Page 28 of Under the Waves

But no matter how much I tried to convince myself of the latter, my thoughts itched to trail back to him. Fingers clutching tightly to the fabric of his jersey, I held it close to my face, breathing in. Back pressed against my door, I gripped onto the remnants of him with everything I had, not wanting to fall away into the darkness. My cheeks were red and swollen with dried tears andCall your momby Noah Kahan played through my headphones.

I was just as scared of the dark as I was comforted by it.

I missed all my classes this morning because of my mom. She had a huge destructive episode. Locked herself in the bathroom since two this morning and I had to break the door down with a baseball bat to get it to open. She was lying down, body draped half-conscious over the bathtub. It took one glance at the empty bottle of vodka at her feet and the just-as-empty pill bottle spilled open into the sink to know what she had done. I spent my entire morning taking care of her, making sure she wasalive, before returning to my room, comfortable enough to leave her but scared shitless in case she did something, and I wasn’t home to help her.

Each night, I ripped myself apart trying to find the cracks in my skin. To find the flaws they whispered about. Theimperfections. Theerrors. The broken pieces that could not be put back together again.

That was how I ended up here—clutching onto Jasper’s jersey, letting the hints of lavender calm the nausea and dread that had worked its way through my entire body, leaving no inch unscathed. I remembered what he said to me—about how his mom used to spray his pillows with a lavender mist so that he could fall asleep without being caught by his nightmares.

Bitterness arose in my throat, but I swallowed it back down.

I wished my mom cared enough about me to do that.

I wished she cared about me at all.

“Poppy!”

I jumped to my feet, yanked my door open, and ran down the hall to where my mom called. Her thin, gray framestood at the stove and a pan was propped up above a flame with pieces of spaghetti sticking out of it. I walked over and turned the gas off immediately before the place caught on fire.

She turned and swatted my hand away. I flinched.

“No, don’t do that,” she said, brows scrunched. “Sit down, will ya? I’m trying to make your favorite mac and cheese. The one I made you secretly before practice because he wouldn’t let you…” Her voice trailed off into the silence that surrounded us.

My heart ached as I breathed out, waiting for her to move—she mentioned his name and now I had to be there for her when she crumbled.

I had to hold her above the waves when I was already drowning.

Neither of us moved or even breathed.

“Sit, Poppy.” She said after a moment, turning around to grab something from the fridge that had been open the entire time.

I perched myself onto a kitchen stool and watched as she made the cheesy sauce. She cooked slowly like each small movement was a struggle. I wanted to watch her like I did when I was little, giddy with anticipation about the secret meals we shared together. I wanted to see her through the eyes of the little girl who adored her—who wanted to grow up to be just like her.

But I couldn’t because all I saw when I looked at her was the hollow skeleton of the woman she used to be and the shadow of the mother I knew now. I watched each movement carefully, hoping to catch any trigger that could have her launching into another depressive episode. I exhausted myself but if I didn’t do this and something happened to her, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself. She might’ve been a shadow of the mother I need her to be but she was the only family I had left, and without her?

I’d be completely alone.

A fact she delighted in reminding me about.

Lifting the pan off the stove, she poured the mac and cheese into a small white bowl. I raced off my seat to turn the gas off, again. With a frown, she looked at me, almost puzzled, before her face relaxed.

“Oh. Silly me,” she mused, turning back to the food.

Sitting back down on the stool, I watched as she placed the bowl down in front of me with a spoon and a small smile.

“Just how you used to like it.”

I nodded slowly.

I still like it now, mom.

Instead, I said nothing, just picked up the spoon and put the pasta to my lips to blow softly. When I tasted it, the pasta was soggy and hot and had way too much sauce, but it was all masked by the memories.

When I ate it, I was a kid again, hurriedly blowing on it and scoffing it down before he walked in and commented on how I didn’t need the extra carbs. He’d grab my cheeks between his fingers, squeeze, and turn to my mom and tell her to stop feeding me crap because I had to be in the best form for the comps. She’d stare at him blankly and blink once before taking the bowl off me and scooping it all into the bin.

I put my spoon down, my appetite gone, despite having not eaten in two days. It was funny how the human mind worked sometimes. How a single memory could ruin something.

That was what you have done to me.