Page 8 of Grim
But sometimes, when I let myself think too long, I ache for a version of me that never got to be.
I don’t need statues. I don’t need my name etched in gold. But I want someone to read my words one day and pause. Just for a moment. And think,She was here.
I close my eyes and whisper to the rain, “Let that be enough.”
It takes a little over an hour before the car slows in front of my house. Porch light still burned out. The mailbox leaning. My home. My graveyard of unread books and unfinished stories.
I open my creaky door with all the subtlety of a haunted house attraction. I wince and slip off my shoes, inching past the umbrella stand and coat rack with the delicacy of a cat burglar.
My goal: get past the kitchen undetected, avoid cold canned soup, and bypass a mom-ologue until she leaves for the airport and goes back to her loft in Chicago for another art exhibit.
I pause my ninja-like movements when I hear the family grandfather clock begin its hourly intoning. After six dull strokes, the silence is filled by her voice in the kitchen.
“No, she’s just been so tired lately.” I hear her padding around in the kitchen, putting dishes away. “I know it’s expected,” she continues, “but that doesn’t make it easier to watch. She keeps pretending it’s fine, and I keep pretending I believe her.”
There’s a beat of silence, followed by a brittle laugh.
“Yes, I know it’s her choice. I know. But some days, I just want to shake her pretty face and say,Stop being so damn stubborn and come back home with me.”
My stomach twists. My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag as I lean against the wall and close my eyes.
Ugh, Mom.
She sounds like someone who’s trying not to drown while being stuck in the middle of the ocean. She’s beenbegging me for two years to move to Chicago with her permanently. I can’t leave this home though. I won’t. Always the stubborn one, she stated she would move here then. That idea lasted a week, and we were at each other’s throats. My mom needs the busy city, the high fashion, the eccentric art scene. She needs skyscrapers, concrete, and stainless steel. I like … well, I like chess with GG, book club with Selma, and the cobblestones.
Still, I love my mom dearly, so I square my shoulders and do what any emotionally unstable, terminally ill twenty-six-year-old would do in this moment of quiet vulnerability.
I drop my bag, lie flat on the living room rug, and fold my arms over my chest in what I consider to be excellent corpse formation.
Mom rounds the corner thirty seconds later and gasps like she’s discovered a body.
“Rue! What on Earth—don’t do that!” she shrieks, pressing a hand to her heart like I shaved five years off her life. “Honestly, darling, it’s so morbid.”
I crack one eye open. “You should probably see someone about those lines once you get back home,” I state dryly as she rears back, turns to the mirror hanging by the door, and begins to pull her face taut.
She gasps again—genuinely scandalized—still tugging at her temples like she’s trying to reverse time. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying”—I keep my tone bored and flippant, which only fuels her annoyance—“you’re already behind in the race. Let’s not throw in the towel completely.”
She glares at me, and I give her a smirk before sticking out my tongue.
“You are an insufferable child,” she mutters, turning fully toward me, causing her ridiculous number of bracelets to clink together, sounding like a one-woman percussion section.
“And yet here you are. Still visiting. Must be the charm.” I wink, causing her to roll her hazel eyes.
She releases a sigh. It’s classic Cerulean—over the top, theatrical, and dramatic.
“I’ll have you know, these”—she gestures to her face—“are your fault.”
I sit up slowly; there’s an odd pain in my chest, but I ignore it, keeping my smirk intact. “Really? I always assumed they were from that yoga retreat where you ‘found yourself’ as well as a third-degree sunburn.”
“Rue.” Her voice drops to a deadly octave. “We donotspeak of Arizona.”
“Oops.”
She swats at me, laughing, and it hits me—how much I miss this. The noise and the nonsense, the joking and smiles. Now I’m left with these small rays, followed by the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention. Like she’s trying to memorize every detail in case it’s the last time.
I know the look. Because I give it to myself in the mirror more often than I care to admit.
