Page 24 of When the Smoke Clears

“That’s complicated,” Erin says gently.

Everything feels complicated. Mom. Grief. Guilt. And Luke—whose name I don’t say, but who still takes up too much room in my chest.

I wander into my old bedroom. The motion light snaps on, and I startle. The room is mostly empty except for a daybed pushed against the far wall, made up with a plain blue quilt and mismatched pillows, and a few boxes on the floor.

The space feels alien. The walls that were once decorated with posters of my favorite bands and photos of friends are now empty, covered in a neutral beige paint.

They no longer echo with memories of sleepovers, late-night cramming for exams, and the thrill of Luke climbing through the window. The cozy nook where I used to curl up with a book is gone.

No piece of me lingers here anymore, and I don’t know why I’m surprised. The fire consumed everything back then. It continues to consume my peace to this day.

My chest constricts as I move toward the closet, hesitating before pulling open the door. I’m not sure what I hope to find. Perhaps some trace, some whisper that a younger version of me once lived here, but inside, there’s only emptiness.

With nothing left in this room for me, I turn and walk across the hall to my mom’s bedroom.

“It’s so strange to be back here. I had barely spoken to my mom in the past ten years, but now that she’s gone, I want to. Is that weird?”

“Not at all.” Erin’s reply resonates with warmth and understanding. “Just because you weren’t close doesn’t mean she wasn’t your mom.”

“She wasn’t even here the night of the fire. She was out drinking.”

Erin exhales, the sound heavy.

Although the urge to walk around tugs at me, I sink into the couch and study my surroundings.

“I feel so guilty that I didn’t keep in touch with her more.” My hands twist in the hem of my shirt. “But I’m also angry at her. And I feel guilty for being angry.”

“You put up a healthy boundary with her for your own mental health, Isla.”

“It shouldn’t be that way with parents.”

“No, it shouldn’t.” Erin agrees. “But sometimes it is. It’s a shitty hand, but it’s the one you were dealt.”

Don’t I know it? My hand was an absentee mom who blamed me for every bad thing in her life and a father who took off as soon as he received the news of impending fatherhood.

“I can do the rest alone,” I tell Erin.

“Call me if you need anything.”

“I will.”

Once I end the call, the silence screams, making it difficult to focus. I flick on the television and begin to move about the space while Tom Selleck fills the screen. Mom always had a thing for Magnum PI.

The more I wander through the dimly lit rooms, opening and closing drawers, the more I understand that as much as I moved on from this life, it also moved on from me.

Yet, Mom kept my senior portrait. She kept little trinkets. She kept…pieces of me.

I slip her earrings into my ears, craving connection in the smallest, safest form.

The rest of her belongings, along with the house itself, will be donated or sold.

I’ll never visit here again, let alone consider moving back, and the notion of becoming a landlord is not appealing. It’s far simpler to sell the house and close this chapter.

I exhale deeply, the sound echoing around me, and my eyes wander over the space again as morbid curiosity tugs at me.

Where exactly did my mom’s last moments play out? Was she comfortable in her bed, or did she die on the cold, unforgiving tile of the bathroom?

I shake the thought from my mind, knowing it will only hinder my ability to complete the tasks ahead. I can only hope her passing was serene. As a nurse, that’s all I can ask for sometimes.