Day—Dolores’ first one without you, though she seemed unbothered by it at breakfast, but perhaps only for my sake—and I went to see my own mother. Which made me miss you extra hard. I have no one to talk to about this stuff now. You were the only one who got it, or at least the only one I could confide in and who wouldn’t declare me mental. I know, I know, I’m doing it again. I’m feeling very sorry for myself, indeed.
I didn’t tell my mother I’m staying at Dolores’. I don’t tell her so many things and I figured she wouldn’t like it, what with me never wanting to spend the night at theirs. The tension is just too much for me. Being in that house automatically strips away a layer of my defense and I get so instantly gloomy. It’s like stepping into a time-machine and being transported back to when I was twelve and Tyler and I had just been introduced to yet another nanny.
Isn’t it funny that even now, after your death, you’re still my only means of therapy—
“You’re writing again.” Dolores stands in the doorframe.
“Oh.” I didn’t hear her come home, nor climb the stairs.
“I didn’t mean to startle you. I saw the light was on in here.”
“It’s okay. I was just… scribbling.” I’m not telling Dolores I’m writing a letter to her dead son.
“That’s good. That’s something.”
“You’re home early.” I turn my chair toward her.
Dolores leans her shoulder against the doorframe and nods. “I fled the dinner party. This woman I’ve never met, and who obviously didn’t know about Ian, was telling us all about how her son had taken her on a hot air balloon ride for Mother’s Day early this morning, to see the sunrise over Chicago, and I just had to get out of there. I just couldn’t sit there and pretend that every single word of her story didn’t cut me like a knife. You know how Ian liked to go completely overboard on Mother’s Day, to ‘un-un-commercialize’ it, as he called it. The year after Angela died, he took me on a helicopter ride, because, as he said, ‘I had to get a double dose of Mother’s Day attention now.’ When this woman was talking about her sunrise flight over Chicago, I couldn’t stop thinking about that. Although I do hate that it’s Mother’s Day that is making me fall apart like this.”
I get up, walk over to her and throw my arms around her. The entire action happens on instinct. I embrace Dolores and hold her tightly against me, and she breaks down on my shoulder. Loud, heaving sobs escape her and though it’s perhaps ironic that I was just describing in my letter to Ian how strong Dolores has been, I don’t perceive her breakdown as weakness. I know how hard it is for her to show all this emotion in front of me, to show her naked, true self to me. It’s only because I’ve been staying here and we’ve built this fort around us, in her house, that she can do this. I’m honored to have her fall apart in my arms.
“Come on.” Gently, I coax her to her bedroom. She sits on the edge of the bed for a few minutes with her head buried in her hands. I sit next to her and pull her close, put my hand in her hair, massage her scalp, the way she has done for me so many times.
When she lifts her head out of her hands, she wipes away some of her tears, and doesn’t say she’s sorry. And that’s what I meant when I wrote that she was strong. Dolores doesn’t needlessly apologize for her grief. It’s in her; there will be a missing piece in her heart forever, but she’s not afraid to own up to it. But to get to the other side of this pain, we have to go through it. There’s no way around, over or under it. We need to let it consume us for as long as it takes to put ourselves together and start living with it, as a permanent part of us.
“Can I get you anything?” I whisper, my arm curved around her neck now.
“No.” Dolores shakes her head. “Just sit here with me for a while longer.”
And I do.
* * *
When we’re
I didn’t tell my mother I’m staying at Dolores’. I don’t tell her so many things and I figured she wouldn’t like it, what with me never wanting to spend the night at theirs. The tension is just too much for me. Being in that house automatically strips away a layer of my defense and I get so instantly gloomy. It’s like stepping into a time-machine and being transported back to when I was twelve and Tyler and I had just been introduced to yet another nanny.
Isn’t it funny that even now, after your death, you’re still my only means of therapy—
“You’re writing again.” Dolores stands in the doorframe.
“Oh.” I didn’t hear her come home, nor climb the stairs.
“I didn’t mean to startle you. I saw the light was on in here.”
“It’s okay. I was just… scribbling.” I’m not telling Dolores I’m writing a letter to her dead son.
“That’s good. That’s something.”
“You’re home early.” I turn my chair toward her.
Dolores leans her shoulder against the doorframe and nods. “I fled the dinner party. This woman I’ve never met, and who obviously didn’t know about Ian, was telling us all about how her son had taken her on a hot air balloon ride for Mother’s Day early this morning, to see the sunrise over Chicago, and I just had to get out of there. I just couldn’t sit there and pretend that every single word of her story didn’t cut me like a knife. You know how Ian liked to go completely overboard on Mother’s Day, to ‘un-un-commercialize’ it, as he called it. The year after Angela died, he took me on a helicopter ride, because, as he said, ‘I had to get a double dose of Mother’s Day attention now.’ When this woman was talking about her sunrise flight over Chicago, I couldn’t stop thinking about that. Although I do hate that it’s Mother’s Day that is making me fall apart like this.”
I get up, walk over to her and throw my arms around her. The entire action happens on instinct. I embrace Dolores and hold her tightly against me, and she breaks down on my shoulder. Loud, heaving sobs escape her and though it’s perhaps ironic that I was just describing in my letter to Ian how strong Dolores has been, I don’t perceive her breakdown as weakness. I know how hard it is for her to show all this emotion in front of me, to show her naked, true self to me. It’s only because I’ve been staying here and we’ve built this fort around us, in her house, that she can do this. I’m honored to have her fall apart in my arms.
“Come on.” Gently, I coax her to her bedroom. She sits on the edge of the bed for a few minutes with her head buried in her hands. I sit next to her and pull her close, put my hand in her hair, massage her scalp, the way she has done for me so many times.
When she lifts her head out of her hands, she wipes away some of her tears, and doesn’t say she’s sorry. And that’s what I meant when I wrote that she was strong. Dolores doesn’t needlessly apologize for her grief. It’s in her; there will be a missing piece in her heart forever, but she’s not afraid to own up to it. But to get to the other side of this pain, we have to go through it. There’s no way around, over or under it. We need to let it consume us for as long as it takes to put ourselves together and start living with it, as a permanent part of us.
“Can I get you anything?” I whisper, my arm curved around her neck now.
“No.” Dolores shakes her head. “Just sit here with me for a while longer.”
And I do.
* * *
When we’re
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