Watch Over Me (27 page)

"Seriously, though, you don't believe that your loved ones would want to watch over
you after they're gone? Make sure you're okay? Just because they're gone doesn't mean
they've forgotten about you. I think it's sad to think of a being in heaven and NOT
be with the ones you love," she told me wistfully.

"Well, I think it's weird. There are entirely too many things that my loved ones do
NOT need to see me doing," I informed her as I took a bite of my spaghetti.

"Just wait. When you're older and wiser like me. You'll change your mind."

I never did change my mind, though. If anything, after she died, thoughts of my loved
ones watching over me made me angry. The bible says Heaven is a place filled with
unimaginable beauty. It's a place of joy where there are no tears or sounds of crying.
If Heaven really exists, and my mother is there, why in the hell would she ever want
to look over her loved ones? There's no joy that can come of that. We're sad and we're
depressed and we miss her so much we don't know how to go on living. Why would she
want
to see us like that? Why would she want to step out of the supposed beauty of Heaven
and come back to this hell on earth? The answer: she wouldn't. She wouldn't want to
watch over me and see me like this. There would be no everlasting happiness for her
if she saw what her death has done to my father and me. She would be miserable and
her heart would break if she had to be a spirit, fluttering around us day in and day
out, seeing how damaged we've become without her.

"I know this isn't real. I wish it was, but it's not. I've wanted to talk to you so
badly, so many times…"

I trail off and stare at her picture, trying not to cry. After a few minutes, I push
myself up off of the ground and take one last look at her headstone.

"Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I miss you."

I know she isn't really watching over me and she doesn't hear the words I say, but
maybe, somehow, she knows. Wherever she is right now, I hope she knows, but probably
not.

I turn away and stare angrily at the crumpled up napkin in the grass, refusing to
take it with me. It's not real. It was probably just someone playing a trick on me,
sticking the knife in a little deeper and twisting the handle. It can't be real.

Walking past the napkin, I head toward my car without a second look back. Coming here
was a bad idea, especially today. I thought it would give me answers to the questions
plaguing me, but all it did was raise more. I know I can call Meg and she will talk
me through this, but my fingers hesitate over the numbers on my cell phone as I unlock
my car and get inside.

Slumping back against the seat, I scroll through the contacts in my phone until I
get to the z's. A lump forms in my throat when I see his name. More than anything
I wish he were here right now, sitting next me in the car, telling me I'm not going
crazy and wrapping me in his arms. I should call Meg and let her be my friend. She
would say something to make me laugh, and she would know exactly what I should do.
The only problem was she never knew my mother. No matter how much I try to explain
to Meg what she meant to me, Meg will never fully understand. She never saw us together,
she never spent hour after hour with her, week after week, forming a bond with her
and making her promises, and she never cared for her or mourned for her or felt an
ounce of worry that the promises she made might someday be broken.

I close my eyes and lean my head against the back of the seat, and a small sob escapes
my throat.

I pushed him away. He just wanted to protect me, and I pushed him away.

Thinking about all of the time we spent together, each memory fractures my heart into
even more pieces because he's not here right now. He lied to me, but I lied to him
as well. I was never fully honest with him, and he knew that. He knew that I'd been
keeping part of myself hidden from him. Why would he want to confide in me when I
couldn't do the same with him?

I need him. I need to know that he was real. I need to feel his hands on my face telling
me he loves me. I need to stop keeping everything locked in a vault and just let it
all go. I want to break down right now; I want to rage and scream and cry, just like
I did a year and a half ago, just like I've wanted to do every day since then, but
instead kept it bottled up. I need to grieve. I need to cry for her and remember her,
and I need to stop thinking that if I just pretend like she wasn't real and never
talk about her with anyone, that it would hurt less. It doesn't hurt less. It hurts
more. It hurts so much that I actually contemplated the idea of my mother "speaking"
to me through Dr. Thompson and thought it was possible.

I want to pick up my phone and call him, but I can't. Not right now. Not until I can
find a way to get through this on my own. He deserves a woman who is whole, not someone
struggling to stay sane.

I can see her a few feet in front of me. Her short, blonde hair is blowing in the
wind and her back is to me. I smile when I see her walking along the beach and race
to catch up with her.

"Mom!"

My shout for her goes unanswered, but she probably didn't hear me. The waves crash
roughly against the shore, and the wind picks up, whipping my own hair around my face
so I have to keep pushing it out of my eyes as I run.

I yell for her again and push my legs to carry me faster so I can reach her before
she gets to the mountain of large rocks that jut out from the beach and into the water.
She can't climb over those before I get to her. If she does, I'll never get a chance
to talk to her.

She continues to walk at a steady pace, not turning her head to look back at me no
matter how many times or how loudly I yell.

I'm running as fast as I can now; my chest hurts from breathing heavy as I run, and
the muscles in my legs are starting to burn, but it doesn't matter. I need to make
it to her. I need to push just a little harder and I'll be there with her. If I can
just make it to her, I can tap her on the shoulder and she'll finally turn around.
I'll finally see her face and her smile.

I've missed her smile so much.

No matter how hard or long I run, the distance between us continues to grow. She's
walking and I'm running, and yet I still can't reach her. I don't understand why I
can't reach her. Why won't she just turn around?

"Mom, please!" I scream at the top of my lungs.

Digging my feet into the sand, I push myself as hard as I can. My feet smack roughly
onto the wet sand, and I can feel rocks and shells digging into my skin but it doesn't
matter. The only thing that hurts right now is that she won't acknowledge me. She
doesn't understand that I'm right behind her. If she would just turn around and see
me, I know she would stop. She would stop and she would smile and she would take me
into her arms and never let go.

The tears fall steadily down my cheeks as I watch her get to the rocks and begin climbing
over them.

"Mom, stop! Please, don't go! Don't leave me!" I cry.

I'm still running but I'm not going anywhere. I'm not getting any closer. She's too
far away now, and I know I'll never make it to her.

She's already at the top of the rocks and making her way down the other side. I watch
in horror as her blonde head disappears from sight.

She's gone. She was right here in front of me, and I let her get away.

Glancing down at my feet, I realize I'm not running anymore. Looking behind me to
see how far I've come, I don't see any of my footprints in the sand, and I wonder
if I ever even left this spot. Did I just stand here doing nothing? It felt like I
was running, like I was moving forward, but maybe I never was. Maybe this entire time
I was just standing still while everything around me continued to move forward. Looking
back at the rocks where she disappeared, I realize I that I don't want to be left
behind.

Jerking up in bed on a gasp, I quickly glance around me, trying to get my bearings.
When I see the familiar surroundings of my bedroom, I place my hand over my heart
and slow my breathing.

The dream felt so real. I can still feel the wet sand on my feet and the smell of
the ocean in the air. Reaching my hand up to my cheek, it's wet from the tears I cried
while I slept. It's the same reoccurring dream I've had since she died. The dream
left me for a little while, but tonight it came back with a vengeance. I lost count
how many times I've watched her walk away from me in my dreams while I scream for
her. I continue to scream and push myself and hurt myself and the results never change;
she doesn't turn around, and she doesn't let me come with her. The definition of insanity
is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. She's
gone and she's never coming back. I can't reach her, I can't touch her again, and
I can't stop her from leaving. Hurting myself and everyone around me because I can't
move on is insane. Expecting my life to get better on its own when I want nothing
more than to be with her again is insane.

I reach over to my bedside table and flip on the lamp, my eyes immediately zeroing
in on the napkins littering my bed. When I came home from the cemetery, I walked to
my door and paused in shock when I saw that it was entirely covered with napkins.
Taped from top to bottom, covering every inch, were notes from Zander. I read each
and every one of them before carefully taking them all down and bringing them inside
with me.

I fell asleep surrounded by them after having read them each a hundred times. Picking
up the one closest to me, I stare at the words he wrote in black pen.