Page 75 of Still Beating

Things would go back to normal by sunrise, as if I’d dreamt the whole thing.

Then there was the day I woke up and Dadwasgone. It was two days after my high school graduation—I was yanked out of bed by my mother’s horrified screams that still linger in my mind to this day. He’d passed away in his sleep from a heart attack.

So sudden.

So quick.

So fucking unfair.

My mother never really recovered from the loss and her mental state deteriorated over the next few years. Her memory began to decline at only fifty-two years old, and I always thought to myself,“How horrible it must be to forget the love of your life.”

Now, I can’t help but wonder if it was the only way for her to cope.

Maybe there is no recovering from something like that. Maybe there is no healing or moving on. There is no forgetting.

Not unless you trulyforget.

I approach my mother, her light brown hair dappled in silver and cut just above her shoulders. She glances up when I’m standing a few feet away, my hands in my pockets. “You look good, Mom.”

Holly smiles, a warmth washing over her baby blue eyes, almost like she recognizes me. “Randall. I’m so glad you came to visit.”

I try not to take it personally. The doctors all say she can’t help it. My father could be standing here, fresh from his grave, and she’d still be all mixed up. “Mom, it’s Dean. Your son.”

She nods her head. “Come sit.” Holly pats the embroidered quilt beside her, encouraging me to join her. “Frank brought tea. It’s by the front door.”

“Thanks.”

We sit in silence for a moment, my mother’s attention back on the television. She sighs wearily. “It’s such a shame the way those towers fell down. So much fire and destruction. So much loss.” Holly shakes her head from side to side, her eyes glistening as images play out on the screen.

I glance at the TV. It’s a commercial for dish soap.

My fingers weave through my dark hair, recalling the way my mother used to stroke my scalp with her fingertips to alleviate my stress or calm my nerves. I miss that sometimes.

I clear my throat, shifting my weight on the bed. “I know you’re not going to understand what I’m saying, but I think I just needed someone to listen. I went through some pretty crazy stuff a few months ago, and I don’t think I’m handling it very well. I’m confused about a lot of shit. I still have nightmares. It’s taking all my willpower not to drink myself to death. And…” I close my eyes, grinding my teeth. “I think I’m falling in love with the only damn woman in the world who’s completely off limits. I know she feels it, too, which should be great, right? This is the shit people write books about.”

Holly sits very still, staring at the television screen as if she didn’t hear a word I said.

“But there’s no story like ours, Mom. People don’t write about what we went through. They don’t write about how we were abducted in the middle of the night by a sick motherfucker, handcuffed to pipes for three weeks, hungry, dirty, and scared out of our damn minds while I was forced to violate her with a gun to my head.

“They don’t write about how I shredded a man’s face with my bare hands until I cut my knuckles on his skull. They don’t write about what the hell we’re supposed to do after something like that, when life goes back to normal and everyone around us is smiling and happy, but we’re still stuck in that hellhole, clinging to each other because we’re all we have.” I lower my hands to my face as I try not to break. “And the real kicker is that I was engaged to hersister. What the hell kind of twisted shit is that?”

Jesus Christ. What a goddamn mess. Part of me is glad my mother has no clue what I’m saying.

I breathe deeply into my hands, my elbows on my knees. I jump when I feel familiar fingers trail up the back of my neck and into my hair, massaging my scalp, quelling the pain that’s tearing me apart inside.

I inhale a shaky breath, sitting up and looking over at my mother. Her focus is still on the screen, but her fingers continue their soothing trek along my scalp, forcing my eyes to close in contentment.

“Every love story is worth writing, no matter how messy it might be,” Holly says absently, still stroking my hair. “I would like to read your book.”

My brow creases into a frown, confused, wondering if she was absorbing my words, after all. My mother used to have many moments of clarity, but they have become few and far between. The last time I visited her—in March for fuck’s sake—she wasn’t at all lucid. She called me Gator the entire time, which was the name of our Beagle who died ten years ago.

Holly reaches for my hand resting on my thigh, clasping it inside her cool palm, still enamored by the pictures on the television. “I had a terrible nightmare once. It was a lot different than yours, though.” She squeezes my fingers and releases a small sigh. “I was all alone.”

I wait for her to continue.

I wait for the story to unfold, the horrors to play out, the nightmare to come to life.

But she doesn’t say anything else and I realize… thatwasthe nightmare.

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