He only gets tenser the deeper we go, and I keep waiting on a wolf to howl at the moon right about now. Fortunately, no such thing happens—mostly because wolves aren’t native to this area.
When he stops, I stop, too, and he pulls me beside him as he shines his light on a tombstone.
Marie Jenna Clanton
Loving Mother and Wife...
He’s brought me to his mother’s grave. But... why?
“I don’t know why I felt like I had to explain this here, but for some reason... it just seemed easier to do it this way.” He kneels and moves aside the dried flowers that rest on her grave. For some odd reason, there’s a coffee cup next to the tombstone.
“They’ve apparently not cleaned up yet,” he mutters to himself, but I don’t question him.
“This is my mother,” he finally says after a suffocating amount of silence.
What am I supposed to say? I don’t want to ask what happened. She died several years ago, according to the date on the tombstone and Tria, so condolences would seem contrived. I don’t know what to do. Nothing seems sufficient, so I just stand quietly and wait.
“It’s no secret that she died. But there are only a few people in Sterling Shore that know all the details, and not just parts of them. Six to be exact. My old therapist, my father’s therapist, my father, Wren, Ethan, and me. Now you’ll be the seventh.”
He snorts derisively before adding, “Usually the number seven is considered lucky. Sorry I’m about to ruin that for you. And honestly, you’re the only one who is going to know the entire story besides me—all that I can manage to divulge.”
He goes quiet again, as though this is actually painful for him to do. I start to tell him we can do this some other time, but he breaks the silence again before I can.
“She died when I was almost eleven. She was sick—very sick. Since no one knew she was sick until after she died, she was never diagnosed properly. Theories have spawned over the years, but it’s nothing more than conjecture based on her symptoms. You’d be surprised at how many mental illnesses carry different aspects of her symptoms. Everything from severe depression to bipolar disorder to schizophrenia have been mentioned. But no one can say definitively what she suffered from.”
Now I really don’t know what to say. None of this is making sense, even though I appreciate him opening up to me.
“I’m sorry,” I say lamely, leaning over to kiss his arm.
“I was the one who found her,” he says suddenly, ignoring my pathetic attempt to comfort him as his body almost trembles. “She went to the bathroom, climbed into the tub, and she used a knife from the kitchen to open her veins.”
Oh dear God. My heart, head, and stomach all constrict and roil in unison. He found his mother dead when he was a kid?
“Rye, I—”
“I remember falling,” he says, interrupting me again, saying the words in a rush like he’s trying to get it out while he can. So I hold back anything I want to say to comfort him as he continues.
“I slipped on her blood, and I hit my head on the edge of the tub. It knocked me out, and when I woke up, I was covered in her blood that had kept flowing out on top of me. I was scared, and we were home alone. She always sent them away. Always. Every time he was gone, she’d send the staff away. So I was alone and didn’t know what to do. I just remember her being so cold and pale. Her skin was like ice. And no one heard my screams for help because we were alone.”
I’m really trying to be strong so that he doesn’t feel the need to comfort me when I should be comforting him, so I hold back the sob that rests on the tip of my tongue. But my tears burn my cheeks as they roll out, refusing to stay dormant.
“How long were you left with her?” I ask in a hoarse whisper that betrays my attempt to sound strong.
“Seven hours after I found her. My dad came home that night, and I was huddled in the corner of the bathroom where she was. I remember rocking with my knees tucked under my shirt and my head tucked down. But everything is such a blur. Everything was so red, including me.
“I don’t remember him coming in, but I remember him holding me. I remember him yelling something to someone I couldn’t see. And I remember all the sirens and police who came, but no faces or actions are in those memories. It’s all a big... it’s fuzzy. And honestly, I don’t want to remember it any more clearly than what I do.”
I want to ask so many questions, but I don’t. He takes a breath, pausing to keep himself in control and doing what he can not to break.
“She killed herself because of the disease,” he says, reciting it as though he’s trying to convince himself. “She would be so happy some days. On those days, I was happy. I bring her a picture every year for those memories. But the bad days... She didn’t do it often, only when he’d be gone for longer than five days at a time. He’d leave or one of her boyfriends would break things off, and she’d hit that lowest point that did the worst things to her mind. I became a problem—one she couldn’t deal with on those days. Or maybe she was just sane enough to worry about what she might do if she didn’t hide me. So she’d lock me in the closet until dad called to tell her he was coming home.