Page 33 of Catching Feeling

I’m so worried about her, and every day it feels like instead of taking one step forward, we’re moving two steps back.

What if she had hit her head and passed out? I wouldn’t have even known anything was wrong, and my worry is making me question my ability to stay at Orleans U, over two hours away from home.

“I know, honey. I am. I promise,” she replies, like she always does. Always empty promises to prioritize herself, and it never happens.

Turning to face her, I take her thin hands in mine. “I’m serious. You have to, Mama. I’m too far away at school, and if something happens to you, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Tears shine in her eyes, and my heart feels like it physically aches.

“I’m not going anywhere, Viv. I’m here. Some days are just so hard, baby. It feels like it’s impossible to even open my eyes. It used to be so easy to be happy. Before…”

Depression does that to you. It steals who you used to be and wields your joy against you like a weapon. A constant reminder that you’re a shell now, empty and hollow.

I’ve never hated anything more in my life.

“You have to. Not just for you but for me. Because I need you. And I need you to take a shower, and eat more than once a day, and take your vitamins.”

She nods, leaning forward to rest her head on my shoulder. “I will. I promise.”

I want so badly to believe her, but if there is anything I know about history, it repeats itself.

Together, we settle on the couch and watch a rerun of Friends until I hear her breathing even out and feel her go lax in my arms.

Only then do I realize how late it’s gotten. It’s dark outside, and with everything I’ve done today, time got away from me.

Carefully, I move her off my shoulder and onto the cushions, then grab the blanket off the back of the couch and pull it up to her chin, tucking it around her.

She sighs in her sleep, her lids fluttering as she dreams. I hope they’re good dreams, and like I do every day, I pray that she finds peace.

She deserves peace.

She deserves more than the shitty hand life has given her, but only she can pull herself from this. As badly as I wish I could, I can’t do it for her. I’ve been trying to get her to get help, whether it be someone who makes house calls or even a Teladoc therapist. I think she needs professional help that I can’t give her.

After finishing tidying the rest of the house, I grab my backpack and my phone and leave, locking the front door behind me.

It’s almost 11 p.m., which means I won’t make it back to campus until well after midnight.

I’m exhausted, mentally and physically. By the time I get home, I’ll be too exhausted to work on Haunted Homicide.

Lately, the things that make me happy have been taking a back burner, and it makes me feel even more drained.

When I get in the car, the first thing I do is put on a podcast, and then I pull out onto the highway in the direction of campus.

The drive passes quickly because I’m engrossed in the podcast and not my exhaustion, and before I know it, I’m pulling into my parking spot in front of the house.

I quietly unlock the front door and push it open, tiptoeing through the house so I don’t wake Reese. Which is apparently a moot point because I find him on the couch, reading a book.

“Hey,” he says, glancing up from the pages.

“Hi.”

I swallow, shifting from one foot to another. This is slightly awkward. The last time I spoke to him, I was incredibly mean, and now I feel bad, especially after his breakfast punny apology.

“About the—” “I want to?—”

We both speak at the same time, and he laughs when our sentences run together.

“Sorry, you go first,” I say as I walk to the opposite end of the couch, set my backpack down, and then flop onto the cushions. It's so soft that my body practically melts into it. A moan escapes my lips before I can stop it, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Reese shift and then clear his throat.

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