Page 37 of A Second Chance

"I'm fine, Mom," I respond with a fake smile.

"Good, that's good, sweetie. Your hair has gotten longer." She gently tugs one of my strands free from my messy bun.

"I'm happy you're home, Scar."

"Yeah, me too."

Liar.

"Ready?" she asks with a bit of hesitation in her voice.

"Yep." I pop the p and slide out of the car. I open the back door and reach for my bag.Standing in front of the house brings back memories of Maverick and me sitting on the porch swing and Seth chasing me around the front lawn with his Nerf water guns.

As I step through the front entryway, the smell of pot roast fills the air. I scan the area; everything looks the same. The parchment yellow walls paired with the dark wood trim are light and bright, which matches Mom's personality from before her world imploded. Family photos surrounding the word "Family" wall décor fill the hallway walls.

I hear my mom's voice calling out to me, but my gaze remains fixed on the stairwell, scanning it intently. I can't seem to tear my eyes away from the steps, my mind consumed with thoughts and worries that prevent me from fully engaging with my surroundings.

“Sweetheart, please look at me.”

I suddenly turn to face my mother and meet her gaze. Her eyes reflect a mix of uncertainty and sadness.

Knowing what I've put her through breaks my heart. She wrings her hands together, looking between me and the stairs. "You can go up to your room if you'd like. I'll come get you when supper is ready." Is she afraid of me or afraid I might disappear again?

Without saying a word, I give her a quick nod and remove my shoes. The wood stairs creak with each step I take. Once I reach the top landing, I shut my eyes and take a deep breath to release the tension and anxiety.

My chest tightens the moment I walk past Seth's room, as if he is going to step out any minute to give me shit for attempting to leave this earth—a life I was blessed to borrow for a short period.

I can do this.

Turning the doorknob with shaking hands, I come to a dark room, shades drawn, bed made, and nothing out of place. I turn the light switch on and smile when the fairy lights hanging on the wall beside me brighten the room. The accent wall behind my bed is covered with my personal graffiti art. The design is full of bright colors and images of musical instruments and a pink-haired girl with headphones singing as musical notes flow out of her mouth. Why the girl with pink hair? I don't know. I guess it was more of a rebellion, wishing the girl was me, or like that's how I portrayed myself.

The wall near the window is an actual chalkboard. When I was six years old, I begged Mom and Dad to coat the wall in chalkboard paint so I could draw whatever I was feeling at any moment and erase it to draw over and over again. I'm staring at a girl holding a boy in her arms, looking up to the ceiling with tears cascading down her face. The tears that drop to the ground are turned into broken musical notes. In the middle of the wall is a silhouette of a girl's body in white chalk, holding her hands in her face. The girl is surrounded by dark, blood-red smoke, with a boy's tormented face sketched in the smoke. Then, to the right of the girl, is a picture of a tree withering while a boy and girl sit underneath it. These were the last thoughts and feelings I experienced before leaving for the hospital. God. It's so dark and depressing.

I toss my suitcase onto the splattered-paint designed comforter and head toward the bathroom. It's clean and free of the red stains that soaked the tiles that day. Mom stocked the bathroom with towels, washcloths, and feminine hygiene crap.

A voice I recognize all too well filters through my thoughts. Only one person could turn my stomach into knots and make my heart race a marathon. My feet involuntarily move, following the voice, leading me toward the window. Slowly pulling away the curtains, I see no one there. I must be losing my mind if I'm starting to hear shit I can't see. My heart sinks when my thoughts are bombarded with the beautiful thoughts of a boy who once lived next door.

* * *

After dinner, I spent the day with Mom. It was a beautiful evening, and we walked in the park. The sun was setting, and the sky was painted with red, orange, pink, and purple hues. When we arrived back at the house, we kicked off our shoes and collapsed onto the couch and debated what movie to watch. Action? Comedy? Romance? In the end, we settled onFreaky Friday.

"I can never get enough of this movie," Mom said as she pressed play on the DVD player. It was our all-time favorite movie, and we had watched it countless times before. But no matter how many times we watched it, it never got old.

Two hours later, Mom turns the TV off and sets the remote on the coffee table. She turns to me and says, "I'm so happy you're home, Scar. I promise things will be better. We're going to get through this."

Since Seth's death, Mom has been more tired, distant, and less engaged. As the first few days passed, I could sense the toll his absence had taken on her. I knew she missed him terribly and struggled to adjust to the new reality of not having him around. But now? I can’t help but notice how much better Mom looks. Her warm smile, her eyes bright and alert. Her once frail body seems to have gained some strength, and she walks with a newfound confidence.

As I sit next to her on the couch, she takes my hand and gently squeezes it. "I know things haven't been easy lately, but I want you to know I'm here for you. We're going to work through this together."

I see her determination, which gives me hope, strength, and courage to face the challenges ahead. And even though life can be difficult, I know that as long as we have each other, we can get through anything.

"I'm going to get ready for work. Are you going to be okay?" Mom asks, looking a bit hesitant.

"Yeah, Mom. I'll be fine," I reply, trying to assure her.

Mom smiles at me. "Alright then. I'll be home a little after seven."

I nod and watch Mom disappear up the stairs. As soon as she is gone, my smile fades. I feel anxious about being alone in the house. To distract myself from the world's chaos, I decide to retreat to the sanctuary of my room and write in my journal.

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