Three weeks with my brother - Nicholas Sparks [85]
I glanced over at him, not altogether surprised at his comment. Whenever either of us were sad, our conversation always returned to the topic of our family.
“Do you realize that almost everyone on this trip is older than she was when she died?” he asked. “I can’t believe it’s been over thirteen years. It doesn’t seem like it.”
“No it doesn’t,” I agreed.
“Do you realize that in less than ten years, we’ll be as old as mom was when she died? Peyton would only be eleven years old then.”
I said nothing. Micah drew a long breath before going on.
“And it’s strange. I mean, when I think about mom, it’s like she hasn’t aged. In my mind, I mean. When I think about her, I always picture the way she looked the last time I saw her. I can’t even imagine what she’d look like now . . .” He trailed off. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “You know what I regret?”
I looked at him, waiting.
“That I didn’t get a chance to say good-bye. You and Cathy got to do that. When I left for Cancun, I was running late, and I didn’t even think to call her. And the next time I saw her, she didn’t look like mom anymore, and we were talking about donating her organs. It was just . . . unreal. And it breaks my heart to think that after sacrificing so much for us, she never got a chance to see or hold her grandkids, she never found out that you became an author, she never got to meet Christine or the kids. Mom would have been great as a grandma . . .”
He trailed off, his gaze unfocused.
“I miss her, too,” I said quietly.
The months after my mom’s funeral were halting steps in search of some sort of normalcy. No one in the family seemed to know how to react or what to do. Micah, Dana, and I tried to support one another as well as our dad. It seemed that every time one of us began crying, the others would fall in line. Thus we each came to the independent conclusion that no one should cry anymore. And we didn’t, unless we were alone.
Our mom was gone, yet strangely, there were times when it seemed as if she wasn’t. Everything in the house bore my mother’s imprint; the location of the spices in the cupboard, the placement of the photographs on the shelves, the color of the walls, her nightgown draped over the chair in her bedroom. Everywhere we looked, we were reminded of her, and there were moments when I’d be standing in the kitchen when I’d suddenly begin to feel as if my mom was standing behind me. At times like those, I would pray that I wasn’t imagining it. I looked for signs—movement from the corner of my eyes, perhaps, or limbs of trees swaying in the breeze. I ached for something to let me know her spirit was still with us. But there was nothing.
Yet, if the house was a constant reminder of my mom, it also began to serve notice as to how empty it had come to feel. There was no energy in the house, no vivaciousness, and the sound of laughter no longer echoed off the walls. We sometimes wondered whether we should rearrange the furniture or remove the more obvious signs of my mother’s presence. Her purse, for instance. For years, she’d placed it in a basket near the front door; months after her death, no one had summoned the will to put it in the closet or even open it, to see what was left behind. We knew what we’d find; pictures of the family, letters from her mother, her lipstick and personal trinkets. Those things were so personal, so . . . mom . . . that we couldn’t touch them for fear of somehow betraying her memory. We didn’t want to forget her, and in a way those were the only things we had left. The purse, it seemed, had become our silent entreaty for her return.
That year, we didn’t celebrate Christmas at the house; it was the first time in our lives we spent the holiday with other relatives. And though the company was comforting, none of us could shake the empty feeling