Page 77 of True Blue

Rushing out the door, not even caring that I’m only wearing my pajama pants, I check the bathroom, but the light is off and the door is open.

“Indie?” I choke out, stomping down the hallway. I peek into Nana’s room and wince. The memories wash over me like a tidal wave, and I’m powerless to stop them.

Nana on the bed, not breathing, not moving. Indie dropped to her knees without a second of hesitation, all sharp focus and calm command, while I was there, useless and breaking apart. I watched as she battled through compressions, trying desperately to save her.

Even though my heart was cracking, I couldn’t help but be in awe of Indie.

Her care, her devotion, her not giving up even then, when it was hopeless.

She isn’t upstairs. I stomp down the stairs and rush from room to room—the downstairs bathroom, living room, dining room, and kitchen. Mom stands by the stove, stirring pancake batter as bacon sizzles in the pan, as if it’s any normal Saturday morning.

She sees me walk in and smiles brightly, “Theodore! Good morning⁠—”

“Where’s Indie?” I demand, my voice a harsh bark.

A cold sweat breaks out across my body, my heart slamming an uneasy rhythm, my skin crawling. My mind is nothing but a loop of her name.

Indie, Indie, Indie.

Mom blinks, her face blanching for a brief moment. Her eyes dart to the front door before shifting back to me.

“Where, Mom?”

She sighs and turns the burner down, wiping her hands on her apron before walking over to me. She’s wearing one of the stupid Baseball Mom T-shirts from high school. I didn’t want to play baseball; I wanted to join the Art Club.

When I told my parents, hopeful after talking to the art teacher, who said I showed real promise, Dad laughed at me. He actually laughed, then called it a sissy club.

I was signed up for baseball the very next day. I remember how I played until Pop and Nana helped me fake a shoulder injury just so I could quit without Dad riding my ass for it.

I realize that was probably the reason why I never told anyone about my art.

But I told Indie.

Mom kept the shirt, though it’s her usual casual house look. I’ve seen her wear it a hundred times; I don’t know why it’s sticking out to me now.

“Sweetheart,” she says, taking off her apron and putting it on the counter. “Maybe you should sit down.”

She gestures to a kitchen chair, pulls it out, and pats the seat. But I stand rooted in place, my eyes darting around the kitchen as I turn, unable to stop searching for Indie to appear from any hidden corner.

“Come here, Theodore, sit down,” she says, her voice sickeningly sweet, and it grates on my nerves.

“I don’t need to sit down, Mom. I need to find Indie. Where is she?” I pat my back pocket reflexively, remembering that my phone is still upstairs charging and I’m in my pajama pants. I clench my fists. “Where is she?”

“She broke your heart, sweetheart,” she says in a trembling voice, her eyes glimmering with tears as she cups my cheek. It feels like I’m six years old and she’s telling me Santa Claus isn’t real.

I recoil away from her like her touch burns.

“She left.”

The world caves in. My chest follows. A gasping, wheezing sound escapes my throat as the world grinds to a halt. A shrill ringing drowns out everything but my mother’s muffled, pitying voice. I catch scattered words: left, gone, midnight, breakup, good riddance.

“What?” I gasp out, rubbing at the burning sensation in my chest. My mother steps closer to me, hands out like she’s going to touch me. I flinch back, and she immediately stops, eyes widening a fraction.

“Theodore, are you alright?”

“Gone?” I choke. “She’s gone? She left?”

“She left, Theodore,” Mom says softly, that trembling voice making my skin crawl. “In the middle of the night like a little coward⁠—”