Page 112 of The Time It Takes
She fixes me with a look full of guilt. “It wasn’t enough.”
I press my lips together, nodding solemnly at her before sliding out of the seat. Once I’m standing, I stare down at her. “We always said the same about you.”
Hurt flashes across her face. “The two of you were the love of his life. Your father was mine.”
I look at her for a moment, mostly to remember her like this. As much as I hate her truth, I’m glad that I’ve finally gotten it. “Goodbye, Mom.”
I turn to leave just as I hear another sob rip through her. “I can’t even remember the color of my son’s eyes.”
I stop with my hand on the door. “Hazel. They were hazel.” I look at her over my shoulder. “The same color as yours.”
I leave the RV, no longer able to look at my mother. The mother who should have been there for us through everything we’ve had to go through. Half of our problems were because of her. We were stranded, always loved by nothing but the ghost of our parents.
When I close the door behind me, Frank is there.
“Is everything alright?” he asks and there's a soft crinkle at the corner of his eyes as he tries to smile. Maybe my mother chose him because she likes to hide, and he loves to keep her hidden.
I walk over to him and place a hand on his shoulder, then hug him tightly. “Just make her happy.” It’s not a question, but he nods anyway.
“She’s lucky to have you, Frank.” I smile softly. “And I guess that makes me lucky too.”
I make my way toward the shed as I shred away my clothing. I’m wearing a royal blue bikini, and it matches the surfboard I pull out from its dusty bag.
Tucking it under my arm, I make my way to the ocean—to see my brother.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Present
Thewateristoocalm to surf, but I’m kind of glad since I wasn’t in the mood. The water appears bluer than usual as I run my hand over the surface, catching chunks of salt.
I think of my dad and wonder what made him decide when enough was enough. I wonder what sort of pain dwelled so deeply inside of him that he could no longer take it.
When I was a little girl, I looked up to him for so many things. He was my hero, but sometimes even they lose. I was always a daddy’s girl, even after he passed away. A part of me was glad that people believed he went unwillingly. Yet, it gave me peace knowing that he was ready. In his own twisted way—he was ready to die.
I can’t help but wonder if Ben and I wavered on his mind at all before his last breath. He always hid his pain so well. I can only assume it had gotten so bad that he couldn’t hide it from us anymore. Something tells me he didn’t want us to see him that way more than he didn’t want to live with it.
I stare down at Ben’s surfboard and smooth my palms over it.
“Hi, Ben,” I whisper. I imagine him and my father together now. They both suffered different kinds of pain. I can’t help but place a little blame on myself for Ben’s. I was always a burden whether he admitted it or not. He never got to live because of me. He was stuck in one place because I had no one else to look after me. He lived a lonely life so that I would never be alone.
“I’m not going to cry, because I know if I do, you’ll probably just laugh at me.” My voice drifts out to sea as I speak. “Not that I even remember what it sounds like.” I frown. “Which makes me sad.” I lift my head to stare at the surface of the water which reveals nothing underneath.
“I miss you so fucking much. I was so lost when you left me. I didn’t know which way to go—not without you there telling me it was okay. I hoped it wasn’t real. I told myself that there was no way my brother was dead. Impossible. Death was supposed to be afraid ofyou.” I take a deep breath. “I’ve spent the past ten years damning the world to hell for taking you.” I close my eyes. “You were supposed to live. We never got to go to New Orleans, and I promised myself I’d never go without you. I remember how I felt knowing Mom went without me.”
“I know we’ll go eventually. We’ll both be ghosts at that point, but that just means we’ll blend right in. We can haunt the tourists. The witches will love us.” I laugh. “All the ghost stories will become about us. They’ll give us names like Anne and George.”
I push down the sickness in my stomach. “I’m letting her go. I’m going to let Mom go.” My brows knit together. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let you go though. Why would I when you’re right here?” I swipe away the tears that fall. “Fuck,” I mutter.
“Oliver stole your car by the way.” I smile. “Don’t worry though, I stole it back and ran a few red lights for you. At least six hundred dollars’ worth.” I lay down on the board, resting my cheek against it. “I guess it’s my fault for leaving it here. Dibs are dibs I suppose. Oh! There’s something else—”
“Who are you talking to?” The voice of a small child booms from behind me. I jolt upright on the board and swivel my head around. The young boy has short strawberry-blond hair and brown eyes. His face is sweet as he eyes me with curiosity. He looks about four years old and is on a small white surfboard wearing a life jacket.
Where in the hell are his parents?
I shrug one of my shoulders. “What’s it to ya?”
He ignores me. “Why are you sad?”
