a half ago, just like I've wanted to do every day since then, but instead kept it bottled up. I need to grieve. I need to cry for her and remember her, and I need to stop thinking that if I just pretend like she wasn't real and never talk about her with anyone, that it would hurt less. It doesn't hurt less. It hurts more. It hurts so much that I actually contemplated the idea of my mother "speaking" to me through Dr. Thompson and thought it was possible.
I want to pick up my phone and call him, but I can't. Not right now. Not until I can find a way to get through this on my own. He deserves a woman who is whole, not someone struggling to stay sane.
Chapter Nineteen
I can see her a few feet in front of me. Her short, blonde hair is blowing in the wind and her back is to me. I smile when I see her walking along the beach and race to catch up with her.
"Mom!"
My shout for her goes unanswered, but she probably didn't hear me. The waves crash roughly against the shore, and the wind picks up, whipping my own hair around my face so I have to keep pushing it out of my eyes as I run.
I yell for her again and push my legs to carry me faster so I can reach her before she gets to the mountain of large rocks that jut out from the beach and into the water. She can't climb over those before I get to her. If she does, I'll never get a chance to talk to her.
She continues to walk at a steady pace, not turning her head to look back at me no matter how many times or how loudly I yell.
I'm running as fast as I can now; my chest hurts from breathing heavy as I run, and the muscles in my legs are starting to burn, but it doesn't matter. I need to make it to her. I need to push just a little harder and I'll be there with her. If I can just make it to her, I can tap her on the shoulder and she'll finally turn around. I'll finally see her face and her smile.
