But he doesn’t want to show up, or he would be showing up a hell of a lot more often.
I let out a heavy sigh and try to push away my disappointment. This morning when he arrived, it marked the eleventh time he’s shown up since he stopped coming every day. Unlike before, now he’s short-tempered and grouchy. He’s still silent, as always, but it’s different. There’s a frustrating aloofness to his presence that makes him more unreachable than ever.
He rode up on his bike, same time, same path he always takes, but he left in one of the club’s vans. He and Dad had a few words on the front lawn before he climbed in and the van sped off. When the van returned this evening, he walked straight to his bike, started her up, and disappeared down the road without a single look at the house. It’s for the best, I guess. Otherwise he’d have seen me peeled to the window in the living room, staring out at him hopelessly like a lost puppy just begging for love. God, I’m pathetic.
“Eat, please,” my mother says in her most stern voice. Even trying to be firm, she’s still soft.
My mother, Claire Mercer, tries her hardest to be relatable to me but fails miserably at almost every turn. I’m her only child, and she’s insistent on reforming our relationship. She’s even stopped going to church every Sunday to spend more time with me. She’s trying to be kind, really she is, but I used to look forward to that time alone. Now I’m forced into awkward family brunches with Uncle Edgar and Aunt Naomi, who try their best to act like everything is fine. Not that I make it easy on them. I mean, anyone would be off their game if their niece had a breakdown every time she heard a loud noise or touched the wrong surface. God forbid they look at me wrong when I start dry heaving and sobbing in the corner of the room. That only makes it worse.
“Melinda.” Mom’s voice is harder this time, and I know she means business.
I shake my head of my thoughts and take the plate she’s offering. Pulling my legs up on the couch, I reposition to get comfortable as I stare at the sandwich and chips she’s assembled for me. Mom made soup for her and Dad earlier, but the steam of the bowl had me straining to breathe through the violent shaking of my body. The white bread hasn’t been toasted, and the meat is from a cold deli package. Nothing hot—good. Maybe I’ll be able to keep this down. She’s even cut the sandwich into quarters to make it easier for me to eat.
“Thank you,” I say and meet her eyes.
“You shouldn’t run right after you eat,” she says with a soft smile. She’s trying, I know she is, but damn it if she isn’t annoying the hell out of me. She’s worried that eating and pushing myself so soon after will make me sick. I bet it will. In fact, I’m counting on it.
“I’ll be fine.” If she knew I actually enjoy the sickening discomfort that settles in a few miles into my run, she’d be horrified. Claire Mercer isn’t doing so well with knowing how fucked-up her daughter is. Nervously, she eyes my sandwich on my plate. To appease her, I scarf it down as quickly as I can without looking like a maniac.
Fifty-nine days since Ian’s left me, and it’s time that I start acting like a normal person. Funny that I know how long it’s been since he’s disengaged himself from me, and yet I don’t have much of a clue how long it’s been since that day. I stifle the humorless laugh that creeps up at the thought. I never imagined my nightmares would be eclipsed by the absence of my dreams.
“I’m proud of you for taking up running. Maybe tomorrow I can go with you?”
No, you can’t.
You absolutely can’t.
“Yeah, maybe.” I finish the sandwich and start in on the chips and try my best to ignore my mother’s curious stare.
“Mindy, I’d like to talk about therapy again,” she says carefully. Her voice trails off at the end, and she’s speaking slowly as to not offend me. The topic itself is as offensive as they come. What am I supposed to talk to a therapist about? That day, or Ian, or the tracks on my feet? What damage am I supposed to work on exactly?
“I’d rather not.”
“Running is great, but you’re not working through your trauma. You have to speak to someone about it. You have to get past this so you can have a normal life again.”
“Normal? What precisely is normal?”
She’s hit a nerve with me, and she knows it. “Working, having friends, even dating. You haven’t dated since Heath.”
“I’m not discussing Heath with you.”
“Why not? You never even talked about it. One day he was here and the next he was gone. You can’t just keep everything bottled up forever.”
“Sure I can,” I say and hand her the now empty plate. I grab the glass of water at my right and down half of it before setting the glass back down and standing from the couch.