It Started with a Bet...

When I get home that day, my mom is waiting for me.

"I made you some pasta as an after-school snack, how are you feeling?" I sit down at look at the dish. This is the Mom I remember best. Back a long time ago when she wasn't stressed out. Smiling, asking if I was okay all the time, always there when I needed someone to talk to. When did she snap? A year later? Yeah, a year later. After she spoke to the psychiatrist and he told her that letting me talk about Trina was wrong. And she flipped. Literally and figuratively.

First it was simple stuff. She'd snap at Dad every once in a while. But then it got worse. And they were yelling. By then I was better so I kicked them out of the house. It looks like it did wonders for her.

"I'm fine, Mom. Why?" She leans across the table and moves some hair out of my face. Her eyes search through mine.

"You seem, different. At first I thought it was nothing but it’s been almost two weeks, so….” She pauses and thinks about it. “You seem…unhappy, first of all, but there's something else. Are you missing that family, Haley?"

I stare down at the spaghetti for a long time then shake my head.

"Okay," she says slowly. "Well, when you’re done, why don't you wash your plate and put it away. I'm going to go take a shower. But first, can I see your cell phone for a minute? I'll just add my new cell number back in." I nod and hand her the phone. I look down at the pasta. It's my favorite: spaghetti and meatballs with oregano, cheese and homemade pasta sauce involving fried onions, garlic, ginger, and some secret ingredient which I suspect is basil, but Mom refuses to tell me. Well, refused to tell me. Back when Trina and I helped her make it during sleepovers. She must have forgotten that I’m not supposed to eat this stuff. Well, I’m not going to remind her.

“Mom, it’s delicious. Thanks so much.” I get up to give her a hug. She returns it, a thoughtful look on her face like I just confirmed something she had been struggling with. Then she leaves with my phone.

I finish my pasta and walk over to my mom’s room. I need to get out of this house. Even when I was with Trevor I had this nagging feeling about me, that something wasn’t right. When my mom appeared at the grave yard I thought that was the problem, that Trina was trying to tell me that I was forgetting her and that’s what was bothering me. But I still feel wrong. I still feel like I’ve made a mistake. So if it isn’t being with Trevor that’s the problem and it’s not being without Trevor that’s the problem…

I can feel my heart pound in my chest as the obvious solution stares me in the face. Trevor is not a problem. Which means…that if I love him, I love him. And that’s not a problem. But I already told him I didn’t. I can’t just randomly walk up to him and say “I take it back.”

It’s like an episode from The Nanny. Mr. Sheffield, the studly British Broadway producer and his nanny Miss Fine are in a plane that they thing is about to crash. He confesses that he loves her. And then, when they find out the plane isn’t crashing, he “takes it back,” saying it was all due to the “heat of the moment.” That was quite an episode.

“Mom, I’m going out for a bit!” I yell through the bathroom door. I hear the shower turn off and she answers me.

“Honey, I’m going to need to go out for a while, so could you get a cab? Your cell phone is on the bed-side table!”

“Yeah, sure!”

I grab my cell phone and run downstairs to hail a cab. I swing by Khalil’s place, but he has a customer, so I head to the karaoke joint instead.

“Uncle Harris? I really need to talk to you.” The aging African American turns to me from behind the bar. His white hair has gotten whiter, his wrinkles deeper since I last saw him four years ago. But I know that if anyone can spout vague-yet-meaningful Yoda-wisdom, it’s Uncle Harris.

“Haley? What’s crackin’?” he asks, his deep voice rumbling like soft gravel. It’s an off-hour, so the bar is empty.

“I have a question,” I begin slowly.

“You always do,” he says with a smile. “Your usual?” I nod and he gets me a Cactus Cooler. On the rocks.

“So…what possible reasons are there for feeling guilty four years after someone’s death?” He pauses, acting, like always, as though the problem is about a friend of mine as opposed to my own.

“Well, there are three possibilities. Let’s say I’m the one feeling guilty. Either I caused the person’s death, I’ve taken something that they had when they were alive, or I haven’t had any closure.” The last one piques my interest.

“What do you mean ‘closure’?” I ask. He frowns a bit, taking a beer out from under the counter and sipping on it.

“Closure. Something that lets me know and feel like it’s finished. I’ve done all I can. I’ve read the will, attended the funeral, seen the grave, cried over the person, fulfilled their last request, everything. It’s all over. Then I won’t feel sad anymore. I’ll feel…” he was frowning slightly while he spoke but now it spreads into a blissful smile. “I feel free. I’ve done everything I can and now the whole thing is over. I don’t feel as sad when I think about that person anymore. I just feel…nostalgic, kind of. But like they’re watching over me.”

So it isn't forgetting Trina that's the problem. If Uncle Harris is right, then I'll never forget Trina no matter how hard I try.

The idea seems right somehow, like after rolling in my brain like a marble it has found a little nook where it fits.

So...I haven't had closure. There's one final thing I need to do for Trina... My head is pounding now, the memories on the tip of my tongue...but I can't remember. I can't for the life of me remember.

"Thanks, Uncle Harris," I say, my hand on my head. It hurts now. A lot. I stumble to the street and hail another cab. Then I get to the apartment, huddle under the covers, and black out.