Page 93 of Check the Halls
Ican't breathe. It's like there's no air, only a thick fog pressing against my chest and all the noise around me. The beeping machines, the frantic rush of nurses and doctors. It’s all too much. I keep blinking, but nothing feels real. The cold, sterile ER waiting room, the sharp scent of antiseptic filling my nose, making my stomach churn. My fingers are tight around my mom's hand, her skin damp and clammy. She's as scared as I am. I can't look away from the door, can't stop expecting to see my dad. To see him walking through that door with a tired, confused look on his face.
“False alarm,” he’d say with a sheepish grin. “Sorry I scared you girls.”
But I can't breathe. I can't think. I want to call Ben even though I know he’s on the ice and won’t answer. I was getting ready to go to his game when Mom screamed for me to call 911.
The only other person I really want to call is my dad. I want him to fix this. I need him to fix this.
A door opens, and a doctor steps through. He’s tall, his light blue scrubs in complete contrast with the darkness I feel. His mouth is tight, his eyes solemn.
“Are you…are you the family of Mr. Clairmont?” he asks, his voice gentle.
I nod, but I can't speak. My mouth is dry and I feel like I’m going to throw up. My mother’s hand trembles in mine, but she doesn’t say anything. She’s holding her breath.
The doctor steps closer, and I brace myself. He doesn’t sit down, just stands there, looking at us, like he's trying to figure out how to give us the worst news of our lives.
I don’t hear the actual words, but I feel them. That cold sinking feeling in my stomach. A heavy, suffocating weight spreads through my chest. I hear my gasp. Feel Mom’s grip go limp in my hand. I can feel the tears slipping down my cheeks, but I can’t stop them.
He’s gone.
NOW
“You are so like your father.”
I freeze, sandwich halfway to my mouth, as I stare at my mother. Her light brown hair catches the sunlight, holding on to the golden streaks summer left behind. But there are more gray strands now woven through.
She’s only fifty-two, but time has started to leave its subtle signs. The soft lines around her eyes and mouth seem more pronounced as she smiles at me.
“I swear, you got your stomach from him. The way youadd so much pepper to your mac and cheese, how you both hate any and all pickled things, and of course,” she nods at my lunch, “how you insist on dipping your grilled cheese sandwiches in your tomato soup.”
“Some things are just better together.” I take a large bite of my favourite comfort food. This meal reminds me of him. It was one of his go-to’s when Mom was out. He’d make soup and sandwiches and we’d work on a jigsaw puzzle at our kitchen table, with CBC radio playing softly in the background.
“Speaking of things that are better together…” Mom hedges, peering at me over her mug of tea.
“I can’t believe I gave you that opening.”
She sets her mug down, giggling. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but if I wait any longer to bombard you with motherly concern, something inside me is going to burst.”
I gasp in shock. “Was that an appendix joke?”
She presses her lips together, looking chastised. “Too soon?”
I snort, pushing my plate away. “Honestly, I don’t even know where to start.” I’ve given Mom snippets of my life’s inner workings since I moved to Ottawa, but she deserves more than just a choppy highlight reel.
“Start at the beginning.”
So I do. I tell her about how I felt displaced moving in with Derek. How we’d grown even further apart living in the same city. That being in the same condo didn’t bring us closer together. How the more time I spent with him, the more doubts I had about our relationship.
I tell her about my job. About my struggle to set myself apart as a leader at the foundation. All the stupidscrew-ups surrounding the Gala. Of how I love my boss, but I still feel vulnerable.
Finally, I tell her about Ben. How a chance, midday encounter made me feel more in five minutes than I had in years. How he’d stepped up, without question, when I needed him. How he continued to show up for me. Again and again. In every way imaginable.
Mom listens to the entire tale, occasionally taking sips of her tea. When I’m done, my throat is dry and my soup is cold.
“So yeah,” I shrug, suddenly exhausted. “You could say it’s been an eventful few months.” I laugh shakily before asking the question I’ve been dreading. “Are you disappointed in me?” It comes out quietly, but my mother’s eyes widen like I’ve screamed at her.
“Why would I be disappointed in you?”
“Take your pick. For calling off my wedding? For leaving Derek and not looking back? For getting back together with my ex-boyfriend?”
