20
God Damn You
~Claire~
These past two months have been a nightmare. Trevor said my mom had days to maybe a week to live, but she managed to hold on for six weeks. Reluctantly, I took Noah’s advice and went to see her. It was surreal. Here was the woman who gave birth to me, dying, a shell of a woman. It seemed poetic for her to meet me at my birth, only for me to meet her at her death.
My mother was in the last stages of brain cancer. It started off with headaches, then fainting spells, loss of memory, a pins and needles feeling all over her body. And when the vomiting started, she went to her doctor. By then, it was too late. The tumor was inoperable, embedded too deeply in her brain.
When I walked into her room for the first time, she cried, and I cried—mostly because I was terrified and she was crying. I didn’t know what to do, what to say. I simply held on tightly to Noah’s hand, needing him to ground me. I honestly didn’t know what I was doing there.
Then she weakly held out her arms to me like she wanted to hug me, tears streaking down her face, a sob bubbling out. Again, I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to hug her back because she seemed to need it and I wanted to comfort her—she was dying; I was her daughter. However, she was also the woman who had left me. I didn’t know her.
Terrified, I let Noah guide me to her. Then I let Noah place my hand in hers, and she gripped that hand with both of hers, raising it to her face, holding it against her cheek. By that point, I was a sobbing mess. Still, I didn’t know what to do, what to say. I simply stood there, shaking so badly that Noah had to hold me up.
Noah pulled stayed there throughout the first meeting as we both listened to my mom talk, her voice getting hoarser by the minute. She was a blabbering mess the entire time, telling me her regrets, her fears. She wasn’t making excuses—she pointed that out often. She was merely trying to find understanding, but I couldn’t give her that.
I sat there and simply listened, not commenting, not giving her anything in return. Meanwhile, my mind was screaming at her, wanting to tell her how selfish she was, that I didn’t understand running away from your child because you felt you were too young, that your life felt final, over.
Regardless of my feelings, I gave her the closure she needed before she died. I couldn’t let her leave this life thinking she meant nothing to me. She gave me life, and I loved my life. I had to be thankful for that. She gave me such a wonderful father, I lived to fulfill dreams some people would sin for, and I was alive to meet Noah.
After I first talked to my mom, I called my dad, who dropped everything to fly up. I would have called him sooner, but I didn’t know how to tell him, or if I should. My mom left him almost nineteen years ago; what if I caused him pain by reviving memories of what could have been? Nonetheless, I selfishly needed my daddy’s support.
He stayed a few days, visiting my mother every one of those days, and then came back to my apartment looking aged. I shouldn’t have told him. I told him that, but he assured me he needed this. They both needed to clear the air. Still, I felt terrible.
I continued to visit my mom almost every day of those six weeks that she held on. Some days, she never woke up. Some days, I would talk freely to her and answer all her questions about me and my life. It hurt my heart to see her smile at some of the things she missed out on. And some days, we would cry until she fell asleep, which was often. Every time she fell asleep, I wondered if it would be the time she didn’t wake up. It was a confusing experience.
On top of that, my grades are falling from spending so much time yet not enough time at the hospital. I missed so much rehearsal time that, though they said they understood, I got pushed back to an understudy, not like I had a major role in the first place. And I am exhausted all the time, but I haven’t had time for more than five to six hours of sleep.
It all makes me realize that this is life. This is adulthood. All my childhood playtime is over. This past summer was the last of it, and now the real world is knocking, and there are so many responsibilities with not enough time to do them all.
I can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t concentrate or focus. Thankfully, I have Noah to remind me of those mundane things. He has been my hero in all this, using all his free time to be with me, simply being there for support. At night, when he comes home to find me still studying, he simply closes the books and guides me to bed, ignoring my protests, not saying a word.
Just the other week, when I was at my worst, he brought home a kitten. A beautiful, white fur ball of Persian sweetness. She is the most exquisite kitty I have ever seen.
I cried again when I saw her scamper into my room, a pink bow tied around her neck. I sat up in bed, and the little thing clawed her way up my bed and into my lap, giving me a soft meow. I was in insta-love.
Noah named her Angel, saying his angel needed one, too.
Then, a few days ago, my mom fell into a coma. And yesterday, while I was trying to study, the hospital called me seventy minutes after I left her room, telling me she had passed away. Thankfully, Noah was home and Dare was gone.
I cried, deep sobbing, uncontrollable tears. I missed the moment she fell asleep, never to wake up again. I missed the moment she took her last breath. I was just there. I didn’t understand how life could change, be gone, in the blink of an eye.
I can only imagine what it would have been like if I was there. Her chest rising, the respirator whooshing, the heart monitor beeping steadily. Then, her chest falling, the respirator depressurizing, the heart monitor screaming that there was no sign of life. That image haunts me.
Trevor dropped a few boxes off earlier. He said it was my mother’s wish for me to have them as soon as she was gone. I still need to go through her apartment and figure out what I want to do with all her stuff, but that can wait. Trevor is taking care of the funeral for me, and he already has all the financial stuff out of the way.
Now I am reading letters, so many letters my mom left for me over the years. She bought me a card or wrote me a letter for every occasion. Then she also wrote me a letter on days when she thought about me and had to write down what she was thinking. Some of them have me in tears and some parts make me laugh out loud. My mom had quite the sense of humor.
As I am unwrapping the gift she got me for my thirteenth birthday, there is a knock on my door. I hesitate to answer it, not wanting to be disrupted right now.
Dare took her boyfriend Victor, or Vick as he likes to be called, to Noah’s show. They asked me to come, and Noah begged me to be there, but after Trevor showed up with the boxes, Dare knew I wouldn’t. I called Noah and made an excuse about needing to study, not wanting to tell him the truth, knowing he would worry.
There is more going on here than I can tell him right now. I need the time to work it out in my own head. I’m already so stressed out with everything else. I don’t want to add to that tension by stressing Noah out, too. I need to believe everything will work out for the best. It should, right?
I decide to get up and at least check to see who is at the door. Noah’s parents stop by all the time, more so now than the first month we lived here. I know he stops by his parents often enough to grab clothes.
His mom has been a huge support for me. She was a shoulder to cry on those first few weeks when I started to see my mom. She even came to the hospital with me once, wanting to meet her. She has given me lots of study tips, too, knowing I hardly have time.
Looking through the peephole, I quickly step back. Troy? What is he doing here? Last I heard, he was still in training. He must be on leave. But why would he come here? Why isn’t he with Chelsea and their baby?
Curious more than anything, I open the door.
He is standing there in his uniform, looking so completely different from last time I saw him. I look him up and down twice, trying to put my finger on why he looks so different. He seems more mature, wiser—I can’t figure it out. He seems different … in a good way.
“Hi,” I finally get out, holding the door cracked open.
“Hey, Claire.”
We both stand there for a minute, not saying anything. I’m still taking in how much he has changed. His eyes are wiser, older. His build is even more muscled than before. He’s holding himself taller, more self-assured. I wonder if I look different to him, too.
His expression changes from wariness to concern. “Have you been crying?”
I reach up and swipe my fingertips under each eye, making sure mascara isn’t smeared. “Yeah, um …” I can feel my lip quiver. “My mom … She just … Um … My mom passed away last night.”
Troy’s brows draw down, looking confused, and he should be. He knows I never knew my mom.
I open the door wider. “Do you want to come in?” I can’t not let him in. He’s here, where he knows no one. I only hope he has somewhere to stay, because Noah will not like him staying here.
Troy nods and steps inside, closing the door behind him as he looks around. Then Angel comes in and introduces herself by rubbing against his legs. My sweet girl loves attention.
He reaches down, petting her under her chin, as he looks up at me. “She yours?”
I nod. “Yeah, Noah just got her for me. He’s been trying to cheer me up with”—I let out a sigh—“everything that’s been happening.”
Troy nods, not even looking bothered that I mentioned Noah. He surprises me more by saying, “Noah’s a good guy.” He sees the look of disbelief on my face. “I know. Shocking, right? But it’s true.”
I gesture for him to sit on the couch, and he does. I take a seat on the chair, curling up into it with my legs tucked under me. Angel comes up and starts butting her head under my hand, so I start petting her. Troy continues talking throughout all this.
“A year ago, I hated to admit it. Angry at it. But … yeah, he’s been good to you. Anyone with eyes can see that. I’m happy for you, Claire.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, mixed emotions running through me: shocked that he is being so mature about this; happy that he seems happy, content, compliant; sad because I’m still sad at recent events; scared for the same reasons; and again, shocked by how much has changed.
He looks over and sees the boxes and the letters scattered around. Then he looks back at me, somehow inferring they are from my mom. “So, your mom, huh? Want to tell me what happened?”
I do. I tell him everything that has happened since he left. I tell him about moving to the city; how happy and excited I was, how everything was starting to settle down and become this content routine. Then I tell him about the past six weeks; how scared I have been, sad, hurt. I tell him everything, not realizing I needed someone who didn’t live through it with me to know. It’s cathartic.
When my tirade about the most recent and fearful part of all is said, I can’t calm down. Troy gets up and pulls me in for a hug, telling me that things will get better. And I cling to him, ruining his beautiful uniform with my tears. Selfishly, I’m not sorry. I needed this so badly, and I didn’t even realize.
At this moment, I am so thankful to have my best friend back. It’s like how we were when we were kids. We hug, and I reminisce all the times he was there for me. All those times I got hurt, and he was my hero, making it all better, even kissing my boo-boos, though he thought girls were yucky. All those summers and after school playdates. All the hours we spent hanging out and keeping each other company. I missed my friend.
When I finally settle down, I apologize, and then promptly ask Troy to fill me in on him. And he tells me stories about his training, all the friends he made, where he is getting stationed. He already has Chelsea and Tori’s place all set. He got them a three-bedroom apartment for times he wants to crash there, but he is going to live in the barracks for the most part. Chelsea is going to start school in January, just taking a few classes. She already has interviews for part-time work set up, and the base where he is stationed has daycare for their daughter.
I smile the whole time he talks, so happy for him, and even for Chelsea. It doesn’t even sound like he is talking about the same girl. Honestly, it doesn’t seem like I am talking to the same guy. It’s all surreal.
Then Troy leaves, asking if he can stop by tomorrow. I tell him yes and, as I close the door, I realize it’s almost one o’clock in the morning and Noah isn’t back yet. His set should have been over a couple of hours ago. Maybe he decided to stay at his parents? But that isn’t his normal routine. He wouldn’t leave me alone the night after my mom died, not after not leaving me alone for the past six weeks. Would he?
I try to call him, but it goes to voicemail, which isn’t like him. He always answers my call. Where is he?
Troy comes back up to the door, and when I answer, thinking it’s Noah and he lost or forgot his keys or something, I see Troy holding Noah’s guitar case. Why would he have that?
Troy tells me he found it on the sidewalk, outside the building.
Frantic now, not knowing what to think, I thank Troy, practically slam the door on his face, and call Dare. She tells me the guys were breaking down the stage when she left, that Noah looked fine. He even told her he was coming right home to be with me after she divulged the boxes of my mom’s stuff to him.
I don’t know what to think. Why was he fine a couple of hours ago, and then disappeared from practically right outside my door …?
I look at the window behind the chair I was sitting on, and then I look at the couch. He couldn’t have seen Troy here. And besides, he knows Troy isn’t a threat, right? Oh, my God, what if he got mugged?
I don’t know what to do, so I call Dare back. She tells me to wait until morning, and then call Noah’s friends and his parents. Maybe Noah went somewhere with his friends, and his friends dropped his guitar off as a joke. Maybe he is staying with his parents.
I don’t believe any of that. All I can think is that Noah heard everything I said to Troy and freaked out. He can’t take dealing with me anymore. I became a burden to him. We are both so young, yet life threw us too much too fast, and he bailed. I know it.
~Noah~
Ever since finding out about her mom, Claire’s been in a funk. She has no appetite, lost considerable weight on her already tiny frame, and is falling behind at school. I don’t know how to get her out of this depression. She is slipping further away from me, and there is nothing I can do to bring her back.
Now I am rushing to get to her, but the damn taxi driver is moving slow as shit. It’s too cold and my guitar case is too heavy to ride my bike, which has been in my parents’ garage for a couple of weeks now.
When we finally get to Claire’s building, I jump out of the car before handing over the cab fare and grabbing my guitar case and the lily I bought her. It’s not much, but I hope it brings a little joy to her. Seeing her eyes light up, even for a second, gives me reassurance that she will be okay soon.
Turning away from the cab, I look up at the second-story window and freeze, my guitar and the flower dropping from my hand. My thoughts freeze, my stomach somersaults, my heart stops then starts pounding like it’s trying to escape my chest. I feel like I’m going to be sick.
I stumble—I fucking stumble—backward and slip off the curve, landing on my ass. I’m going to be sick.
All that negativity, all those dark thoughts I have had since we arrived in the city, my fear … It’s my worst nightmare, my biggest fear. I’m going to be sick.
Bent over the gutter, I hurl. My stomach clenches and relaxes then clenches again as everything I ate today comes up. Throat burning, vile taste. Even then, when there is nothing left, my stomach still seizes. Dry heaves, convulsing.
I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.
I look up again, and … Yep.
I continue to dry heave. My stomach hurts now. It doesn’t only feel sick; it hurts.
My chest hurts. It’s burning. I feel like I can’t breathe.
I feel like my heart is being torn from my chest. It hurts. Goddamn, does it hurt. Burning, searing, ripping, fist clenching agony.
I bring my hand up to my chest where my heart is pounding. I feel like I need to hold it in, hold my heart’s pieces back together. I need to press it back into my chest.
No other thoughts are hitting me yet. All I can think about is my body’s responses, wondering if I am having heart failure, a stroke—something other than heart break.
I cough, and it hurts. I sniff, and it hurts.
Why? How? Since when? Thoughts are back online, and I want them gone!
Goddamn, motherfucker. Goddammit. Jesus!
No, dammit. Just … no! Fuuuuucccckkkk!
I get off my hands and knees and stumble to a stand. I feel drunk. I’m dizzy, nauseous, and my head feels like it is floating above my body. Detached. My head’s detached. My heart’s detached. My limbs …
I move my right arm and bring it up to my mouth, biting down on the soft leather of my jacket to stop myself from screaming while breathing deeply through my nose.
I can’t look up again. I need to get in control of myself. I need to get out of here. I need to get far, far away. No, I need answers!
No! To hell with that shit. Seeing is believing, and I have seen enough. I don’t need to deal with bullshit excuses. I don’t need to subject myself to all this shit. I hate drama. Hate it.
To hell with this shit! No one should put up with it.
Just walk away. The end.
I pull out the sleeve of my shirt and wipe my nose off.
I’m not crying. Fuck that. It’s the damn November cold. It’s sensitive to my nose.
Claire …
Heart pounding anew, thundering in my own ears. Lack of breath. Sucking in air, gasping.
No, dammit. Get ahold of yourself!
Deep breath in. Blow it out. Shake it off.
It doesn’t work.
God damn you, Claire!
I bite down on my jacket again to stop the scream, forever marking my jacket.
I need to go. I need to just leave. I need to get as far away from Claire Diane Sawyer as possible.