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November 2
I've never been stood up by a boy before.
I don't have an extensive dating history, a few cafe dinners here and there, rarely anything serious or worth mentioning. Every guy I was ever interested in got the rejection from Carter. Too rude, too dumb, too fat, too popular, Carter always had something negative to point out in every guy I so much as looked at. It became absurd soon.
'Can you shut up? He asked me out and he's cute.'
'He farts in class, Taylor, you can't date someone whose fart smells like beans and potatoes. That's not cute!'
I'd slammed the door of my room shut and blocked out my ears, but he stood there, banging at my door and telling me how unworthy every living, breathing, human being was of me.
'I'll die alone because of you!' I'd yelled at him the next day after he'd ruined my date by flattening the boy's bicycle tires.
'You won't be alone. You'll have me!'
I didn't care then. I told him I needed a boyfriend, a man who wasn't my brother, somebody to cuddle with and kiss. He'd told me he'd find me the best man in the world, marry me off with pride, and watch my kids call him uncle. I'd slapped him then while Mom and Dad laughed, telling us we needed to grow up.
'Let me live while I'm alive,' Carter had yelled.
It was almost as if he knew he won't live to keep his promise.
Passing a gentle hand over the new sheets I've just spread over Carter's bed, I sigh. I stand beside his bed and look around his room, his Linkin Park posters and the books he almost never read. His favorite pen -- one I'd gotten him on our thirteenth birthday -- lies over a notebook on his desk. I stare at the notebook, wondering what he would have written in it if he ever opened it.
Maybe he would have written goodbye to me.
Carter didn't leave a note behind. No complaints, no cry for help. He left silently, taking all his pain with him and leaving behind a void and a thousand unanswered questions. I waited and waited, searched his entire room to find a letter he might have addressed to me. A suicide note perhaps. A goodbye. An apology. Or maybe a request for an apology.
He simply vanished.
Walking to the door, I place a hand on the knob and stop, surveying the empty room. I see the bed we had spent countless days and nights laying on. I see the desk I always sat on while he sang me -- terribly, of course -- one of his favorite songs by his favorite band. He loved 'In The End', yelling each word as it echoed out of his phone's speaker and reached me.
I tried so hard and got so far,
But in the end, it doesn't even matter.
"It mattered, Cart," I mumble, talking to the walls as usual, all his belongings and the air he breathed. "You mattered. You mattered the world to me."
Exhaling a breath, I back out of his room and close the door behind me, wondering if, one day, the sight of his things won't bring tears to my eyes. Maybe one day his memories won't haunt me.
I make my way down the stairs and into the kitchen, hoping to make myself something to eat. I haven't started my insulin treatment yet despite the doctor's advice. He needed to see my parents who apparently don't care enough to take a few hours out of their busy schedules so they can discuss my treatment options with a doctor. I thought about it, seeing the doctor again and just telling him to let me know what I need to do. He's probably going to ask for my parents again so it's no use.
Nonetheless, I've tried looking up non-medication-related treatments online. It's not very encouraging, to be honest. Most of the treatments are still undergoing clinical trials and the only suitable option is a lifelong treatment of insulin as the doctor suggested. Aside from that, a healthy diet and exercise are likely to help.
Easier said than done when I don't even want to move most of the day.
I catch sight of mom as soon as I enter the kitchen, her fingers curled around a glass of wine. I almost want to slap it out of her hand and watch it shatter to bits on the ground. Somehow, though, I manage to ignore my mom's existence in the same room as me and make my way to the stove. I can feel mom's gaze on me as I pull open a couple of cabinets and search for something edible.
"Taylor? I need to talk to you," Mom says.
I ignore her.
Mom comes over to me and tries to touch me but I jerk out of her grip, spinning around just in time to see hurt flash in her eyes.
"Too late for that, don't you think?" I snap.
She swallows and purses her lips. "I've been meaning to talk to you."
"Well, why didn't you?" I ask.
"I've been busy --"
"Cool. Now I'm busy."
I attempt to pass Mom by but she blocks my path, sighing a breath.
"Taylor, can you please sit down and listen to me? Don't be a child."
I don't really know what comes over me. I could blame it on the combined effect of my illness, an empty stomach, and the fresh memories of Carter. It would be more realistic and honest to admit that it's all me. All the pent-up passive aggression floating out of me, uncontrollable, undeniable.
One swift swipe of my hand sends Mom's drink crashing to the ground. The smash eases my mind and the liquid pouring out from between the shards resembles my bleeding heart.
"Taylor --" Mom gasps.
"Now that --" I point at the glass "-- is me being a child. Excuse me while I go and --"
"I've decided to get therapy, Taylor," Mom cries out, tears sparkling in her eyes as her chin and lower lip tremble.
I stare at her, caught off guard.
Mom sucks in a shuddering breath and stiffens her weak shoulders.
"You're right," she says, blinking back the tears. "You were right when you said I have problems. I'm drinking, sleeping, I'm ... I can barely do anything at work and I'm not even a mother to you anymore. I know I've been a mess for a while and I would say it's because of --"
"Don't blame it on Carter," I snap, putting up a hand. "Don't you dare blame it on him. He didn't do this to you. He didn't make you into this pitiful excuse for a mother."
"You don't know what it's like," Mom cries out, her voice breaking several times as tears roll down her cheeks. "You don't know what it's like for a parent to lose a child."
"I know what it's like for a child to lose a parent," I counter bitterly. "Or two of them. Right after losing a sibling to suicide."
"I'm sorry," Mom sobs. "I'm sorry, Taylor. I know I've been a terrible parent but I can't help it. I don't know what I'm doing and I need help. I'm getting help now. I want to. Please, I need you to see that."
I let out a humorless laugh that sounds more a weak cough. Averting my gaze, I refuse to look at the woman my mother has become. I don't see the beautiful woman whose strength I had admired. Instead, I see a frail carcass leftover from a trauma that took away her heart and soul.
"I'll get help, Taylor," Mom pleads, her voice low and shaky. "I want to talk to your father as well and see if he's willing to try couple therapy too."
I shake my head. "You both need individual therapy," I tell Mom, pushing back my venom and trying to be the daughter I should be. "You and Dad ... you need help as individuals before as a couple. And when you two are ready, we can try family therapy too. I think we need it. I haven't really been perfect here either so ..."
"No no no, honey," Mom says, taking a step towards me and reaching out her bony hands to clasp my arms. She looks at me through sunken eyes and I look at her tear-stricken face. "You've been wonderful. You've been trying so hard and I'm sorry. I can't blame you. You've lost your patience with me and I get that. I wouldn't have lasted half as long as you did."
I don't answer, watching Mom hiccup.
"I talked to a doctor," she says after a while, wiping her face and sniffling. "About you."
"Me?" My eyes widen.
"I met the doctor and talked about your treatment options," she tells me. "I haven't told your father yet because I don't know how he'll be able to handle it after everything that's been going on. But we should see someone and start you on medication. Or injection, to be more precise."
I stare at Mom. In all honesty, I hadn't expected Mom to see a doctor to discuss my health or even want to. It comes as a shock, then, that she has already been trying without my knowing. Not only that, but she wants to see a doctor with me.
So we do it. Sunday around noon, Mom has taken an appointment from a doctor whom we both go to see. Mom drives and I sit silently throughout the ride. I'm still bitter, although I kind of feel bad for it. Letting everything slide away so easy, though, just doesn't sit so well with me. I can't help but feel a twinge of hate toward everyone.
Just as last time, the doctor gives us some information. He tells Mom that insulin injection is the only option as it's safe and less dependent. According to him, there are other treatment utilities but they're in the trial phase so they aren't safe, especially for minors. As long as I see the doctor every two weeks and use clean needles, insulin can keep me going.
He also says I'm lucky to have an early diagnosis and am lucky that the condition is mild. He then has a look at the records I've been keeping and seems approving. As long as I continue taking insulin, I'll be okay.
"I can help you with the injections," Mom says as we walk toward the parking lot after the appointment. "I know you're afraid of needles."
Mom smiles slightly and I can tell she's trying to make up to me for the past several months. She's smiling and talking even when I barely respond to her. She's trying and maybe I should let my anger go as well.
"Taylor, hey!"
Mom and I spin around to see a tall figure jogging toward us. He stops before me, smiling and nodding toward mom before addressing me in his sexy Spanish accent.
"You got a few minutes?" Carlos asks me.
My eyes narrow and brow furrows of their own accord. Mom watches the wordless exchange, shifting on her feet.
"I need your help," Carlos says, his cool demeanor cracking to reveal a hint of helplessness underneath.
"And why would I help you?" I ask, folding my arms across my chest.
"Because Shane said you will," Carlos tells me.
I blink, not having expected this argument. Swallowing, I wait for Carlos to go on. He simply looks toward my mother who sighs.
"You want me to wait or should I go on home?" Mom asks me, probably interpreting Carlos' hesitance.
"You can go ahead," I tell her. "I'll walk."
"I can drop you," Carlos intervenes.
I roll my eyes toward him but don't speak. His niceness is uncanny but the caution I see in his eyes make me feel less threatened by his sudden change of manner. Besides, if Shane sent him to see me, there has to be more to it.
A lot more.
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A/N: Hope the exchange between Taylor and her mom didn't feel drawn out or feigned. I'm trying to take things at a natural pace so it's realistic. Hope your eliking the story so far. Any theories about Carlos?