Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 25747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
I thought my auntie had the same ideas as my grandmother.
Until Mom left him one day, taking us to Auntie Susan’s and both of her sisters told her she needed to leave him. I was too young to realize what was going on. Cadence knew before I did. She’s younger, but she remembers far more than I do. That was the one and only time, though.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he did,” my sister finally speaks, her voice lowered and careful. “They haven’t been getting along recently.”
“Well, what did Mom say?” I question her, feeling my pulse strike harder. I struggle with the way my sister sees my father. I know they had fights, they had bad moments, but there were so many good ones. So many times they kissed each other in front of us. So many happy memories and occasions that were pure joy. What they went through before was a rough patch. That’s what my mom said, it’s what she called it, a rough patch.
“I want to know what really happened,” I comment and as I do, I feel warm tears at the corners of my eyes.
“I think I started it,” Cadence whispers in a choked voice then reaches for her tea. She holds onto it like it’ll protect her, her shoulders hunched inward. “I called Mom because… that guy I was with. He was rough the other night and I don’t know why, I called her and I blamed her.” Her voice cracks as she slumps back into her seat.
“What?” Disbelief runs rampant through me. Unpacking everything takes time, but the first reaction I have is to protect her, to defend her from whatever fucker she’s referring to. “What do you mean he was rough with you?”
“He just pushed me against the wall. I told him to leave when we got into a fight over something stupid. I don’t even remember.”
“Who is he?” I ask and my voice is deathly low.
“No one now. I’m done with him. I blocked him and he’s not interested in me anymore anyway. Not after what I said to him.”
I can only nod once before waiting for her to continue.
“I was upset and I called Mom and told her and she was so… so judgmental.” The hurt is there in her voice, but so is guilt. It’s riddled with it between each quickly taken breath. “So uppity about him and what happened and all I could think is that it happened to her and she stayed with him.
“And I went off on her… I said some things I shouldn’t have.”
“You think she got into it with Dad afterward?”
“I don’t know for sure, but … I just …”
With one arm wrapped around my sister’s shoulder, I pull her into me and let her rest there as her face contorts and she cries again.
“Have you talked to Mom?” I ask her and she shakes her head. “It’s been hours,” I remark.
It takes my sister a long moment to respond, “She was unconscious.”
* * *
There are four nurses in the corner of the hospital cafeteria. And then there’s my auntie with a plate she hasn’t touched, and myself. I move the mac and cheese around with my fork, in the same situation as my auntie. Not wanting to eat, but not ready to leave just yet.
My mother seemed fine, apart from her arm wrapped in a cast.
She smiled, she gave me a kiss. She said it got stuck in the railing when she tripped. She was trying to hold onto it and instead she only made it worse.
If it wasn’t for the look on my father’s face, I’d believe her. He got her two vases of daisies, her favorite flower. The smell of them in the hospital room haunts that moment for me. Three vases total, one bouquet from me, lining the room and bearing witness to that conversation.
I can’t be in the room with them. I don’t know how my sister’s doing it. How she can sit there with speculation but not say anything.
“How’s the city life?” Auntie Susan asks me and I bring my amber gaze up to meet hers. It falls quickly to her gray sweatshirt with the block letters from my uncle’s alma mater. He passed a few years ago, a car accident caused by black ice.
“It’s not like New York City.”
There’s a hum of understanding as she stirs a pack of sugar into a steaming cup of tea. Her dark eyes watch the swizzle stick as she asks, “You like it better down there? I bet it’s warmer.”
“It is. It’s ten degrees colder here every time I come up.”
The small talk doesn’t do anything to help the hollow feeling in my chest. Or the numb prick along my arms. I want to talk to someone, but words fail me. That and shame. I don’t want it to be true, but my gut is hardly ever wrong.