Page 93 of The Cost of Forgetting You

And we do. Together.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Henry

December 13th, 2003

“Why do you even want to go back to school? I thought music was just some hobby you finally grew out of. It’s not a career, Henry.” Kimberly passes another ornament to Delilah, who places it too close to the other baubles on the tree for her mother’s liking. Kimberly sighs, reaches past her, and moves it to a better location. “We finally have a bit of free time now that your mom is out of the house. Do you really want to fill that with classes and homework?”

I focus on the knotted string of lights in my hands, realizing it looks a lot like how I feel. All tangled up inside. If only I could find the right loop to pull to make it all unravel in my hands. “Music has always been more than a hobby to me, and you know that.”

“But you make so much more at the factory than you would teaching.”

Delilah’s eyebrows lift. “If you’re a teacher, does that mean I don’t have to ride the school bus anymore? Like Truett?”

“Yes,” I say at the same time her mother says, “No.”

Our gazes meet but part just as quickly. I add, “We’ll talk about it when the time comes.”

“If the time comes,” Kimberly corrects.

Delilah’s shoulders droop, and the corners of her mouth follow. She reminds me so acutely of my mother when she makes that face that a fist clenches around my heart and squeezes. I know Mom has more hands-on care now than we were able to provide at home, but I wish I could’ve had this one final Christmas with her. I would’ve slowed down, taken more of it in.

When Dad died, I often wished I’d known ahead of time what was coming so I could say the things I wanted to, do the things I should’ve. Yet even though I’ve watched my mother deteriorate for years, I still didn’t make the most of it. I don’t know if you ever can.

There will always be one more memory, one more word. What little time we get together will never be enough.

“You’re finally in your career. Delilah’s in school.” I shrug, probably looking as lost as I feel. Our cat, Skittles—a tiny, calico sweetheart—rubs herself against my calf, and I reach down to stroke her back absent-mindedly. “I want to do this one thing that will make me happy. Surely you can understand that.”

Kimberly’s gaze goes flat. No longer sun-warmed fields but the dull brownish-green of fall grass. “Are you not happy now, Henry? Is this life we’ve built not enough for you?”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I—” My gaze drops to my hands. Once calloused from guitar strings, now rough from manual labor. This life is not bad. But there is so little of the version of me I used to be in it. I tried so hard to make space for Kimberly to have that. To go to school, finish her degree. Have her career. Is it so bad to want a little of that for myself, too? I shake my head. “I want to make music. And I want to give music to other people. To kids.” I smile sadly at my palms. Curl my fists closed. “That’s all.”

“I can learn music!” Delilah interjects, glancing quickly between her mother and me. “We can play together. Miss Lucy said she’d teach me. You wouldn’t have to hear it if I was at her house, Mama!”

“No,” Kimberly says, a tight-lipped grimace stretching her mouth taut. “No lessons. You can do what you want, Henry, but Delilah isn’t getting dragged into that bullshit.” She passes another ornament to our daughter, holding her gaze when their fingertips brush. “You’re gonna make a good life for yourself, Delilah. A big life. Piano lessons with Lucy Parker aren’t going to do that for you.”

“Kim—”

“What?” There’s a dare in her eyes. An invitation to disagree, but only if I have proof that she’s wrong. And I don’t. Not really, anyway.

Delilah places the shimmering red globe on a low branch, and it slips, shattering on the hardwood floor. She jolts back, startled, and brings little hands to her wide-open mouth. Skittles darts beneath the couch.

Kimberly groans. “I knew I should’ve just done this myself.”

“You all right, sweet pea?” I sweep an arm around Delilah’s waist and pull her close. Her sniffles vibrate in my ear, and I squeeze tighter. “It’s okay. Accidents happen.”

“Sure do,” Kimberly mutters, dodging my glare as she stares at the mess on the floor.

March 4th, 2006

The days are so long when you’re in them. But now, looking back, they seem unbearably short. I would take a million more long, back-breaking days over a single one like this.

The church cemetery is overflowing. Patrons from the diner, ladies Mom used to brunch with, even the nurses from her care facility show up. I asked the director at the funeral home to lead the ceremony, but Pastor Timothy still insisted on attending. He stands at the back of the crowd, head leaned close to hear something Waylon whispers. Lucy looks on, offering me a soft smile and polite wave when I catch her gaze on my cursory scan of the crowd.

Delilah sits on the lowest branch of the big live oak near the entrance to the cemetery. Truett is perched beside her. She hasn’t said much since we told her Nana passed. Not to me, anyway. As the choir begins to sing a slow rendition of “I’ll Fly Away,” Truett slings an arm over Delilah’s narrow shoulders. She sucks in a breath so big I can see it from here, and I hold the same one. I’m glad she has him. Some small part of me wishes I could climb up in a tree and observe this from afar, too. Maybe it’d hurt less that way.

As it stands, I get to be the one to stand up here and listen as everyone tells me how much they’ll miss my mother, like it’s anything compared to how I feel.

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