Seven * (Patreon)

When our mother came home from the hospital, we didn't see her. She hid away in her room again. But we could hear her visitors. For a whole week, there was always someone outside her door. Our uncle Frank, our grandmother, even people we don't know, all taking turns standing outside our mother's door.

They weren't standing guard or anything. God help them if they tried to stop my mother from leaving that room, screaming and naked. But they were trying to stop her in their own way. She was a suicide risk.

"You have to pull it together."

"You have to come back to us."

"You have to eat."

"You have to bathe."

"You have to be a person again."

"For your children."

"For Simon and Sunday."

"They need you."

"They lost their father."

"All they have left is you."

"You can't go."

"Selfish."

"Irresponsible."

And that isn't fair. I don't think that is fair. We lost our father. But she lost more. Why won't they just let her grieve? Why won't they let her make her own decisions? Why are they using us against her? Like we're weapons. I am not a weapon. Simon is not a weapon.

We are not a chain around my mother's waist. We do not want to keep her here, like nails in her feet. We are not nails in her feet.

And then one night, after the rest had gone, our uncle Jonah's voice stayed in the hallway, quieter than the others had been. We had to open our own door to hear what he was saying. To see him. He was leaning against the wall beside our mother's room.

"I could not live without Frank," he said. His Haitian accent, his warm voice, his sincerity, it all felt quieter when he spoke slowly. "I could not and I would not live without him. Kids or not. Friends and family or not." He slid down, so he was sitting on the carpet.

"You don't have to come out," he said. "You don't have to come out for the world to keep going. You don't have to come out for your children to be okay. You don't have to eat for your children to be okay. You don't have to think positive or go for walks. You don't have to take a bath. You don't have to be a person again.

"They are safe. Frank would die for them. And they love him too. The summers when we took care of them were good. They were very good. If you go away…" He stopped speaking for a long pause. "I know what it's like to feel empty and alone when there are people all around you. People always say they can't imagine what you're going through, and they're sorry. But of course they can imagine it. They just don't want to. It is inconvenient. They want everything to be alright again. As soon as possible."

Frank coughed in their bedroom, but Jonah didn't even look up.

"Nothing will ever be alright again," he said. "I know."

There was another long pause.

"Maybe a bath isn't the worst idea though," he said and there was a muffled sound like a laugh, from behind her door. Jonah smiled and began to get up. We closed our door as quietly as we had opened it.

Later that night, when everyone had gone to sleep, Simon and I sat in the dark outside her closed bedroom door again. We could sit here every night. Just to be near to her. We sat ourselves down on the carpet, his back against the wall beside her door, mine against the railing. The wallpaper looked like muddy water in the dark. Simon tapped a small hello on her door. I tapped another. Not a knock. We weren't door to door salesmen. We were just there.

I always sat facing Simon in the dark. It felt less lonely that way. We were both there, and if we were there, maybe she was too.

She didn't have to eat. We were okay. We were okay and she didn't have to eat for us to be okay. She didn't have to come out of her room for us to be okay. She didn't even need to have a bath for us to be okay.

She didn't have to be a person.

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