The Truth About That Summer

fifty-two

As I expected, Grams is perched on the sofa, waiting for me to come home. Her knitting is in her lap, but so are her needles, her fingers nervously knotting and unknotting again and again instead of the yarn.

I check my phone and sigh. I would've only been just leaving the center now anyways. She must have been worried from the moment I went to work this morning.

I spent awhile sitting by the cross. People do that, when someone they love dies, sometimes. They visit their grave, the site of their accident even. Anything to feel closer to them.

Casey has a nice headstone back home. Mom and Dad paid a lot for it. Casey Anderson, son, brother, friend, it says.

But it's in a cemetery he'd never even visited. Not once when he was alive.

If his spirit is anywhere... it's not there.

Silently, I make my way into the kitchen and turn the oven on to start dinner. I prepared a pot pie this morning when I couldn't sleep. Maybe that's why Grams is anxious about me - she must've overheard me awake too early.

Standing before the fridge, I freeze, catching my reflection.

I don't feel Casey at the cross, either.

I grip the countertop so hard my knuckles turn white.

The horrifying, terrifying truth is... I don't feel Casey anywhere anymore. I think about him all the time, I swear to God it's like I even see him sometimes... But I'm always left with the empty feeling of his absence. I don't feel him - just the hole that he's left.

"Dylan?"

Grams voice makes me jump. Plastering something like a smile over my face, I turn slowly, reminding myself to unclench my fists.

"What's up, Grams?"

"I thought I heard you moving about this morning. You look tired." She settles into her chair at the table and I join her, but say nothing. "Your mother told me about your nightmares, you know."

"Of course she did." I sigh, pressing my hands to my sore eyes.

"You can talk to me."

I say nothing, staring at her, wanting to give her something, some reassurances, anything, but unable to do so. God, how I wish I could.

"Dylan..." Her lips turn down.

I don't like her tone. I know I won't like what comes next.

"Dylan, I think it's time to think about getting some help."

Grams places her wrinkly hand on my forearm at the same time as my head begins to shake.

Help? I don't need help. I tried for a little, a counselor on campus, because Mom insisted.

I learned that I don't need someone who has no idea what it felt like to lose Casey telling me how to move on from him.

"Dylan?" Grams voice sounds far away.

A knock at the door saves me from having to say anything at all. I rush to answer it, the disappointment falling over me immediately as the door swings open.