At least, by everyone but me.
“Mom?” I glance at her over my shoulder.
“Yes, honey?” She continues to scroll on her phone.
“D-Do you know what today is?” I falter.
She pauses to think. “Monday?”
She could rip my heart out and it would still hurt less than what she just said. Anything would hurt less than her ignorance.
“No, the date,” I choke out.
It’s as if the heater broke down when the words trickle out of my mouth. The room grows cool, the air as frisky as the heart I’m not sure she has. I’m the tiniest bit relieved at the streak of pain ripping across her gaze.
She knows.
Even if she’d rather die than talk about it.
She clears her throat. “I picked up some of your clothes from the dry cleaner. Put them on your bed.”
I didn’t know it was humanly possible to be this disappointed. I want to scream, “That’s it? We’re going to go one more year pretending like nothing happened? One more year acting like our world didn’t end on this day nine years ago?”
But I can’t find the courage. So, instead, I storm out of the house, climb inside my car, and sink my teeth into my bottom lip to keep the tears at bay. I’m almost out of gas, but I don’t care. I have to do this.
For him.
For me.
I have to celebrate his life.
Lacking the guts to drive to the springs,—the town had to get its name somewhere—I drive aimlessly until thirty minutes becomes forty-five. I once read that experiencing a traumatic event at a young age was better than experiencing it when older. Something about children locking up their most disturbing moments into the remotest corner of their memory, therefore allowing themselves to move past the unthinkable.
While that may be true for some… I wasn’t so lucky. I was nine when I found him—not exactly a child but not old enough to be considered a teenager.
But I still remember everything.
Every detail.
Every noise.
But what I remember most vividly is the smell.
Booze, cigarette…
Death.
My father committed suicide in the garage the day after my ninth birthday. Ashley, Mom, and I had gone to a benefit concert for leukemia where Ash was set to sing. We’d made a girls’ day out of it, dropped by the hair salon, then to the mall to snag the perfect dress for Ashley’s big performance. Mom had even agreed, very reluctantly, to let me get the tips of my hair dyed dark pink while my sister got blonde highlights.
It was the perfect day.
Until it wasn’t.
I’d run inside the house ahead of Mom and Ashley to go find Dad. I just couldn’t wait to show him my hair. Ashley was always a mommy’s girl, but I was my father’s daughter all the way. Curtis D’Amour was more than my papa.
He was my best friend and the only person in my life who I felt saw me just as clearly as he saw my sister. The only person who made me feel like I was his favorite. He had a special nickname for me and me only.
Love.