I saw her.
I saw it all.
I wish her God had taken my sight instead of my voice.
Because then I wouldn’t have to see it.
Over and over.
And maybe, I could’ve begged her to stop.
Just… stop.
~ ~
—Becca—
“I hate you the most, Becca.” I wake up gasping for air and blinking back tears… tears caused by the nightmare. It’s light out, the curtains are wide open, and I try to recall when I did that. I didn’t. I fell asleep where I lay, forced numbness on my mind. Voices sound, filtering from downstairs, but none of them belong to the one person I want to hear. “He caught the company jet from LAX,” I hear Josh’s mom say. “He should touch down within an hour.” I don’t know how long I’ve slept. I don’t know what time it is. What day it is. All I know is the nightmare is still there, infiltrating my mind, just like it has many times, only this time I don’t treat it as a dream. I treat it as a memory. As a sign. And with false determination, I pick myself slowly up off the floor and make my way to Grams’s bathroom. I shower, get lost in the heat of the water, and make sure to clear my face of the tears that have lived there. I need to do this, I convince myself. I need to be this.
For him.
Both Ella and Josh’s uncle Robby are standing in the kitchen, no Tommy in sight. “Hey sweetheart,” Ella says, approaching me slowly. I raise my hands between us, not wanting to be touched. “Josh will be home soon,” she says, her voice cracking, signs of rejection and hurt hidden in her fake smile. “Are you hungry? I can fix you something? You haven’t left that room for”—she looks at her watch—“too long.”
“I’m not hungry,” I sign.
“I’m really sorry, Becca. About everything,” Rob says, moving around the kitchen counter. He doesn’t make a move to touch me.
“You look really nice,” says Ella.
I look over at her—at the lack of make-up revealing the dark circles around her eyes.
“Is that a new dress?”
I realize her voice isn’t husky from her emotions. That, unlike me, she hasn’t been able to sleep at all. I wonder if that makes me a horrible person. Maybe I don’t know how to mourn. How to grieve. I didn’t shed a tear when my mother died. Not even at her funeral.
“It’s Josh’s favorite,” I sign. “I thought it would be nice for him to see me in it when he comes home.” Strange that I can cry thinking about Josh—hoping that I can take some of his anger and pain away with a stupid dress, but I can’t seem to feel anything when it comes to losing my grandmother—a woman who took me in when no one else could.
“He’ll love it,” Ella says.
“I think…” I begin to sign, but pause, my hands freezing mid-movement. The memories hit me again, like physical punches to the gut, making me weak. Blinking hard, I attempt to push them away and continue, “Josh doesn’t handle bad news very well. He might get physical. Or say and do things that are hurtful but he doesn’t mean them. He’s just… hurting. And I think it’s really important we stay strong and be there for him. Okay?”
Ella stares at me a long time before switching her gaze to Robby, who has no idea what all I just said. “Okay,” she says. “We’ll be strong. For Josh.”
I nod, quickly swiping at the tears on my cheeks. “I’m going to wait for him outside. On the porch steps. He loves the porch steps…” I contain my sob, just long enough to add, “It’s where we fell in love.”
But the porch steps are only half of what they used to be, and it’s not the same. Nothing’s the same.
It never will be.
I pick wildly at the bolts that keep the stupid ramp in place until the tips of my fingers begin to throb. And then I use my entire hand, trying in vain to loosen them so I can remove the ramp because it doesn’t fucking belong here. Grams hated it here! My thumb catches on a spike of metal on the bolt, and I do it again and again, wanting to feel the pain, waiting to feel the numbness it will soon create.
I angrily swat a hand off my shoulder, not bothering to see who it is. I just want them to leave me alone so I can get this damn bolt off and move to the next so I can get back our steps.
Voices.
So many voices.
I blink hard, trying to rid the voices, but they’re everywhere.
Behind me.
Above me.
Inside me.
Grams likes the quiet.
She doesn’t need all these damn voices.
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” I yell. No one hears. They never do. “Grams is resting, dammit! Shut. Up!”
The bolts are red now, covered in my blood. Blood I didn’t know was there.
“Becca?” Ella says.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up.”
A hand covers mine, stopping me from my task, and I flinch against his touch. But then I realize it’s safe. His touch is safe. I look up to see dark and wary eyes watching me. “It needs to go, Josh,” I sign. “These are our steps and they’re not the same with this stupid ramp here. These are our steps and this is Grams’s house!” I wipe my face on my forearm, letting my tears and sweat soak through my skin. “Someone’s going to take her house and our steps, and it won’t be the same! It won’t be the same, Josh! It won’t!” I pick at the bolts again, my tears falling, seeping into the grains of the timber.
“Becca…” he whispers, his breaths heavy. “I won’t let anything happen to the house, okay? I promise. Just please stop. You’re hurting yourself.” He yanks on my hands, but I keep them in place. “Please, baby.” He cups my jaw with one hand, his thumb swiping at my cheek, while the other hand takes both of mine and holds them to his chest. His gaze shifts behind me, and he nods once. The loud blaring of a drill fills my ears, and I cringe at the sound. “Stop!” I yell, but it’s silent. Still, Josh sees it, sees me, and his eyes narrow in question. “Grams is resting.”
—Joshua—
I’d given Chris the news and parted ways with the rest of the team at the airport. I’d spent five hours there waiting for the next available flight, sitting on my phone, trying to research all the ways a person can suffer from grief. I wanted to be ready for anything when I got home. I’d been through this with Tommy before, and while his and my father’s relationship was short lived, they were still close. I didn’t want to compare which loss would be greater for him, and I definitely didn’t want to assume. He was older now, and a lot more in tune with what went on in the world. I’d be there for him, but I’d let him grieve in his own way.
Becca, though—I had no idea what to expect with Becca. I didn’t even know what to search to find out.
How does a person with a history of depression deal with death?
How does a person with a history of abuse handle grief?
What to expect when someone with a mental history loses a loved one?
How to be there for someone who’s lost a grandparent.
The list went on and on, and it did nothing to clear my head and lessen my assumptions, but it did help deflect from my own feelings—feelings I wasn’t ready to recognize.
I saw it all.
I wish her God had taken my sight instead of my voice.
Because then I wouldn’t have to see it.
Over and over.
And maybe, I could’ve begged her to stop.
Just… stop.
~ ~
—Becca—
“I hate you the most, Becca.” I wake up gasping for air and blinking back tears… tears caused by the nightmare. It’s light out, the curtains are wide open, and I try to recall when I did that. I didn’t. I fell asleep where I lay, forced numbness on my mind. Voices sound, filtering from downstairs, but none of them belong to the one person I want to hear. “He caught the company jet from LAX,” I hear Josh’s mom say. “He should touch down within an hour.” I don’t know how long I’ve slept. I don’t know what time it is. What day it is. All I know is the nightmare is still there, infiltrating my mind, just like it has many times, only this time I don’t treat it as a dream. I treat it as a memory. As a sign. And with false determination, I pick myself slowly up off the floor and make my way to Grams’s bathroom. I shower, get lost in the heat of the water, and make sure to clear my face of the tears that have lived there. I need to do this, I convince myself. I need to be this.
For him.
Both Ella and Josh’s uncle Robby are standing in the kitchen, no Tommy in sight. “Hey sweetheart,” Ella says, approaching me slowly. I raise my hands between us, not wanting to be touched. “Josh will be home soon,” she says, her voice cracking, signs of rejection and hurt hidden in her fake smile. “Are you hungry? I can fix you something? You haven’t left that room for”—she looks at her watch—“too long.”
“I’m not hungry,” I sign.
“I’m really sorry, Becca. About everything,” Rob says, moving around the kitchen counter. He doesn’t make a move to touch me.
“You look really nice,” says Ella.
I look over at her—at the lack of make-up revealing the dark circles around her eyes.
“Is that a new dress?”
I realize her voice isn’t husky from her emotions. That, unlike me, she hasn’t been able to sleep at all. I wonder if that makes me a horrible person. Maybe I don’t know how to mourn. How to grieve. I didn’t shed a tear when my mother died. Not even at her funeral.
“It’s Josh’s favorite,” I sign. “I thought it would be nice for him to see me in it when he comes home.” Strange that I can cry thinking about Josh—hoping that I can take some of his anger and pain away with a stupid dress, but I can’t seem to feel anything when it comes to losing my grandmother—a woman who took me in when no one else could.
“He’ll love it,” Ella says.
“I think…” I begin to sign, but pause, my hands freezing mid-movement. The memories hit me again, like physical punches to the gut, making me weak. Blinking hard, I attempt to push them away and continue, “Josh doesn’t handle bad news very well. He might get physical. Or say and do things that are hurtful but he doesn’t mean them. He’s just… hurting. And I think it’s really important we stay strong and be there for him. Okay?”
Ella stares at me a long time before switching her gaze to Robby, who has no idea what all I just said. “Okay,” she says. “We’ll be strong. For Josh.”
I nod, quickly swiping at the tears on my cheeks. “I’m going to wait for him outside. On the porch steps. He loves the porch steps…” I contain my sob, just long enough to add, “It’s where we fell in love.”
But the porch steps are only half of what they used to be, and it’s not the same. Nothing’s the same.
It never will be.
I pick wildly at the bolts that keep the stupid ramp in place until the tips of my fingers begin to throb. And then I use my entire hand, trying in vain to loosen them so I can remove the ramp because it doesn’t fucking belong here. Grams hated it here! My thumb catches on a spike of metal on the bolt, and I do it again and again, wanting to feel the pain, waiting to feel the numbness it will soon create.
I angrily swat a hand off my shoulder, not bothering to see who it is. I just want them to leave me alone so I can get this damn bolt off and move to the next so I can get back our steps.
Voices.
So many voices.
I blink hard, trying to rid the voices, but they’re everywhere.
Behind me.
Above me.
Inside me.
Grams likes the quiet.
She doesn’t need all these damn voices.
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” I yell. No one hears. They never do. “Grams is resting, dammit! Shut. Up!”
The bolts are red now, covered in my blood. Blood I didn’t know was there.
“Becca?” Ella says.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up.”
A hand covers mine, stopping me from my task, and I flinch against his touch. But then I realize it’s safe. His touch is safe. I look up to see dark and wary eyes watching me. “It needs to go, Josh,” I sign. “These are our steps and they’re not the same with this stupid ramp here. These are our steps and this is Grams’s house!” I wipe my face on my forearm, letting my tears and sweat soak through my skin. “Someone’s going to take her house and our steps, and it won’t be the same! It won’t be the same, Josh! It won’t!” I pick at the bolts again, my tears falling, seeping into the grains of the timber.
“Becca…” he whispers, his breaths heavy. “I won’t let anything happen to the house, okay? I promise. Just please stop. You’re hurting yourself.” He yanks on my hands, but I keep them in place. “Please, baby.” He cups my jaw with one hand, his thumb swiping at my cheek, while the other hand takes both of mine and holds them to his chest. His gaze shifts behind me, and he nods once. The loud blaring of a drill fills my ears, and I cringe at the sound. “Stop!” I yell, but it’s silent. Still, Josh sees it, sees me, and his eyes narrow in question. “Grams is resting.”
—Joshua—
I’d given Chris the news and parted ways with the rest of the team at the airport. I’d spent five hours there waiting for the next available flight, sitting on my phone, trying to research all the ways a person can suffer from grief. I wanted to be ready for anything when I got home. I’d been through this with Tommy before, and while his and my father’s relationship was short lived, they were still close. I didn’t want to compare which loss would be greater for him, and I definitely didn’t want to assume. He was older now, and a lot more in tune with what went on in the world. I’d be there for him, but I’d let him grieve in his own way.
Becca, though—I had no idea what to expect with Becca. I didn’t even know what to search to find out.
How does a person with a history of depression deal with death?
How does a person with a history of abuse handle grief?
What to expect when someone with a mental history loses a loved one?
How to be there for someone who’s lost a grandparent.
The list went on and on, and it did nothing to clear my head and lessen my assumptions, but it did help deflect from my own feelings—feelings I wasn’t ready to recognize.
