Bring Me Back Page 7

  I feel so lost, so scared, so alone.

  What am I going to do?

  I wipe at my face and pick myself up off the floor. I have to find Loraine.

  I make my way downstairs and find her standing by the front window, clutching a mug of tea. She glances over her shoulder at me with red-rimmed eyes. My lip trembles. I’m trying so hard to hold it together, but I can’t. I don’t want to.

  She takes a seat and sets her cup of tea on the coffee table there. Her drink is practically untouched. I take a seat in the chair across from her. I know I should say something, but words evade me.

  She crosses and uncrosses her legs. She’s restless and I am too. Neither of us knows what to do. I don’t know if there’s anything we can do.

  “I don’t know where to go from here,” I say. I wrap my arms around my body like the gesture alone can hold together the crumbling pieces of my life.

  Her lips press together in a thin line. “As cliché as it sounds, I guess you take it one day at a time.”

  I nod. I don’t know what else to do. I feel like an imposter in my own body going through the motions. I don’t want to eat, or drink, or even talk.

  “I’m going back to bed,” I finally say.

  She nods and doesn’t fight me on it. In fact, she even says, “Me too.”

  Neither one of us wants to deal.

  For now, we don’t have to.

  I stare at the closed casket as one of Ben’s high school friend’s, Tyler, drones on and on about what a great guy he was. I want to yell at the guy because he hasn’t even talked to Ben in recent years. But he’s here sharing in a grief I don’t feel like he has a right to claim.

  The flowers overflow the casket in colors of purple and yellow. I think his mom chose those colors. I can’t remember. I’ve been too checked out the last few days—only mumbling responses when spoken to. I left all the funeral planning up to Loraine. I can barely stomach the word funeral. It’s so final.

  My parents are here. I didn’t call them and tell them. I should have, but I didn’t. I’m not sure who told them. I guess it doesn’t matter. All I know is one morning my mom climbed into bed beside me and held me as I cried.

  “It’ll be okay, baby girl,” she whispered like she used to when I was little. “Mom’s here.”

  Only, unlike when I was a small child, her presence didn’t make this any easier. She couldn’t wave a magic wand and heal me. My grief would have to take its own course, and I was scared it might destroy me in the process. The sad part was I couldn’t bring myself to care if it did.

  My mom sits beside me and she takes my hand, like she is silently aware of my thoughts. She gives my hand a squeeze, and I wish I could take some small comfort in the gesture, but I feel nothing.

  Tyler finishes speaking and takes a seat.

  Ben’s mom gets up and stands near the casket. Ben’s brother, Jacob, stands beside her, offering support.

  She holds a tissue to the corner of her eye, dabbing away the moisture. Everyone sits quiet and rapt, waiting for her to speak.

  I swallow past the lump in my throat. Getting through this is killing me.

  She clears her throat and taps the microphone. A pitched noise whizzes around everyone and I wince.

  “Benjamin,” she says, “he was a good boy. He was always so sweet and thoughtful—putting others needs above his. I wasn’t surprised when he told me he wanted to be a doctor. Saving lives … it was just ingrained in him. Once, when he was little, probably six or so, he tried to save the life of a dying mouse he found in our backyard. A cat had gotten it, and let me tell you this mouse was in bad shape. But Ben …” She shakes her head. “He didn’t give up on it. And even when it died in his hands he said to me, ‘Next time, mommy, I’ll know what to do. I’ll save the next one.’”

  I squish my eyes closed and tears dampen my cheeks.

  So many tears.

  “And, Ben,” she continues, “he grew up to live his dream. He met the love of his life. He was to get married in less than a month and I know he would’ve been the best husband he could be to Blaire. I’m sorry that he’ll never get to prove that to you.”

  I lift my head and find her looking at me.

  “We were all robbed of a future with Ben in it. As a parent, you never want to outlive your child. I’ve had a hard life and a lot of bad days, but I’d relive those bad days a thousand times over if it meant I never had to live one of today. Thank you.” She hiccups on a cry and Jacob helps her back to her chair.

  This is the part where I know I’m supposed to speak—to shed some enlightening words on my time with Ben. I can’t. To say the words is to accept that he’s dead and I don’t want to. I don’t want the finality.

  “Blaire,” my mom whispers, nudging me with her shoulder.

  I don’t move. I don’t even breathe.

  I feel the weight of everyone’s eyes—waiting, hoping, for me to do or say something.

  After a long stretch of awkward silence, the preacher, or whoever he is, gets up and says a few final words.

  I don’t even hear them. Everything becomes a dull roar in my ears.

  I feel a drop of water hit my cheek and it’s not my own tears—although those are still falling too. I look up and see that the sky has turned a dark stormy gray. Thunder rumbles in the sky. The sky—the heavens—they’re echoing my pain. I know it. It’s like Ben’s up there and he’s sad and angry because this is happening and it’s all so unfair.

  People begin to stand, and I know it’s time to leave, but my butt is glued to the seat. I can’t go. To leave is the final goodbye and I need one more minute. One more second.

  “Blaire?” My mom stands and waits for me to do the same.

  I shake my head.

  “Blaire,” she says again, this time in a harsher tone.

  “No.” I stare at his casket and the waterfall of flowers. “Give me a minute.”

  She shakes her head. “Your father and I will be in the car.”

  I sit there until everyone’s gone. I need one last moment alone with him. This is all I’m going to get for the rest of my life.

  Make it count.

  I stand and touch my fingers to the cool dark wood of the casket. I pluck one of the flowers from the overflowing bunch with my free hand and twirl it between my fingers.

  There are so many things I want to say. My mind is overflowing with an overabundance of words and I can’t seem to grasp any of them. I don’t think there’s any way to try to convey my thoughts and feelings.

  “Oh, Ben.” I choke on a sob and wipe at my tears. “What has become of us?” My fingers tremble against the wood. “How did things end up like this? We’re good people, right? What did we do to deserve this?” I cry. “It hasn’t even been a week yet and I miss you so much. My heart aches, Ben. I never thought heartache was a real thing, but it is and it sucks.” I wipe at my face and groan, trying to hold myself together. “You are the love of my life—dead or alive that hasn’t changed. Your mom says I’ll move on, but she’s wrong. Most people are lucky if they find one ever-lasting love. I don’t think you can find two.” I can feel the anger building inside me once again, but I stamp it down. I don’t want to be angry right now. Not in my last moments with Ben. I shove my fingers through my hair. It’s neatly curled, but that’s not my doing. My mom forced me to let her do my hair this morning. I think she was afraid I’d show up at the funeral in my pajamas and bed-head if she didn’t help me.

  “I hope, that up there in heaven—because I know that’s where you are—that you can hear me, and you know that I love you. I love you so damn much.” I shake my head. “That love isn’t going to fade because of death. You’re going to live on forever, right here.” I touch my fingers to my heart like he’s there to see. “I love you, Ben. Now and forever and always.”

  I open my purse—some small clutch-type thing—and pull out a paper crane.

  I laugh a little—it’s the first time I’ve laughed since the accident. “I
finally made one of my own.” I set the bird amidst the flowers. I kiss my fingers and touch them to the casket. “I love you,” I say one last time.

  And then the sky opens up and it pours.

  I believe that the rain stinging my cheeks is kisses from Ben. He’s here. He’ll always be here.

  Stage One: Denial

  It’s been three days since Ben’s funeral, and I still don’t believe it actually happened. It’s like I’ve shut down—gone into zombie mode or something.

  My mom sets a plate of food in front of me. I stare at the rubbery eggs and greasy bacon.

  Ben.

  Ben’s going to walk in the door any minute from work and tell me this is all a big joke. Ha, ha! Got you! I’m not really dead but now I know how much you really love me!

  On some logical level I know that’s not going to happen, but denial has set in and I’m holding onto it with a strong-handled grip.

  “You need to eat, Blaire.” My mom pulls out the seat beside me and crosses her arms on the table. She leans her head down, looking at me with eyes the same color as my own, only hers are now lined with wrinkles in the corners from laughing so much. “Please, B. Eat something. You’re getting too thin.”

  I shake my head. I know I should eat, I know my body needs it, but I don’t feel any sort of hunger, and the thought of eating makes me feel like vomiting.

  She sighs.

  From the family room, my dad says, “Leave the girl alone, Maureen. She needs time.”

  I can tell he’s watching a football game and I cringe. If Ben was here Ben would be watching it with him.

  Ben loves football.

  Loved. Ben loved football.

  Because he’s dead and can’t love things anymore.

  I can feel my throat closing in.

  No, no. I refuse to believe he’s gone. I can’t imagine a world without Ben in it. It doesn’t seem right that the world lost someone as kind and bright as him, while the drunk driver who murdered him gets to walk free. That’s how I look at it—murder. Cold-blooded murder. That person drank, knew they shouldn’t drive, and got behind the wheel anyway. They didn’t care who they hurt. The man’s tried to talk to me, to apologize—I guess—but I never even want to see his face. If I did I’m pretty sure I’d try to claw it off. I have no sympathy for that man, and he can carry the guilt of this for the rest of his life because he deserves that. He deserves to be punished just like me.

  “Blaire?” my mom says. “Just one bite.” I shake my head. She sighs and forks some eggs onto the spoon. “Open up.”

  I bat her hand away and the eggs fall on the floor. “I’m not a baby, mom. I don’t want to eat.”

  “And now she talks.” My mom throws her hands in the air. It’s not lost on me that she uses the word she like I’m not sitting right there—because in a way I’m not there. We all know it. I’ve checked out. I haven’t even worked since the night I got the call. I can’t bring myself to continue on with my life without Ben—I’m so afraid that if I pick up the pieces and go on with my life that … that … I don’t know. I don’t even know what I’m thinking anymore. My thoughts are a jumbled mess.

  “Is there anything you can eat?” my mom asks. “Seriously, Blaire, I will drive an hour away if it means I can get something you’ll eat.”

  I sigh. I know I’m scaring my mom, and I feel awful, but I can’t seem to snap out of this ... this… whatever this is.

  “I could have a milkshake from Chick-fil-A,” I tell her. “Vanilla.”

  She breathes a sigh of relief. “Good, that’s good. I’ll go get that.” She hurries up and grabs her purse, probably trying to get out of there before I change my mind. “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  She nods. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

  “Kid,” my dad says gruffly from the couch, “you’re gonna dump that shake in a plant, aren’t ya?”

  I laugh. “Possibly. I’ll take a sip or two for her benefit.”

  He grunts. “Come join your old man over here.” He glances at me from the back of the couch.

  I shake my head. “Nah, I’m okay over here.”

  He turns off the TV. “It’s the football, isn’t it? We don’t have to watch that. We can talk. Or not. I don’t care. Just get out of that chair, kid.”

  I sigh. It’s impossible not to listen to my dad. He worked a lot while I was growing up, but he always made sure I knew I could come to him with anything.

  I get up from the chair and push it in, stalling for time.

  “Kid,” he says in warning.

  I want to smile at the familiar childhood nickname, but frankly I don’t feel like smiling.

  I sit down beside him and he wiggles a bit. “Here, you want the blanket?” he asks gruffly, reaching for the blue throw blanket.

  “Sure,” I say, even though I don’t really want it. I know my dad wants to feel useful in some way so I give him that.

  He hands me the blanket, and I wrap it around me. It still smells like Ben. I close my eyes, and it’s like he’s right there. With me.

  “When are you going back to work?” my dad asks. He never goes easy on me.

  I shrug and glance toward the ceiling where my office lays upstairs waiting for me with several hundred emails. “When I feel like it.”

  He grunts and wiggles some more. “When will that be?”

  Never. “Soon,” I say, because I know it’s what he wants to hear. I pick at the frayed edge of the blanket. “When are you and Mom going home?”

  He stares at me for a moment. His eyes are a kind brown, and he has short lashes. Like my mom, he’s wrinkled now from years of laughter and hard work. “We’re staying as long as we need to.”

  “I don’t need you to stay here. I’m fine.”

  He snorts. “Kid, if that’s what you call fine I don’t want your definition of bad. You’re barely eating and you smell like a sweaty gym sock. You’ve been wearing those pajamas for three days straight.” He points at the dirty sweat-jacket and striped pajama pants I wear. “You’re not foolin’ me, and you’re not foolin’ your momma either,” he tells me. “Don’t go into the acting business, because you suck.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Hey, just tellin’ it to ya straight.” He raises his hands innocently. “You’re my little girl, Blaire, and I love you more than you know, so don’t lie to me. You’re not doing well, but let me let you in on a little secret.” He leans toward my ear and lowers his voice. “That’s okay.” Pulling away, he says, “There will be good days and bad days in everyone’s life, it’s how we deal with those bad days that determines how we live every day. You have every right to be angry, Blaire. To be sad and hurt. But you also have to get up, and go on about your life. Time doesn’t wait for anyone. You can’t forget to live your life—Ben might’ve lost his, but you’re still here.”

  My cheeks are wet. I hadn’t even realized I was crying.

  “I didn’t mean to make you cry, Kid.”

  “It’s okay. I do that a lot lately.” I grab a tissue and dry my damp face. Since the accident I’ve set tissue boxes on almost every available surface. I never know when a thought or a sight might strike a meltdown. I lost it this morning when I came downstairs and saw Ben’s shoes sitting beside the door. My mom had promptly tried to hide them in the hall closet, but I wouldn’t let her. I didn’t want to hide his existence.

  “I know I haven’t said it, but I’m sorry, Blaire. I’m so sorry this happened.”

  I nod once. “Sorry doesn’t bring Ben back,” I whisper, “but I wish it did.”

  “I know,” he agrees. “I wish I could make this better for you. Do you want me to put a movie on?”

  I shake my head. Ben and I used to watch movies all the time.

  “Okay,” my dad says and grows quiet. He soon fills the silence with stories from his working days. I know most of them are funny and I should laugh, but I can’t. I don’t know if I’ll ever laugh again.

  My mom returns a sho
rt time later with my milkshake. I take a reluctant sip, and I’m surprised to find that it actually tastes pretty good. Lately, nothing has had any taste. I end up drinking the whole thing, and my mom literally claps her hands together because she’s so happy. I hate that the simple act of me drinking a milkshake makes her happy. It’s further proof that I’ve completely checked out.

  “I’m going to bed,” I say a short while later.

  They both nod and watch me head upstairs.

  I burrow beneath the sheets—sheets I’ve refused to wash—and close my eyes. If I think hard enough I can feel Ben’s arms wrap around me and his lips press to my neck. I smile. I love you, he murmurs. When I open my eyes, though, I’m alone.

  He’s gone and he’s not coming back.

  Denial is a bitch.

  Stage Two: Anger

  Two weeks. It’s been two fucking weeks since I sat in front of Ben’s casket. Two weeks since he was lowered into the ground. Two weeks that have passed at a snail’s pace—thanks in part to my refusal to work. I know I eventually have to. I have a car payment and a mortgage and bills to thinks about. I just need time, though.

  I close the bathroom door and slip the box from beneath my shirt. I never thought I’d be an adult sneaking in a pregnancy test around my mom, but here I am.

  I hold the box in my hands and take a deep breath. “Please,” I whisper. “Please.”

  I lift my gaze to my haunted and hallowed reflection in the mirror. I’ve lost weight. Too much weight. My cheekbones are shallow and sharp enough to cut glass now. Dark circles rim my eyes all the way around and my skin has turned a sickly gray color. I don’t look good, not at all. Grief has this way of sucking the life out of you.

  I open the box and hold the slender white stick in my hand.

  I’d give anything to have Ben here, fighting to be in the bathroom with me. Hell, this time I’d even let him watch me pee. But he’s not here and he never will be. If I am pregnant he’ll never know and our child will never know its father. Maybe it’s selfish of me, but I want to be pregnant. I want to know his child is growing inside me—that I have some physical piece of him left.