Page 108 of Past the Broken Bridges

It was fragments of memories taunting me. How many times did I sneak downstairs and hear Mom crying? Or Aunt Taylor trying to reassure her that it would be okay? Too many to count.

I never said a word.

Never told her I would be fine.

I simply listened, tearing up in the hallway, knowingIwas the one responsible for how she felt. Before then, I’d never seen my mother cry once. She was always strong. Always the glue that held us all together.

Without Dad, she had no choice but to be. He was supportive from a thousand miles away, but that could only go so far with two kids in New York. Especially when one of them was sick.

Closing my eyes, I swipe at the dampness pooling under the lids.

After giving myself some time to calm down and clean up once the nosebleed stops, I glance at the last thing I worked on before drifting off.

The short story I started in my notebook is smudged, the ink probably smeared on my face. I run my hand over the first line and think about what Professor Grey told me about using personal experience to guide me.

I open my laptop and start a new document, titling it “Mama’s Eyes.”

I have a horrible feeling.

My stomach clenches at those haunting words, lingering for hours as my fingers dance along the keyboard. I write from the heart, feeling everything on the screen.

I have a horrible feeling.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I whisper aloud, staring at the end of the story before closing my laptop.

I look back down at the broken glass.

Swallowing the emotion cramming into my throat, I sweep up the mess and dump it into the trash can.

When I crawl into bed, I hug my knees to my chest and pray that another dream doesn’t come when I close my eyes.

* * *

Dixie frowns the second she sees me. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks for the fifth time since we got to the dining hall. My appetite is limited, and even though the food smells delicious, nausea nips at my stomach too much to eat anything.

I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night for the past three days, feeling anxious and sick. I brushed it off the first time, started getting uneasy the second, and woke irritated at two in the morning the third time. Some dreams I remembered vividly; other nights I only remembered bolting upright in bed with my heart racing and ears ringing, sweat making my pajamas stick to my body.

“Tired is all,” I promise her, sipping my water. I couldn’t even stomach my coffee this morning because the first sip tasted metallic, causing my stomach to grumble in protest. “What were you saying?”

She plays with her fruit bowl. “There’s a party happeningthis weekend that I got invited to by a guy in my history class. He plays baseball. I guess that’s not relevant.” Is she nervous? “Er, anyway, he told me I should come. It’s at his place. He lives with a few guys on the team.”

I blink, realizing I’ve missed something vital. Feeling like a bad friend again for being out of touch, I ask, “What about Dawson?”

It’s hard to miss the frown that curls her lips as she shrugs. “He’s…” She stops herself, sighing and dropping her fork. Looking up at me, there’s sadness in her eyes. “I told him I wouldn’t say anything to anybody, but it’s been bothering me.”

Concern has me almost forgetting to feel sick. “What?”

She licks her lips. “He started acting stranger than usual. It started with the backpack at the parade and then got worse. Then he started asking me out more, but it seemed like I was way more into him than he was me, so I didn’t understand why. I guess I kept agreeing because he seemed like he needed somebody, and I knew I could be good for him. Plus, I figured he’d stay out of trouble if we hung out a lot.”

Her shoulders slump. Groaning, she pushes the food away from her. “The last time we went out, he took me to a nice restaurant I’d never been to before. We were talking about school, and he shut down when I asked about classes. So I changed the subject to basketball because I hadn’t seen him at the last home game, and his mood got worse. He kept getting up to use the bathroom and got upset when I asked if he wanted to leave. Then, right before our entrees came out, two guys who looked way too old to be in college came up to our table and started talking to him. Dawson looked freaked out when they asked why he was avoiding them.”

Oh no.“Did he say who they were?”

Dixie shakes her head. “One of them was covered in tattoos and kept touching his pocket. The other one was staring at me with a creepy grin on his face. When they left, Dawson told me we had to go. He didn’t wait for the food to get wrapped or the check. I told him we needed to pay, but he was in a rush, so he all but dragged me out to the car. The whole ride back to campus was silent and awkward, and when he dropped me off, he said it was better if we didn’t see each other anymore. He wouldn’t even look me in the eyes when he told me. He seemed so sketched out by what happened.”

Her bottom lip quivers, and I feel awful. I haven’t asked about them because I wanted to distance myself from whatever was blossoming between them. After what happened at the party and what I told Dawson at his basketball game, it felt like the best thing I could do. Maybe I was wrong.

“I’m so sorry, Dixie. Are you all right?”

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