Page 32 of Catching Feeling

“I’m a little banged up, but I’m okay. I’ve got a large bandage on my arm. I seemed to have scraped it some. I’m okay, honey. I just wish you were here.”

My forehead presses against the cool wood of my door, and my eyes drop shut. I know she doesn’t do this purposefully, the guilt trips. The comments about how she wishes I was there or that I didn’t choose to go to college away from home.

But every time she says it, guilt eats away at me.

“I know, Mama. I… I can come out there today and make sure you’re okay. Check on you?” I offer, even though I can’t afford to. Not just because my car is possibly going to break down but because that means I’ll have to miss a day of school, and I’m trying to stay on top of my classes.

Not that I’ll tell her that. Even if I did, she wouldn’t truly understand.

“I’d love that, sweetie. I’m running low on groceries, and Mrs. Henderson offered to let me borrow her car to go to the store yesterday. I made it all the way outside, to the car this time. I… I just sat in the front seat, and everything about it reminded me of your dad. I couldn’t do it, Viv.” She sniffles.

It’s been two years since his accident, and she’s never driven. Never even started a car, which has really limited her job opportunities. It’s all work-from-home positions, and on the days where it’s hard for her to get out of bed, it makes it even harder for her to keep a job.

I understand she’s terrified and that everything about driving sends her into a state of panic. I feel the same way. My hands still shake sometimes when it’s late and dark, and I get in my head.

“That’s okay, Mama. You tried. That’s what matters, remember? It’s going to be okay. I’ll be there soon, and I’ll take care of everything. I promise,” I reassure her.

Another sniffle. “Okay, honey. Thank you for doing this. I’ll see you soon.”

I mutter a goodbye and stand straight, glancing around the room. If I make it through this week, it’s going to be a miracle. A message notification vibrates my phone, and I glance at the screen, seeing another message from Hallie.

I honestly haven’t had the mental capacity to respond to her texts over the last couple of days, and I feel horrible about it.

We’re supposed to have a girls weekend, but I didn’t have a chance to discuss things with Reese since we got into an argument instead.

Hallie: Wanna meet for lunch? I’ve got a break today between algebra and European lit.

I gnaw at the inside of my cheek as I try to figure out how to respond. Obviously, I can’t meet for lunch today since I’m going to be driving home to meet my mom.

But I can’t exactly tell her that I’m having to make an emergency trip home in the middle of the week because my mom is barely able to take care of herself.

I tap at the screen, responding to her message.

Viv: I’m totally swamped today working on my English paper, but still on for this weekend! Reese is good with it.

I don’t actually know if he is or not, but I’m not asking him. Not after our fight. I don’t have it in me for a repeat of yesterday. Reaching for my keys, I grab my things and shove them in my backpack, then swing my bedroom door open and head for the kitchen. I don’t have time to cook anything, so I’ll just grab a banana or something.

I reach for the fruit, but a note next to the bowl stops me in my tracks. Since moving in, this has been our thing. One day, he leaves me something, and the next, I return the favor.

Like one that said “You’re the gOAT” with a packet of oatmeal. Or the boiled egg that said “I hope your day is Egg-citing.” It’s cheesy and ridiculous, and I just didn’t expect it to happen after our fight from last night.

There’s a cereal bar on the counter—marshmallow, my favorite—and a note.

Sorry I’m a dumbass. Forgive me?

SinCEREALY,

Reese

My laugh echoes around the empty kitchen, and I bring my fingers to my lips as I scan the black ink scrawled on the paper again.

I guess if there was anything to make me forget last night happened, it would be my favorite cereal bar and a bad breakfast pun.

Things were even worse than I anticipated when I got to my house. Mom didn’t just scrape her arm; she gashed it open and probably should’ve gotten stitches or had it checked out by a doctor, at the very least.

I disinfected it, put two butterfly bandages on the cut, and put in a call to her primary care physician for a video call. He said to keep an eye on it, and if it seemed to not be healing, then to come in.

“Mama, you have to start taking better care of yourself,” I tell her, sitting beside her on the old couch. I’ve spent the remainder of the day cleaning up empty cups and dirty bowls, washing laundry and sheets, and then grabbing a few staples from the local grocery store to hold her over until I can come home again.

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