Page 109 of If Not for My Baby
And though everything gives me war flashbacks, still I search for him constantly: Is that “Heart of Darkness” playing in the allergy aisle at the pharmacy? Does the Irish nurse helping my mom with her clinical trial hail from County Kerry? I’m relentless in my quest to hurt myself.
I shut the radio off as if swatting at a hornet, but the sting remains. My forehead finds the steering wheel for long minutes until someone behind me honks.
At home Willow greets me with her expected full-body waggle and I stoop low to cradle her in my arms. She’s probably sick of me by now—I’ve been back for two weeks and discovered snuggling your dog is perhaps the only genuine remedy to heartache.
“Mom,” I call. “Have you had dinner?”
But nobody answers, and the hairs on my arms rise.
Fibro doesn’t have any life-or-death symptoms, but the chronic pain alone has sent my mom into more than one depressive episode. In my mind I’m sixteen again and my mom is drunk, sobbing in the bathtub telling me her quality of life is too shitty to bear.
“Mom,” I yell, hurtling down the basement stairs—
But it’s empty down here, too.
My feet move faster up the winding steps than they have since I was a kid. Willow bounds after me. I call for my mom three more times before I realize she just isn’t home. I’m massaging my forehead, wondering how I became so paranoid, when the front door opens.
“Hi, honey.” My mom is holding a full bag from the craft store: brushes, sponges, and cutting wire poke out at odd angles. “There was a sale!”
I follow her into the kitchen and watch in slight disbelief as she drops her bags on the table, grabs vegetables from the fridge, and begins to chop. “You’re making pottery again?”
“I don’t want to jinx anything, but the trial’s been goingreally well. I thought why not pick up some new goodies to celebrate?”
That had been the only silver lining to the dull gray that’s slumped over the past two weeks. We’d signed my mom up as soon as my first check had cleared, and she’d seen near instant improvement.
“Are you sure it’s not the placebo effect? I don’t want you to push yourself too hard.” I watch her slice a mushroom just shy of her pointer finger. “I can do that.”
“I got it,” she says. “And if itisa placebo effect, you aren’t supposed to point that out to me.”
“Right.” I busy my hands sorting through some mail. “I’m really glad you’re feeling so good.”
“And how are you holding up?”
“I’m fine. You sure you don’t want me to slice those—”
“I got more Ben and Jerry’s.”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
When her rhythmic chopping halts, I look up, half expecting to see blood spurting. But she’s just staring at me. She looks younger today. Her eyes are bright, her cheeks flushed. Her brows meet in such a sweetly empathetic expression my stomach turns. “The house is small. I hear you crying at night.”
I debate every possible excuse fromthose are my night terrorstoI’m just watching weird porn,before the truth tumbles out. “Yeah. I miss him.”
I do not expect the words that sigh from her. “This is all my fault.”
“What? How could it be? The tour ended and I left.”Him. I left him.
“I never encouraged you to go after things, you know? That’s what parents are supposed to do.”
“What are you talking about?” I chew my lip—she’s never said anything like that to me before. “What does that have to do with Tom?”
“Had you not grown up so damn fast being my friend and caretaker and confidant, you might’ve flown the nest, made mistakes, fallen in love. But you were here dating the guy I encouraged you to date, paying for my meds…making sure I could cut my own vegetables.” She takes in a shaky breath. “After your father…I’m so sorry, Clementine. I just didn’t want to be alone.”
My throat tightens with emotion. “I didn’t want you to be alone, either.”
My mom’s brows wrinkle with sympathy. “But that was never your responsibility.”
“It was, though.” Now it’s my turn to say something I’ve never said. Never even consciously thought until now. “If your loneliness is anyone’s fault, it’s mine.”
