Lost and Found

Agony

           I opened my eyes and there were a few seconds of bliss before my mind quickly snapped back to the harsh reality I was facing. My mother was dead. Totally and completely.

            As my eyes started to water, I mentally scolded myself to stop crying.  I looked at myself in the mirror and could barely recognize myself. The bags under my eyes were darker than I knew was possible and my cheeks were permanently stained pink from tears. The most noticeable and hardest to cover feature- were my bloodshot eyes. If I continued to cry like this, my face would probably turn purple or something.

            It had always just been my mother and I, two peas in a pod, people would always say. I never had any siblings that I knew of, and my father left me when I was just 6 months old, at least according to my mom. The last few years had been pretty rough, I won't lie. I juggled 3 part time jobs, and schoolwork, to try to pay for my mother's medical bills plus our ordinary ones.

             Once the doctor told us about the illness, my mom had me switch schools. She didn't ever want anyone she knew to find out. It sounds petty, I know, but my mom never liked pity from people. I can't say I blame her. I seem to have inherited the trait as well, because I never told a soul.

            As my mom laid dying in that hospital bed just a few short months ago, she told me how proud she was of me. After that, I'll admit, the drugs were seeming to make her a bit delirious.
She waved her hand at me as if to signal me to come closer, and she whispered a few words that gave me something to hold onto. She said,"Find your father and brother." It was the last thing I ever heard her say.

As the time went on, I didn't have as much time as I thought I would after my mother's death. I still had loads of schoolwork as a sophomore in high school and was still working multiple jobs to pay for the funeral expenses and bills. My apartment bill seemed to go up monthly. I just hadn't had a lot of time to search for my father and brother. I started to wonder if it was the drugs that made her say that after a while. When she was in that state, I even convinced her to sign emancipation papers for me so I wouldn't have to go through the foster care system at 15. If she agreed to that, surely she made up the whole "you have a brother" thing...right? Yes, she must have. She would have mentioned it.

The days seemed to drag and blur together, into one never ending roller coaster of grief. I would go from job to job, just to come home and just barely walk past my mother's old bedroom before breaking down. I even tried sticking to a routine so I wouldn't ever have time to think about it too much, but If it didn't haunt me when I was awake, it surely would when I was asleep. I would wake up every single night like clockwork at three in the morning, screaming, after watching my mother die over and over, even in sleep. I'd have to force myself back to sleep, even though I knew I would see the same nightmare playing again and again in my head until morning.

After three months, the grief and loneliness finally pushed me to my breaking point. I woke up for probably the fifth time that night, unable to get even a single peaceful second of sleep. I sat up, and saw that the clock read 4:37. I stood up mindlessly and started to get ready. Before I knew it, my feet were carrying me to school. I could barely think straight, let alone form coherent sentences when I reached my favorite teacher's door. Mrs. Johnson looked up from her desk and must have seen my tear streaked face. She quickly rose from where she was sitting at her desk and rushed over to me.

            "Oh...Lizzie, sweetie, what's the matter?" It didn't help me stop crying, but I appreciated her support. For some reason, whenever people asked me that question, the tears never stop flowing. She embraced me into a massive hug.

            Truthfully, I didn't even know Mrs. Johnson all that well, but I really had no one else left to go to. I hadn't had any time for friends, as I spent all my time working, being with my mom, or schoolwork. I knew it would just eat me up inside if I didn't share my problems so I forced myself to say the words I had dreaded for so long.

            "My mom... she's...dead." I managed to stutter out. I don't think Mrs. Johnson knew how to help me exactly. What she didn't know, and couldn't understand, was just how much had been lifted off my chest in that moment. Her bear hug was a plus too, I'll admit. We stood there, probably awkwardly, hugging for a long while. It reminded me of my mom. She gave the best hugs....