Whisper in the Rain

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

GRACE

After awkwardly navigating my way through dinner, Miles walked me home. As we walked the streets in silence, I tried to wrap my head around the way his family operated. There was no fighting, no yelling, no threats. Just love. You could feel it wafting trough the air alongside the aroma of pork roast and salted vegetables.

I'd never been more jealous of a person in all my life. Miles had what I wanted. What I'd always wanted.

"Can I ask you something?" He asked as we neared my house.

With the way Miles was tip-toeing his way into my soul, I feared he would ask something I wouldn't be able to answer. I wanted to be open with him, but there were too many things in my life I couldn't explain.

"Ask away," I said bravely.

"What happened to your parents?" His deep voice was hesitant and careful. "Your real parents."

Thankfully, that I could answer.

"My father was never in the picture. I don't even know his name. But my mother... she was an angel. She-"

My voice broke and I had to stop. Voicing my memories of the woman who brought me into the world was always hard. She'd been ripped from my arms much too soon. No matter how many years passed, the hurt was still fresh, still raw and vulnerable.

"We don't have to talk about this."

"No!" I said, clinging to his hand, wanting more than anything to open up to him about the only beautiful thing that had ever walked in or out of my life. "I want to. I want to talk about her."

Every foster home, every foster parent, every foster sibling- they had no interest in who or where I came from. The absence of verbally recognizing the love I had for my mother had felt like a gaping hole in my chest, one that would never be filled, no matter what I tried to stuff inside. Years had passed without me speaking of her, and I knew no amount of babbling could ever bring back the fierce love I'd felt every time she embraced me. But talking about her, remembering her, and picturing her subtle beauty in my head was all I had left.

"She died just a few days before my eighth birthday."

"I'm sorry," Miles said, tightening his grip on my hand, grounding me to the here and now. "How'd she die?"

"Overdose. Or so they say." A disbelieving laugh puffed out from between my lips. "You know, I remember a lot about my mother, but not once do I remember her acting like a junkie. She was always coherent, well-groomed, her eyes always clear and happy. There's not a single memory that's tainted by something like drugs. Not one."

Miles offered me a tight, sad smile as he chewed his bottom lip, deep in thought. The way the muscles in his jaw tensed told me he had something on his mind, something he didn't want to share.

"What?"

Miles dropped my hand and stepped away, clearly wondering if he should share whatever dark thought had taken hold. Then, he let the words fall into open air.

"Do you- do you think maybe there's a part of you that hid the bad memories and pulled the good ones forward? Like, maybe as a coping mechanism or something? I know that happens sometimes when-"

"No," I snapped. "Absolutely not. I've spent years trying to squeeze every memory I have of her out of my brain and not once have I remembered anything that even remotely points to the idea that she was a druggie. She was a good mom. She was caring and sweet and funny. She was... she was perfect, Miles. Perfect."