Page 72 of Falling For Us Again

It’s almost the anniversary of my father’s death, and it always puts me into this state of mind.

I miss you, Dad.

Chapter 25

THE JOURNAL

Jenna

I wake up feeling the adrenaline rushing through my veins.

Today is the day. The day I find the courage to go through my mother’s room. It’s the eve of my mother’s death, and I’ve found myself in a state of mind that matches the gray, overcast sky outside.

Her absence continues to be a void that I’m desperately trying to fill, or at least understand.

The day drags on, slow and heavy, as if the world itself is mourning along with me. I’d barely slept a wink last night, all I could think about was what I might discover.

The doorbell buzzes, and I know that it’s Lola. I set my cup of coffee on the table before going to answer it.

Lola’s voice, normally cheerful and light, is subdued today. She gives me a hug.

“You ready?”

I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m here for you, Jenna.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

I lead her down the hallway to my mother’s room.

“Here we are,” I say, my hand automatically finding the locket around my neck. I’m wearing it today as if to feel my mother’s presence more closely, as if to have her lead me.

Lola pushes the door open.

The room is filled with the scent of dust and old paper, the remnants of my mother’s life mingling with the smell of cleaning supplies.

Lola immediately gets to work, methodically dusting the shelves and packing away old trinkets. Her hands move quickly, her focus steady, but I can tell she also feels the weight of what lies ahead.

“The most obvious thing apart from the fact that this room hasn't seen a soul in years, is that your mother loved irises and the color purple,” she says, pointing out all the purple items and pictures of iris flowers on a board in the corner of her room.

I laugh softly. “Well, her name was Iris.” I run a hand over the now faded pictures on the board. “She had an interest in gardening and photography. She geeked out every time she found an Iris flower outside. She would always bring it home to tell me all about it.”

Lola smiles. “I’ll never forget her famous pasta and especially her apple pie. The best I’ve ever eaten. You had a great mom, Jenna.”

“You were always begging me to tell her to make those.”

We both smile as we recall the memory.

I dig through a stack of old photo albums, their edges frayed, the pictures yellowed with age. I flip through them absently, memories flashing by—a younger me, my parents smiling, myfather looking at my mom with an adoration that tugs at my heart.

What happened to them? Why did everything fall apart? How did he go from being a good husband and father to being an abusive one? There's no excuse for everything he did, but I’d still like to know.

Tears prickle at my eyes as I remember the times my father would get drunk and yell at my mother. He’d lock me up in my room while he beat her.

I put the picture away to catch my breath.

Lola’s voice pulls me back. “Jenna, I think there's something back here,” she says, pointing to the wall where her dressing mirror is hung.

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