all of my past life could have been a precarious trigger to a panic attack. And, even now, I can't be sure how I'll react to hearing Michelle's voice.
But, I decide, with no small amount of uncertainty, I'm about to find out.
My mother's back is to me so she doesn't see me approach. She startles, and I can see the cogs in her head turning—she's about to make up some reason to get off the phone. But I stop her.
"Can I say hi?" I ask, my voice timid and tremulous in a way that would have been unrecognizable a year ago. Now it's one I'm fairly familiar with.
My mother's hesitance tells me she herself isn't so sure about this, and I wonder how confident she was about bringing up Cam a week ago. I consider that perhaps she was nervous about it, and maybe even regretted it. After all, she hasn't brought him up since.
My mom recovers quickly, though. After all, she has the poker face of a practiced litigator. "Sure," she replies, and then says into the receiver "Rory wants to say hello."
Also practiced? Her smile, and she keeps it carefully played on her face while she listens to whatever Michelle's presumably surprised response is.
My mother hands me the receiver and makes to head into the kitchen to give me a false sense of privacy. She can, of course, hear every word I say.
I rally my courage. I tell myself that I really am the strong girl Sam used to believe in. That I am safe and in control. That my fears, rational and imagined, can't touch me now—not here.
"H-hi," I stammer, then hold my breath.
I hear a rush of breath before Michelle replies. "Hi, Rory, honey."
I inhale deeply, trying to settle my nerves. I've known this woman since before conscious memory. "How are you doing?" I ask. I hold my breath again. I don't mean to test her, but that's exactly what my question is. I don't know if she'll bullshit me with platitudes or tell me the truth. Or something in between.
Michelle sighs. "It's been hard, honey, you know."
Strangely enough, a whisper of relief flows through my veins at her honesty. Because yes, I do know. "I do," I tell her.
"It's so good to hear from you though, Rory girl. I won't pretend I don't ask your mom about you all the time," she admits.
Old memories surface. Ones never forgotten, but never at the forefront of my mind either. Rory girl was Cam's nickname for me, and I'll associate it mainly with him for the rest of my life. But it didn't originate with him.
I may have been a tomboy, but with Cam and me both being only children, I was the closest thing to a daughter Michelle Foster had. She was the one who started calling me Rory girl when I was three. She was the one who braided my overlong waves into pig tails so they wouldn't catch on one of our fishing hooks, who taught me how to pull my ponytail through the back of my baseball cap.
"I'm sorry I haven't called." My voice cracks with guilt, and I squeeze my eyes shut to try and get ahold of my emotions.
"Shh, honey," Michelle coos. "You just take care of yourself, okay? That's what he would want."
My breath catches at the mention of Cam, the emptiness in my stomach rolling and swirling until it encircles my heart, amplifying the perpetual ache there. I know that Cam would want me to take care of myself. There's a lot of things Cam would want, like being here, for one. But I also know he would have wanted me to check in on his mother, to make sure she was doing okay, and I hadn't done that. I can't help but feel as if I've let him down in some profound way.
I hear a faint gasp on the other end of the line, as if Michelle has just realized what she'd said. As if she hadn't meant to bring him up. But why shouldn't she? Am I really so fragile that she's meant to pretend he never existed? That there isn't a giant Cam-shaped hole in each of our lives, one that can never be filled. How is that honoring him?
"I miss him so much," I whisper shakily. My eyes fill with tears and my breath comes too fast. But this isn't my anxiety. I'm not
But, I decide, with no small amount of uncertainty, I'm about to find out.
My mother's back is to me so she doesn't see me approach. She startles, and I can see the cogs in her head turning—she's about to make up some reason to get off the phone. But I stop her.
"Can I say hi?" I ask, my voice timid and tremulous in a way that would have been unrecognizable a year ago. Now it's one I'm fairly familiar with.
My mother's hesitance tells me she herself isn't so sure about this, and I wonder how confident she was about bringing up Cam a week ago. I consider that perhaps she was nervous about it, and maybe even regretted it. After all, she hasn't brought him up since.
My mom recovers quickly, though. After all, she has the poker face of a practiced litigator. "Sure," she replies, and then says into the receiver "Rory wants to say hello."
Also practiced? Her smile, and she keeps it carefully played on her face while she listens to whatever Michelle's presumably surprised response is.
My mother hands me the receiver and makes to head into the kitchen to give me a false sense of privacy. She can, of course, hear every word I say.
I rally my courage. I tell myself that I really am the strong girl Sam used to believe in. That I am safe and in control. That my fears, rational and imagined, can't touch me now—not here.
"H-hi," I stammer, then hold my breath.
I hear a rush of breath before Michelle replies. "Hi, Rory, honey."
I inhale deeply, trying to settle my nerves. I've known this woman since before conscious memory. "How are you doing?" I ask. I hold my breath again. I don't mean to test her, but that's exactly what my question is. I don't know if she'll bullshit me with platitudes or tell me the truth. Or something in between.
Michelle sighs. "It's been hard, honey, you know."
Strangely enough, a whisper of relief flows through my veins at her honesty. Because yes, I do know. "I do," I tell her.
"It's so good to hear from you though, Rory girl. I won't pretend I don't ask your mom about you all the time," she admits.
Old memories surface. Ones never forgotten, but never at the forefront of my mind either. Rory girl was Cam's nickname for me, and I'll associate it mainly with him for the rest of my life. But it didn't originate with him.
I may have been a tomboy, but with Cam and me both being only children, I was the closest thing to a daughter Michelle Foster had. She was the one who started calling me Rory girl when I was three. She was the one who braided my overlong waves into pig tails so they wouldn't catch on one of our fishing hooks, who taught me how to pull my ponytail through the back of my baseball cap.
"I'm sorry I haven't called." My voice cracks with guilt, and I squeeze my eyes shut to try and get ahold of my emotions.
"Shh, honey," Michelle coos. "You just take care of yourself, okay? That's what he would want."
My breath catches at the mention of Cam, the emptiness in my stomach rolling and swirling until it encircles my heart, amplifying the perpetual ache there. I know that Cam would want me to take care of myself. There's a lot of things Cam would want, like being here, for one. But I also know he would have wanted me to check in on his mother, to make sure she was doing okay, and I hadn't done that. I can't help but feel as if I've let him down in some profound way.
I hear a faint gasp on the other end of the line, as if Michelle has just realized what she'd said. As if she hadn't meant to bring him up. But why shouldn't she? Am I really so fragile that she's meant to pretend he never existed? That there isn't a giant Cam-shaped hole in each of our lives, one that can never be filled. How is that honoring him?
"I miss him so much," I whisper shakily. My eyes fill with tears and my breath comes too fast. But this isn't my anxiety. I'm not
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