Page 95 of The Breaking Point

I’ve never felt so weak,I thought. I hated it. But thank God the only person to see me like this was Grace.

I felt Grace climb into bed behind me, putting her arms around me. I pressed her hands to my chest and fell asleep.

I woke up right before dawn. Grace was already awake; I could smell coffee brewing.

“Good morning,” she said softly and returned to the bed. “How are you?”

“I feel like shit,” I admitted. It was true: my eyes still hurt, my head ached, and I felt like I’d been run over. “Maybe I’m getting sick.”

“I think you’re just exhausted.” Grace pressed a hand to my forehead. “No fever.”

“What do I do now?”

Grace sighed and lay back down in the bed. “You do all of the things you have to do. You call the funeral home. You choose cremation or burial, depending on what the person wanted.

“You think about what color coffin they’d want, and then feel weird that you’re even thinking about it because they’re not really dead. It just can’t be true. But you still have to call people to tell them the news. I think that might be the worst part of all, telling people. That makes it seem real.”

Her voice trailed off. I took her hand as her gaze caught mine.

“I helped my parents when Ben died,” she said. Sadness filled her face. “My mom was too devastated to do any of it. My dad did his best, but he needed help.”

“And you stepped in,” I said.

Grace shrugged. “So lucky for you, I’ve done this before. I can help you.”

And Grace did just that: she helped me with anything she could. After we’d done all the necessary steps, we received the few personal items Mom had had with her from the hospital’s front desk.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the woman said. Then a second later, she was on the phone and yelling at somebody about a billing error code.

I hadn’t planned on going to Mom’s place, but something drew me there. I told myself it was just to make sure everything was in order, or, worse, she hadn’t left some poor dog or cat to starve. Mom had tended to go through pets quickly, although in recent years, she hadn’t wanted to spend the money on anything but booze.

When I unlocked her apartment door, I was assailed by a scent of cigarettes and marijuana that nearly made me choke. Grace went to open a window and turn on a fan, but that only made it worse.

“Jesus, Mom,” I muttered, looking at the mess.

The place was a hoarder’s dream—or nightmare. Every available surface was covered with stuff: from trash to magazines to records to bags of unopened purchases. I went through a few of the plastic bags, finding things that ranged from cooking utensils to stuffed animals to books that clearly had never been read.

“How did she buy all this stuff?” I asked, shaking my head. “I don’t get it.”

Grace was wiping dust from a photo album. Upon opening it, she discovered there were zero photos inside.

We wandered around the apartment, taking it all in. Despite all the crap, I couldn’t help but feel strangely at home. Mom’s personality and craziness were in everything, from the stuff to the random decor.

Weird posters and paintings that looked like they’d been grabbed out of dumpsters. Ugly lamps that looked older than me and rugs in garish colors. There was no theme to Mom’s decor, besides being bright and obvious.

When we went to Mom’s bedroom, I felt sick. The room was covered in bottles: wine, beer, liquor. Rows and rows of them covered tables, dressers, her nightstand. When I pulled a drawer from under her bed, it was full of bottles. All empty.

“Wow,” said Grace.

“My mother, ladies and gentlemen,” I said, bitterness dripping from my voice. I slammed the drawer back under the bed.

“Hey, Brady,” said Grace, motioning at me, “look at this.”

Grace handed me an album. Half expecting it to be empty like the one in the living room, I was shocked to find it filled. And it was filled with photos and articles about me.

Not only were there recent articles that Mom had taken the time to print, but there were even stories of my wins in juniorhockey leagues as a kid. Interspersed throughout were photos of me with her handwriting in notes next to the photos.

My handsome boy 16 yrs old

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