Part Two
This is the second half of a short story I wrote this past summer, while enrolled in Jonathan Rogers' short story summer camp. If you missed the first half, go read my post from 12/20/24. Thanks!
Alone in my room at last, all the pent up tears from the day behind begin to fall, but not before I’ve brushed my teeth and settled into bed for the night. The first ones come silently, recalling my brother's harshness toward me and my sister. Then I start thinking about my kids, back at home with their dad. Tonight’s the second night, ever, that I haven’t been there to tuck them in and kiss them goodnight. Then there’s the sight of my mom, all bandaged and swaddled in a hospital bed. Finally I think about the baby again, and that’s when the faucet that is my nose requires me to get out of bed and get some tissue from the bathroom.
Since I’m already there I figure I might as well pee one more time, and as I look down my eyes fall on the little electric candle sitting in the bottom of my toiletry bag. The one Susan gave me the week after we lost the baby. The card she’d signed said “even this darkness is not dark to Him,” and I’d kept both items on my nightstand ever since.
Like a child with a nightlight, I often turned the candle on after Tim fell asleep and held it in my hands to remind me. Sometimes I silently recited psalms or prayers about God’s love and comfort. It seemed to help a little. There had still been many sleepless nights, and a whole lot of anger—so intense and heavy I barely recognized it as an emotion—let alone knew how to express it.
Which is of course how I ended up on medication, and in therapy
I never knew how antidepressants worked until I started taking one myself. It’s not an automatic boost, like coffee or nicotine. In fact it’s more like starting a workout program for your emotions, and at the beginning things can move pretty slowly. It took like six weeks, but eventually I began to notice that sleep came easier and I felt more rested when I woke up in the mornings. After that the foggy feeling that had been in my head for months started to clear, then one day I found that I had a little more patience with Timothy and Laurel. A week later I even wanted to play outside with them again.
Soon after that I started laughing out loud at sitcoms, and that’s when Tim finally commented on the shift in my mood.
“Gosh, Julie,” he said one evening after the kids were asleep. “I don’t think I’ve seen you smile like that since we were in college.”
That was a good weekend.
The next Wednesday mom called to tell us about the tumor they’d found in her head. One month ago yesterday. The doctors said they had to move quickly because the tumor was growing and if they didn’t get it out soon, it would kill her.
I finish up in the bathroom and turn off the light, but after a second of just standing there, I turn it back on and reach for the candle in my bag. I slide the small black switch across the bottom and take it back to the bedroom with me. Thirty minutes later I fall asleep with it still glowing beside my pillow.
The next morning we leave for the hospital just before ten, figuring that’ll give Mom enough time to sleep in before disturbing her peace. But when we arrive the nurses inform us that Mom’s been up since eight and has already made one lap around the entire floor, smiling in on other patients and bragging about how she survived “actual brain surgery” yesterday.
We all file in and tell Mom how much better she’s looking today, and while it’s true that she seems way more like her usual self than yesterday, she’s still sporting that turban made of bandages and a pretty big shiner underneath her right eye. Dad leans down to give her a quick peck, but she puts a hand to the back of his head and makes him stay longer than he intended, then finishes with a big smack before letting him go.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she exclaims. “I just missed you so much! Did you sleep okay? Did the kids take good care of you? Did everyone get enough to eat? How was the place y’all stayed?”
“Yes, dear,” he replies with an overly large smile. “We’re all fine. Everything was good, and everyone’s doing fine. I’m just looking forward to getting you back home, safe and sound.”
“Well, the doctor says he wants to keep me here for a few more days,” she responds. “They have to make sure I don’t have any spinal fluid leaking.”
“I know, honey,” Dad says. “They told us that before surgery. But everything’s gonna be okay. We’ll figure out how to keep ourselves busy. You just rest up and don’t worry about us.”
The way Dad talks to Mom feels even more private than her embarrassing displays of affection so I close my eyes for a moment trying to think up some excuse to escape. Shirley picks up on the discomfort too and noodles her way over to Mom’s bed.
“Is there anything we can get you, Mom?” she says. “Would you like some real coffee from the bookstore, or something else to eat before they bring you lunch?”
“No, no. I’m not very hungry, thank you” mom responds. “Maybe you could help me with these pillows though?” she asks. “I think I could use another one, just under my neck.”
Shirley walks out to ask a nurse for another pillow, while Dad and Aaron pull two chairs closer to the TV and begin scrolling the channels for whatever game they’re currently interested in. Which leaves me standing closest to Mom, who suddenly shivers in response to the breeze from the overhead fan.
“Julie,” she faux whispers because of the ballgame, “can you grab me another blanket from that closet back there?”
I walk over to the closet by the window and notice how much clearer and brighter everything looks today. Even the sky has the faintest hint of blue behind all her clouds, and I wonder if the snow storm that was predicted for the weekend might just pass us by.
Suddenly my Papaw’s voice fills my mind. I can hear him singing one of Mamaw’s favorite songs: “Til the Storm Passes Over.” In fact he sang it at her funeral, and the memory of that day makes me wonder if perhaps Dad could be alright without Mom, seeing as how he’s got a whole lot of Papaw in him, and Papaw still manages okay these days—nearly five years later.
Not that I want either of them to go anytime soon.
I tuck the blanket around Mom’s feet first, then move up to her waist and shoulders. “How’s that feel?" I ask quietly. “Better?”
She nods then pulls a hand out from under the covers and makes a motion for me to grab it. I take hold of her smooth cold fingers and step a little closer to her head. She’s smiling up at me behind her glasses and I can’t help but smile back in return.
“I’m so glad you were able to fly out here and be with us during all this,” she says. “I know it must be hard to be away from Tim and the kids for so long.”
“It’s not too bad," I tell her. “Besides, it’s good for him to see how much work it is taking care of two kids all by yourself.”
She shakes her head at my observation then asks me to hand her the plastic pitcher from the side table. I pour her a fresh cup of water and something about the way she gulps it down reminds me of Laurel. Before I know it there’s a small tear forming in my left eye.
There seems to be no reason not to, so I find myself saying: “I’m so glad you’re okay, Mom. I was really worried about you.”
Mom sets down her cup and swallows again before responding, and the look on her face is so intense I wonder if she heard me. It’s gonna be hard to remember to speak up all the time, now that she can’t hear as well. I start to gather the courage to tell her again, but before I can open my mouth she speaks.
“I guess God’s not finished with me just yet, Julie. I reckon he’s got a couple more jobs for me to take care of first.”
She’s so matter of fact, and her southern accent sounds so much stronger than I remember, that another smile creeps onto my face without permission. A minute later I decide to tell her how sorry I am that she had to go through all this, but just as I’m working up the energy to talk louder and clearer, she grabs my hand again.
“I can’t imagine how hard this last year has been for you,” she says, squeezing my fingers gently as she rubs her thumb over the top of my hand.
I take in a large breath as she continues. “Sometimes life seems to be nothing more than a series of fabulous surprises and terrifying heartbreaks, huh?”
I nod once but keep my head pointed down, knowing that raising it back up will cause tears to spill out of my eyes.
“But I need you to promise me you’ll remember one thing, okay, sweetheart?”
“What’s that?” I say, finally exhaling all the breath I took in earlier.
“That everything’s better when you share it.”
She pauses, waits for me to return her gaze.
I lift my head slightly, knowing she’ll see the doubt in my eyes.
“Even the bad stuff, Jules,” she says, wrapping my whole hand up in hers. “Especially the bad stuff.”