Drown

7. Resounding Laughter

I'm driving Josh to the park. His leg is in a bright blue cast.

You can see where Vince drew half of a crude drawing of a penis, before Josh realized what he was drawing and scribbled it out. Josh had been mad for five minutes before they both had just laughed like idiots.

Josh looks over at me, fiddling with the radio, and I can feel him smile at me.

"What."

"You guys almost kissed. Am I right?"

"I'm-I'm not ready to talk. About this," I say after a long pause.

"Alright. Okay."

We leave it alone and I'm thankful. I drop him off, watch him meet up with a few kids, two guys and a girl, who all rush towards him to get a look at his cast.

When I got back to Vince's, I dropped his car keys on his kitchen counter.

I heard the shower turn off.

"Car?" I heard.

"Yeah, it's me."

"I just got out, I'll be right there."

He walks across the living room to get to his bedroom in a towel, water dripping down the center of his shoulder blades.

I sit on my shaking hands.

* * *

Grief is easy when you're not thinking about your dead father. It's very easy when it's not on your mind-but that seems to be the thing about grief. It-they-are always on your mind. And my dad was always on mine.

Vince noticed but said nothing. The strange moments in conversation where I blanked and when I wasn't there anymore. He noticed. He didn't say, "what's wrong, Caroline?" and I appreciated it, because the answer - the answer would be everything.

Everything is wrong and my dad is dead and I'm so sorry and I can't breathe and help me help me help me-I took a deep breath and let it go.

Sometimes, in these moments, he would hold my hand.

Then, I couldn't breathe for a different reason.

***

I came home to my mother crying one Tuesday night. I swallowed, hard. Walked like a zombie up the steps, the hitching breaths and rough sobbing sounds becoming louder. My heart seemed like it would pound its way out of my chest. I put both hands over my heart so it wouldn't fall out.

"Mom," and my voice was shaky and small. "Mom," I tried again. It was no better.

"Sweetie," she said. It had been a very long time since she had spoken back to me. My throat constricted and I felt like I was tethered to a very thin rope. Hanging, hanging. If she spoke again, I swore I would fall through the floorboards and never stop falling.

She tried to dry her eyes before I saw her but I saw enough-thin, sharp, and crying-my mother was a fragile sight and I felt like I was going to throw up. I couldn't breathe.

"Mom," I said and it sounded like an apology.

"I'm fine," she said, an obvious lie.

"No," I said. "No."

I let her cry into my hair, her arms, thinner than they should be, circling around me. She kept whispering, "My love, my love, my love, he's gone, baby, he's gone," and each time, it felt like she was twisting a knife further into my side.

I thought distantly that I should be crying too, but I couldn't work up the tears.

***

Vince gets me a job where he works because I complain nonstop about my boredom (crushing sadness) and how I have nothing to do all day (except think about my mom and my dad, this never ending loop of guilt and sadness and anger.)