It was nearing spring break of my sophomore year. Since the call in November, I had been home every Saturday, and wallowed every Sunday. I skipped so many plans. I felt myself distancing from my roommates, my friends, and everyone. I wasn’t there; I couldn’t blame them. They always asked. There were talks of taking a spring break trip together. I allowed myself to consider it. Thought I’d be fine. I lied to my dad, saying I had a major project that I’d need to stay on campus for. It was all set up. It was Saturday when I got the call. We were flying out in the morning, and as his name displayed on my phone, I sank. I didn’t know what would be said, but I knew it would be a reason I had to come home. This time, she harmed herself. As his words poured into me, I remembered when I found her. I was in 8th grade. I’d just come home from school. She was spilled out on the bathroom floor. The tiles are still stained. I wasn’t going on that trip. I knocked on your door to let you know. My bags were already packed, so I was just going to drive home. You were who I was closest to. Nes. It felt like you always knew. Maybe not everything, but enough.
You knew as soon as you opened the door and rubbed your eyes. You frowned at me, and then asked. “Do you need help with your bags?” I just nodded. It was drizzling. And dark. Late enough that no one was on the streets instead of the few passing cars, and the sound their tires would make as they drove past on the slick road. We loaded my bags in silence. It didn’t take more than one trip. As I closed the trunk, I stood there. Not wanting to leave, but knowing I had no options. Hands rested on the car, face down.
“You don’t have to go,” you said. I looked up at you, and I wished that were true. I wished I could be the person you thought I was. I shook my head before stealing myself a breath. “I do,” I responded. Avoiding your eyes as I spoke. As I went to head for the driver’s seat, you closed the distance and grabbed my forearm. You’re all to comforting hands, those that burned me at their implication. “No, you don’t; listen, I don’t know all the details, but you can’t live for your mother”. With her words, my eyes were burning. I kept seeing my mother on the bathroom floor. Blood spilled out around her. Shallow breaths, eyes recognizing me as she tried to call for me but was unable to. How my hands shook as I dialed 911, how they shake now. I yanked my arm from your grasp. “You need to mind your own fucking business”. I couldn’t take your care. It wouldn’t change anything. I wasn’t ready for it to. I needed you not to care. “Now why don’t you fuck off and go enjoy your break with your real friends?” This time, I was looking at you. I needed you to let me go. And I could see it in your eyes that you did. As they pooled with resignation. A part of me hoped you’d fight. Hoped you’d convince me. But we both knew that wouldn’t happen. You simply nodded at me before quietly wishing I drive safe.
I never apologized for that night. I’m sorry it took so long.
Your care, heavy in implication, was one I was not ready to swallow.
The weight that you cared more.