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One more day is done, gone forever.
One more day Kyle hasn’t come home.
One more day Kyle hasn’t said anything to his mother.
How much longer is he going to do this?
When we found out about the brain tumor in the hospital room, Kyle immediately left. I caught up to him down the hall and grabbed his arm, asked him where he was going. He said he was going back to Boulder. That he had to get The Gallery ready for its first show.
“But your mom…” I had trailed off.
He shook his head. “I can’t deal with this right now.”
He kissed me before reminding me I needed to pack my things, and then he disappeared.
So, we don’t talk about it. We pretend it isn’t happening. We pretend that, while I cry in the shower most mornings after he’s gone to work, everything is normal.
But it’s not. Nothing about this is normal.
Diane stirs. I scratch the back of my neck, hoping she doesn't wake. She mostly sleeps when I'm here. The awkward moments of conversation are forced and difficult. I don't know what to say to her. She doesn't know what to say to me. We just sit in this uncomfortable silence until she gets tired and eventually dozes off to a restless sleep.
I notice her shiver. She kicked off the throw blanket a while ago. I stand and grab the light grey knitted material, cover her thin, fragile body with it. Over the last three weeks, she's stopped eating. I don't think it's from the cancer; I think it's too hard to stomach anything. Mom says she talks about Kyle nonstop. And when I walk into the room without him, Diane begins crying. But she never asks me where he is or why he doesn't come see her.
My fingers linger on the soft blanket as I peer down at her, memorizing the laugh lines around her eyes and the pale pink color of her thin lips. It's hard to imagine this is the same woman who grabbed my arm at the beach house and called me a slut. It's hard to believe this is the same woman who cheated on her husband with a convicted killer. Then forced her son into helping her hide her shameful actions. She's always been so much more than that to me. She’s been Matt's Mom. Mom's best friend. Someone I have loved since the moment I met her.
I step back and turn to sit in the white chair beside her. But Matt is leaning against the open doorway, eliciting a surprised gasp from my lips. I'm not sure how long he's been watching me.
He motions for me to follow him.
We haven't talked much. A few words here or there. I held his hand at the hospital after Diane's seizure. He didn't rip his hand from mine, so I assumed we were friends again. I had been wrong, of course.
He opens his bedroom door and I walk in behind him, my heart warming as I take in the familiar Pokémon posters on his walls and the white cabinet that holds all of his dolls—erm, action figures. Fine, he calls them action figures. I call them dolls. Either way, they’re Barbie-sized and come with accessories.
Out of habit, I sit on the edge of his bed, run my fingers over the cool blue comforter. We spent a lot of hours sitting here, obsessing over cards, talking basketball, being friends.
I miss when he was my friend.
Matt leans against the white dresser opposite me, his body sagging with anguish. His hazelnut eyes, sometimes the color of copper when the light hits them just right, are lost somewhere far away.
"Everything alright?" I ask timidly.
Matt shakes his head. "I'm not going to UCLA."
I stand from his bed. "What do you mean?"
Hesitantly, I move closer to him and reach out a hand to touch his arm.
"My mom is dying, Jen," he says as his voice breaks. "I want to be here for that. I can't leave her. I can't leave my dad. He's putting on a good act, but I hear him crying all night long. They...they need me."
I step closer and wrap my arms around Matt's shoulders, tears flooding my vision. At first, I'm afraid he's going to push me away, but he relaxes against me, his whole body feeling lighter.
"What's Audra going to do?"
His hands slide up my arms as a few tears slip down his face. "She's going to defer for a semester or two. She hasn’t decided yet." He stares down at me intensely. "I'm scared."
"Me too," I manage to squeak out as my heart pounds in my chest. I keep trying to hold back the tears like I do around Kyle. But with Matt, things are easier. He's not angry at his mom. There’s no perverse history there. He's just...heartbroken by the unfairness of the situation. Like me.
So, I let the tears fall as we hold onto each other in the shadows of his childhood bedroom. Surrounded by his lame posters and dolls. The silent tears. The unspoken apologies. The mending of a friendship that can withstand pretty much everything. I think that’s the lesson I’ve learned through all of this. Even if we fight or disagree, we can still find our way back to each other when it counts.
