Page 26 of Because of Blake
“I know.” I squeeze her hand. “And I promise to call if I need anything, but I don’t think I will. I haven’t even had a second thought about April coming. Honestly, I wouldn’t have even thought about it except I got an email about the kids’ spring conferences.” I crane my neck to check on the kids who are sucked into some game involving zombies.
Michelle settles back into her seat. “Ooh, conferences. Are you worried?”
“No. My kids are good students. I’m sure the conferences will go smoothly, and so will the month of April. I’m not worried at all.”
That is, until the conferences actually happen.
I stroll into the middle school at 3:55 p.m. on the Friday before Charlie’s birthday, five minutes early for my 4 p.m. appointment. I have Sydney’s today. Dylan’s was on Tuesday and went swimmingly. He’s an excellent student, albeit overly energetic, and has a big heart for all his friends. I was one proud mom.
I step into Sydney’s classroom and am greeted by her teacher, Mr. Henshaw. “Hi, Maggie. Nice to see you, please have a seat.” He motions to a plastic chair in front of his desk, and I sit. “Let me start by saying, Sydney is a pleasure to have here, but I think I told you in the fall, too.”
“Yes, you did, but it’s always nice to hear.”
As he shuffles the papers on his desk, he repeats everything I already know about Syd. She’s a brilliant child with a bright future, and she has no problem speaking her mind. Her grades are impeccable. She excels in English, shows above-average skills in math and science, and is taking an interest in history.
My mom heart is swelling with pride, until Mr. Henshaw says something that rips it out. “You and Sydney’s father must be very proud.”
My chest constricts, stopping my heart altogether. I thought I could handle this, but the facade I’ve put on is nothing more than a glass mask, and it’s shattering.
I spend the rest of the conference with a pleasantly fake smile on my face. My hands sit in my lap, wringing each other so tightly I’m surprised my bones don’t snap. My outward facade may be one of a beaming mother, but inside, my guts twist.
I thank Sydney’s teacher and go home. Once I’m inside, I burst at the seams, sagging against the door and sliding to the floor. I don’t know how long I’m here sobbing, but it’s long enough for Sydney to come looking for me. When she rounds the corner, she stops in her tracks. I raise my red-rimmed, tear-filled eyes to meet hers and I see the concern on her face.
Without a word, Sydney comes to me. She squats down, pausing a moment before wrapping her arms around me and squeezing. A few more sobs escape me, and Sydney helps me to my feet. We walk silently up the stairs, where she leads me to my room and puts me into my bed. As I curl into a ball with my back to her, Sydney runs a hand down my hair and leans down to kiss my head.
“I’ll take care of dinner, Mom.”
I sniffle, but don’t turn to face her. “You can order out if you want.”
“Okay.” She pads across the room, but when I don’t hear the door close, I peek out from the covers to see her standing in the doorway.
“Syd?”
“I want you to know I’m proud of you for making it this long.”
As the door clicks shut, the tears flow out of my eyes, and they don’t stop all weekend.
Once Charlie’s birthday comes and goes, after the emotions swell, crest, and break, I’m back on my feet and I return to the office. It’s a welcome change after working from home for a week.
Thursday afternoon takes a turn for the worse, though, when Abbey mouths off about my special treatment. Normally, I can handle these situations with grace. I know it seems like I’m getting preferential treatment, and I understand how Abbey might be upset about it, but when she spouts off the words, “Your princess attitude is probably why your husband left,” I can’t hold back. I spin on my heel and slap the Hubba Bubba right out of her mouth.
I’m put on a month-long leave of absence without pay.
Without work to keep me busy, and the kids at school during the day, I slip further into myself. I put a call into my therapist, but I get her voicemail. I don’t leave a message.
Something about leaving a message makes me feel like a failure. It’s as if I’m so inept at handling my own issues, I can’t wait until my therapist is back in the office. I’ll call back.
The month of May is much worse than April. Coincidentally, on the 24th. It’s the day Charlie… The day my life ended with his. Coping with it consists of me eking through the month on autopilot, like every year since his death.
I wanted this year to be different. I thought a new house would make it easier. This isn’t the house Charlie and I bought in our twenties. It’s not the home we brought our two children into. It’s not the place where we made memory after memory, so I shouldn’t be reminded of him at every turn.
But I am.
It’s not our bedroom, but it’s the bed we shared for a decade. Every time I crawl into it, I expect to feel his body heat under the covers, to smell him, to hear his snore and wish I could put a pillow over my ears to drown him out. In my closet, the teal dress I wore on our fifth wedding anniversary always makes me cry, but I can’t throw it away. Charlie literally drooled as he watched me come down the stairs in it.
My heart breaks as I realize it’s not the house, or neighborhood, or city I live in. The memories are in me. No matter where I go, I’ll never stop thinking about Charlie.
And I don’t want to.