Where It Leads Us

Chapter Thirty

"Where have you been?" My mother rises from her seat on the couch. My gaze was drawn immediately to dad's. He discreetly moves his head towards me, silently examining me from head to toe as if I were a stranger.

My father extends his elbow to help my mother maintain her balance. She grasped my father's elbow and rapidly walked towards me, nearly stupefying me with the unexpected warmth of her hug, which I never thought to miss and would still be a sucker for.

My mom cups my cheeks, and I want to melt by her familiar touch, "I was so worried," she says as she stares into my eyes. Her brows were pinched together, and her eyes were full of sorrow that it nearly shattered me.

"I'm sorry," I said.

I wasn't sure whether I meant what I said. A part of me told it, apologizing to her for my hasty decisions, and another part of me didn't, which included my father in the picture.

I looked at father, "We were so worried about you," he said in a low voice.

"Can I be excused?" I tell my mom, her hands still cupping my cheeks.

"That's new," I hear Jonathan across the hall say as he walks out of the kitchen, holding a bowl in his hand with a spoon in it. "You're asking permission to be excused when all you do most of the time is walk out on your own."

My mom hisses at Jonathan, "Jonathan, that's not the right way to talk to your brother."

Jonathan scoops something from the bowl he's holding with his spoon. "He wasn't even talking the right way to either you or father," he continues to speak between chews as he lifts the spoon and shoves more food into his mouth.

My mom drops her hands, "Jonathan—"

"—Mom," I stopped her. "It's fine. He's right."

"That's also new," Jonathan scoffs.

I sighed as I turned towards him, "Look, I know I've been acting immature, and I'm sorry if it affected you."

Jonathan looks at me, his face expressionless as he continues to chew in silence.

"I don't give a rat's ass how you treat me. It's the way you treat mom and dad. It seemed as though you were deriding Mom's feelings for still wanting Dad in our lives," he says casually. The fact that he now spoke in this manner alarmed me—he seemed odd yet, so calm.

Wow, deriding. Big word.

Mom follows Jonathan into the living room, and as I go towards the stairs, I hear mom's distant voice as she scolds Jonathan about the things he said to me, which I blatantly ignore and continue on my way to my room.

I took off my jacket, which was almost suffocating me and my ribs. It's the same old denim jacket that my mother got me three or four years ago and that I'm still trying to squeeze into. I toss it on the floor, scuff a few papers on the floor, and tuck them away beneath my bed.

I snatched my laptop from my desk and placed it on my bed with me. As soon as I sat down, I turned on my computer, went to Facebook, and searched Lauren's name. The page loaded, and a few people appeared seconds later, none of whom seemed to be Lauren Sanders.

I can say they weren't her since there were three ladies who all looked like they were in a nursing home. One profile includes a photo of her with an elderly gentleman, while the rest of the profiles on Facebook have no profile pictures.

I tried searching Sanders Family on Google, and a few articles popped up about random people. There were a few news articles about Lauren's family. One article read: Jackson David and Coralina Sanders found dead, Wednesday afternoon. Then it continues: Despite having all eyes on the case, authorities could never identify the murderer. The investigation is put on hold due to insufficient evidence, according to the Carlsbad Police Department.

This was the buzz of the town for weeks, I remembered. My mother would always turn on the television from the living room and boost the volume until it reached the kitchen every morning at breakfast.

I can't imagine how difficult it must have been for Lauren to consume them all by the end of the day. I can't imagine what it must be like to live and walk in her shoes for a day—the number of stares from multiple eyes of strangers, questions from reporters, and, most likely, murmurs that have traveled from mouth to ears in school.

I'm sure there's a lot more to this than Lauren. It's more than the events of the past; I believe it goes beyond that. And I believe it goes beyond those letters, or perhaps they are related somehow?

I hear three knocks on the door as I continue to browse and become caught in a rabbit hole of more results on Google. Softly demanding. "What is it?" I said as I quickly closed the laptop as if I were hiding something.

When the door swings open, I notice my mother standing on the other side, her arms crossed over her chest, resting against the door frame. My brows pulled closer together as she said, "You still haven't answered my question from earlier," causing me to groan.

"We were pretty concerned. Are you unaware of who we've been calling?" With the way her tone increases with each word she speaks, I can already sense her frustration.

As I fall back into my bed, I remark, "It doesn't matter. I'm here, and I'm still alive."

"You don't have the right to say that," Mom says. "Why have you been so selfish?" she asks. "Don't you ever consider those who are concerned about you?"

I closed my eyes, my throat constricted when the word 'selfish' how was used to characterize me. I sat up straight, opened my eyes, and stared her straight in the eyes.

High school was supposed to be my ticket to liberty, but why have I felt so imprisoned my entire life, even before high school happened? I'm slowly witnessing my youth slip away without me being able to appreciate it, and now I get to choose myself for the first time, and I'm acting selfishly?

I took a deep breath, "I just need some time, mom. Please."

No matter how many words there are needed to be said, no matter how many times I have swallowed my pain, sometimes it's better not to let it out. Sometimes it's better left unsaid.

My mom silently exits the room, and I notice my father's head peaking over the edge of the doorframe. When he noticed that I was gazing at him, all he did was grin. It wasn't a delighted grin; rather, it was a genuine disappointing type of grin. I was aware that they were disappointed in me because I am also disappointed in myself.

I stretch my arm and pull the drawer open as I gaze over my bedside table. I stared at the envelope that was just sitting inside my drawer. It's been there for weeks, unsure when the perfect time is to open it. Or whether it was supposed to be opened in the first place.

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