Page 63 of Can't Get Enough

“See you later,” I say and sign off.

In the quiet house, there’s nowhere to hide from the truth of my pounding heart, from the undiluted anticipation of seeing Maverick again on this trip. It’s a secret thumping behind my ribs and running through my veins. As much as I told myself I hoped my partners didn’t want to go… I knew deep down that I did.

Me:Hey. Just letting you know Kashawn and Nelly want to see the cannabis farm in Colorado.

Maverick:And you? Do you not want to see? You don’t want to come?

Me:Of course I do. Should we let Bolt and Skipper coordinate just so we can see them claw their way through the phones to hate fuck?

Maverick:Ha! Yeah, that works. You good? I think you said you were going home to visit?

Before I can respond, a shuffling sound in the living room distracts me. I leave the phone on the kitchen table to check. Mama stands at the window and holds back the curtain with one hand. Her brows are drawn together and lines bracket the tightness of her mouth.

“Mama, you okay?” I step farther into the room and walk over.

“I’m just worried.” She turns distressed eyes toward me and bites her thumbnail. “Your daddy’s still not home.”

No, please God no.I don’t want Mama to have to live this again. I don’t want to have to.

“Mama, I—”

“He should be home by now,” she insists, turning back to the window and pulling the curtain away to show sunshine and the tranquil front yard. “It’s been hours since he left.”

“No, it’s been…” I am lost and helpless, but brace myself for the tornado I have to walk headlong into. “Mama, Daddy’s gone. Remember?”

“Gone?” Confusion creeps into her gaze. “I know he’s gone, Hen. He went to get my ice cream. Butter pecan. I told him he didn’t have to, but you know how he gets.” A smile briefly softens and curves the tight line of her lips. “Always wanting to give me stuff.The desires of your heart, Bee,he always says. That’s what I live for. He try to act all hard, but he’s a softie. A romantic.”

Something cracks inside me. Not a new pain, but an old one that time was just starting to heal. The pain of losing my father and watching my mother grieve the love of a lifetime. Is there a crueler fate than being trapped in a reality where you lose the love of your life over and over again?

“Mama, Daddy’s gone,” I repeat, firming my voice. “Remember he… he passed away.”

She stares at me blankly for a few seconds before letting loose a humorless laugh.

“Girl, you better hush.” She turns back to the window, shaking her head. “That’s not funny. Don’t even joke like that, Hen.”

“I’m not joking, Mama. Daddy was in an accident,” I say haltingly, swallowing the hot lump crowding my throat. “H-he didn’t make it.”

The curtain drops from her limp fingers, and she turns to face me, searching my expression for proof.

“No!” The shrill sound of her grief makes me jump and startles aheavy stampede of heartbeats in my chest. “He can’t… don’t say that. Don’t you say that.”

“Mama, I’m so sorry.” I take a step toward her, arms extended, but she jerks away to face the window again.

“That can’t be right.” She snatches the curtain back, exposing the street with not even a pedestrian in sight. “I just… I just saw him. Just spoke to…”

She looks back at me, confusion pinching her features and she clutches the curtain in a balled fist.

“We just spoke,” she shouts, a note of hysteria entering her voice. “He said he’s bringing home the ice cream. The ice cream. He just went to get me some ice cream!”

I close my eyes against the fresh rush of pain. He did go get ice cream, but he never made it home. A drunk driver ran a light and the ice cream was a melted mess in the front seat by the time the paramedics pulled Daddy out. As far as I know, Mama’s never eaten butter pecan ice cream again.

“He’ll be back.” She shakes her head, an adamant denial, a begging insistence. “He’s coming home. He’s coming home. He’s coming home.”

She tugs the curtains harder with every syllable that tumbles from her lips until the fabric falls, baring the windows, the naked panes ushering in the glare of sunlight and summer. Nothing like the cold winter night when Daddy died.

“Why would you say that?” Mama sobs, falling to her knees and banging her fist against the window pane. “Why would you lie? He’s coming home. He has to… he has to come home.”

Her shoulders shake beneath her housecoat. Tears run unchecked down her cheeks. I wasn’t home when Mama found out Daddy died, but I know it must have been this spectacle of shock and sorrow that her heart recalls in detail. That her soul is bleeding out on the carpet the same way it did that night. This is not a loss scabbed over. It is fresh and open and violent. Memory is often imperfect, a menagerieof omissions and reshaped recollections, but I know Mama remembers the night she lost my father with vivid, wrenching accuracy.

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