Straight To You

seven

After I found the note in the rocking chair in place of my mother the morning my life changed forever, I remember reading the words on the paper over and over again in utter disbelief.

I just couldn't believe that the words were real. Maybe that's not true. Maybe I just didn't want to believe they were real. Either way, I was in shock. It was like time was moving in slow motion around me. Everything seemed watered down, including my emotions. It took a long time for everything to process, therefore making time feel like it was moving as slowly as possible.

I remember exactly how I felt when I read Mom's letter, but I still don't know how to describe my emotions. This happened four years ago, but the only thing that has come with time is grief. When I get to thinking about the day everything in my life went wrong, my memories begin to  feel fuzzy. I still haven't managed to wrap my head around all that happened, especially everything that happened that morning. Maybe I never will. Maybe I don't want to. Because with understanding comes accepting, and I'm still not ready to accept the truth.

I can recall what Mom's letter said, but not in full detail. I remember reading the words I needed to get away, be back soon, and I love you both. I don't have the letter any more. Even if I did, I don't think I would want it. It would hurt too much to have to see that simple piece of paper that managed to wreck not only my life, but my entire family's.

When Dad finally came down the stairs that morning, he found me standing in front of Mom's rocking chair, staring at the piece of paper covered in Mom's handwriting. I remember hearing him ask me what was wrong. Instead of answering him, I just handed him the note. It felt good to get that awful piece of paper out of my hands. In a way, it was almost freeing. Some people say seeing is believing, and not having to see the words written on that paper meant I didn't have to believe they were real; that what I knew to be happening wasn't real.

But it was.

Dad reread the letter about as many times as I did. I remember watching his expression go slack, his blue eyes cloud and widen in disbelief. He clutched the paper in his grip so hard his knuckles turned white. Scared is the only word to describe my father in that moment. My dad looked scared. Mom wasn't stable. She hadn't been for years. And just like that, she was gone, out in the wind all by herself. It was no wonder my dad was scared. I was, too.

Within seconds, his fear morphed into anger. Veins bulged in his neck and his fists clenched so tightly they wrinkled Mom's note. Before that day, I'd never seen my father so angry. I don't think I've seen him angry since. It was like all of the anger in his body was drained that day, and now my dad is incapable of producing anymore.

The first thing Dad did was rip the note to pieces. This didn't bother me. I didn't want that note. I never wanted to see it again. I didn't want my mom to just be . . . gone. Then Dad attacked the rocking chair. I remember the way Dad sent the chair flying with his foot, smashing it against the fireplace. In a way, it was a relief to watch that stupid chair break. It had held my mother captive too many nights to count.