Seven Months

A Story by Sydney Rachel

“Jade, are you ready?”

I whip my head around, startled, and hastily drop the letter back into the drawer.

“Um, just a second,” I reply.

“Sure. One Mississippi…”

“Hunter!”

“What?” he asks, too innocently.

“Let me finish packing, I’ll be down in a minute.”

He turns on his heels and walks away, muttering under his breath. I turn back to my desk and pull on the top drawer. It always sticks, so I give it a little extra strength. I pull out the letter, stare at it for a moment, then cross to my bed. On it sits my suitcase, wide open, and completely empty. I’ve delayed packing for so long, but I can’t exactly wait any longer, not when Hunter is already packing up the car. I grab the remainder of my shirts from my closet, my shorts from my dresser, and various other items all around the room. I shove them haphazardly into the suitcase, not really caring about wrinkling the clothes. I quickly run into the bathroom to grab my toiletry bag, place it on top of my clothing, and shut the suitcase. Then I gingerly pick up the letter, trying not to rip it across the creases that have been folded over so many times. I stick it in between the pages of my poetry book. Place that in the front pocket. Sling my bag over my shoulder and take a quick glance around the room to assure myself that I’m not forgetting anything. Walk to the doorframe, shut the lights, then the door, and trot down the stairs. Open the front doors, take a final look at my house--excuse me, my Mom’s house--and close the door behind me as I leave. That’s it. I will never see this house again.

When my mom died two weeks ago, I thought I had hit rock bottom. There was nothing worse than that pain, the agony of losing one of the two people I truly cared about. Apparently, I was wrong, since I’m now moving in with my dad, whom I haven’t seen in ten years.

My parents divorced when I was six. I don’t really remember much, just that after I went to bed, Mommy and Daddy would scream at each other. It usually ended with the front door slamming shut and an engine revving as my dad pulled out of the driveway. My mom would come upstairs, crying hysterically and run into her bedroom. A few minutes later, after she had calmed down a bit, she would come into my room and I would bury myself under the blankets. She’d lay in bed with, assuming I was asleep, and whisper to me. The first night they fought, I was terrified. I was shaking as my mom entered the room. But her presence calmed me, and I eventually fell asleep. But after a while, our roles were reversed. I became the one to comfort her. When she whispered to me, she would whisper horrible things about Daddy, about how awful he was, how terribly he treated her. I wanted to reach out to her, to hold her and tell her it was alright, but something always stopped me. I knew I wasn’t supposed to hear what she said to me on those nights. Besides, every morning, when I woke up, she was gone. I would always assume that she was fine and I would forget about it. Until I went downstairs for breakfast and saw the large purple welt on her face.

“Jade! Let’s go!” Hunter’s voice snaps me out of my reverie.

“Right.” I help him load my suitcase into the car, then slide into the passenger seat as he starts up the engine. It takes a couple of tries, since his Mustang is about a million years old, but eventually we’re on the road. I curl up against the window and retrieve my iPod from my pocket. I hit play, and before I know it, I’m drifting off to sleep, lulled into contentedness by the bumps in the road and the music coming from my headphones.

The next thing I know, Hunter is shaking me awake. I groggily rub the sleep from my eyes and look out the car window. We’re at some cheap motel that I assume is where we’re crashing for the night. I fight to keep my eyes open as we unload our small overnight bags and check in. After what seems like hours, I finally shove the key to our room into the lock and open the door. It takes all of my will power to make myself change into pajamas, brush my teeth, and wash my face. Then I plop down on the bed, burrow under the covers, and sigh.

“Remind me again why we can’t just get our own place?” I ask Hunter.

“Because,” he replies, “I don’t turn eighteen for another seven months.”

“Well screw that,” I say. “Why weren’t you born sooner?”

“Go complain to Mo--Dad about that.” He barely catches himself in time. “Beats me how he could have mustered up enough emotion to even have me in the first place, let alone you.”

“And Kaylie.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. I hear the sharp intake of breath from Hunter’s side of the bed. This is the one topic that is never breached. By uttering her name, I have committed a crime worse than murder. Hunter flicks off the lights without another word.

Kaylie was my younger sister. Or at least, she was supposed to be.

It was during the worst time, the last few months of my parents’ relationship. My mom was pregnant again, a sad attempt to salvage a marriage that was well beyond saving. Her latest ultrasound revealed that the baby was a girl. My mom had her heart set on the name Kaylie. But during one of their fights, my dad took it too far. He kicked her in the stomach. Hard. He caused some kind of internal bleeding, which I found out later. All I knew at the time was that for a few months, I was going to be a big sister. Then after that night, I suddenly wasn’t.

The next morning when I wake up, Hunter is already dressed. I take a quick shower, pull on my clothes, and pack up my stuff.

I turn to Hunter. “Look, about what I said last night--”

“Don’t.” He cuts me off. “Just… I can’t deal with talking about it right now. Especially since we’ll be moving into our dad’s house in less than twenty-four hours.”

I nod and walk out of the room in without another word. I approach the front desk and check out as swiftly as possible. I meet Hunter at the car.

“You left this in the room.”

I stare at the object in his hands. My poetry book. “You read it?!” I shout.

“No!” he cries, raising his hands in surrender. “You just left it on the nightstand.”

“Oh. Sorry.” I'm very protective of my poetry book.

He shrugs and starts the engine. Despite the eight hours of sleep I got last night, I’m still exhausted from tossing and turning all night on the uncomfortable mattress. I fall asleep within minutes.

The next thing I know, we’re sitting in a parking lot at a rest stop. The building we’re heading into contains about five fast food restaurants. I slam the car door and sneak a glance at Hunter.

“Race you,” I propose.

“What?” he asks.

“I’ll race you to the door,” I explain.

“Jade, I am seventeen years old--”

“And in desperate need of removing the stick from your a*s!” I tease.

He glares at me and for a moment, I’m afraid I’ve actually offended him. But then his face breaks into a smile. “On the count of three.” I nod. “Ready? …Three!” He takes off.

“Not fair!” I yell, running after him. I may have shorter legs and he may have had a head start, but I haven’t run track for five years because I’m slow. No, oh no, I am fast. And when I say fast, I mean, blink, and I’ll be fifteen feet away fast. So it only takes me about ten seconds to pass Hunter on the way to the restaurant. I fly past him and through the doors, only stopping when I’m an inch away from propelling myself headfirst into a table. I turn back to the doors, expecting to see Hunter barreling through them, but he doesn't. I wait for a minute, but when he still doesn't appear, I get a little worried. We didn't park that far away; surely it can't take this long to reach the McDonald's.

I decide to go back outside to look for him, but he beats me to it, slowly pushing the doors open and walking in. His eyes land on mine, and he immediately looks at the floor.

“You dropped this,” he says when he walks up to me. He’s clutching a piece of paper in his left hand. My stomach drops. I look into his eyes, trying to read them. But when a minute ago they were full of laughter, they are now closed off and distant.

“You--you didn’t read it, did you?” I stutter.

The look on his face says it all.

“What is this?” he demands.

I lead him over to a table. “It’s from Mom.”

He takes a minute to process this. “What is it?” he repeats.

The words are out of my mouth before I can even think about them. “It’s a letter. From right before she...” I can’t say the word.

“And you didn’t show it to me?!” he shouts, pushing his chair out and standing up.

“I couldn’t,” I murmur.

“Yes, you could have!” he yells. “I’ve spent the past two weeks freaking out, grieving over my dead mother¸ trying to find just one piece of her to hold on to, and you’re hiding this from me?!” He shakes his head i disbelief. “I can’t believe you! You know how much she meant to me, how much she still means to me! And you’ve kept this from me!”

By now everyone is staring, but neither of us gives anyone a spare glance, or even wipe the tears that are running down both our cheeks.

I look up at him. “I just couldn’t show it to you.”

“Well why not, Jade?” he bellows.

“BECAUSE IT'S MY FAULT SHE'S DEAD!”

This was never how I imagined this moment. I never actually thought I would ever tell him.

“What do you mean?”

After my little outburst in the rest stop, he had grabbed my wrist and dragged me out the doors to the car. That is where we sit now, on the curb next to where we parked, neither of us looking the other in the eye. The letter is still in Hunter’s hand.

“She was sick,” I begin.

“I know. That was in the letter.”

“Yeah. I guess it was.” I don’t guess, I know. With the amount of times I’ve read the letter in the past two weeks, I know it by heart.

“You knew.”

It takes a moment before the words sink in. “What? No!”

“You knew. And you didn’t say anything.”

“No, Hunter, please, I had no idea"”

“Well I don’t believe you!” he roars. “Apparently, I can’t believe anything you say!”

He stands up and gets into the car, slamming the door shut. I give myself a minute to collect my emotions, then I get in next to him. He reverses out of the parking lot in silence.

Two hours later, neither of us has said a word. Every time I risk a peek at his face, his is staring stonily ahead, the hate clear in his eyes. I’m surprised he didn’t leave me at the rest stop. I stare out the window, not daring to break the silence. But then, he mutters something under his breath.

“What was that?” I ask tentatively.

“Nothing!” he snaps. But he pulls over.

“What’s wrong?”

He gives me no answer, but instead reaches over me into the glove compartment and pulls out a map.

“We’re lost,” I say flatly.

“No, we’re not.”

But I don’t believe him. His car is so old, it barely has a functioning radio, let alone a GPS. Our only way around is MapQuest and semi-reliable directions from whomever we are visiting. And of course, maps.

“Here, let me see it.” I reach for the map.

“No!”

Figures¸ I think. Why would he give me the map, when he doesn't believe anything I say?

“Look, if you would just let me help you--”

“How can you help me if you couldn’t even help Mom?!”

The reaction is immediate. I’m sobbing immediately, and the car door is halfway open before Hunter lays his hand on my shoulder. I shrug it off and get out of the car.

“I didn’t mean it!” he calls after me.

I turn on my heels. “Yes, you did. And you’re right. It’s my fault she’s dead.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes, it is,” I say. “You don’t even know the half of it.”

“Then tell me. Please, I just… I overreacted. The letter, it just… it sent me overboard. It was too much to deal with, especially since we’re moving in with that pathetic excuse for a human being we call our father. I just… I want to know what happened.”

I don’t even hesitate before I begin. “She was sick. She couldn't bring herself to tell us. But one day, when I was doing the laundry, I found this note in her pocket. Explaining how she knew she didn’t have much time left. How much she loved us. How she would miss watching us graduate, miss us watching us walk down the aisle, miss holding her grandchildren. How she was so, so sorry that she couldn’t tell us any of this in person.”

I look over at Hunter and he is nodding, obviously recalling those lines on the paper. I take a deep breath, bracing myself. “So, I went downstairs to ask her about it, and… there she was. Lying on the floor. Not breathing. I know I should have called an ambulance, but I couldn’t understand what was happening. My mind just could not connect the words in the letter to Mom, dead on the floor. I could have saved her. But I just stared like an idiot! If anyone should be dead right now, it should be me!” And then I break down completely. I become incomprehensible and Hunter pulls in me tight. The sobs are wracking my body as I cry into his shoulder. He lets me continue on like this for at least five minutes. Then:

“No.”

I look up, confused.

“No, Jade, it shouldn’t be you. You have no idea how glad I am to have you. Mom was sick. There was nothing either of us could do.”

“But"”

“No!” he cuts me off sharply. “Even if you had called nine-one-one, all you would have done was prolong the inevitable. It’s not your fault.”

“But it is!” I protest.

“No, it’s not,” he insists. He lifts my chin up and stares into my eyes. “It is not your fault.”

And suddenly, it’s okay. Well, not exactly okay, but better. For weeks, I have carried this burden on my shoulders, and now, it’s--not completely gone, but Hunter has taken away just a bit of my guilt. He understands. And he doesn’t blame me. Doesn’t regret that I am here and she is not. I take in a deep breath, my first real breath since she died.

“We should get going,” I suggest.

“Just as soon as we figure out where we’re going,” he jokes. He manages to coax a small smile out of me.

“Well,” I say, pointing to the sign on the side of the road, “Route 79 is that way.”

“But we don’t need to get onto Route 79.”

“Yes we do,” I reply, rummaging around for the MapQuest directions. I point out a specific line.

“Oh” is all he says before pulling back onto the road.

We drive in silence, but this time, it is not full of tension. After an hour or so, I let myself fall asleep again. When I wake up, we’re in front of a huge house. Practically a mansion.

I turn to Hunter. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Nope,” he says. “This is his house. Number eleven, Scotts Road.”

I look at him. “Well, may as well get this over with.”

He nods and we both step out of the car. I move toward the front door, but he pulls me back.

“Hey,” he says. I turn to look at him. “I know this is going to suck. But we just have to deal with it for now. For Mom. And besides, it’s only seven months, right? Then I’ll be eighteen and we can move out.”

I swallow hard before answering. I gaze at the house that is home to my father. The house that is now home to Hunter. And home to me.

“Yeah. Just seven months.”