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Soon, she’ll be striding in here, gri
Yes, I could have grabbed a thing of cookie dough, but what’s the point? So fucking much is not the same, and yet, the things that are gut me from the inside out. The lasagna has no fucking right tasting this good.
It should be stale, rotten, allowing me to mourn my mother in peace. But no. It’s just as good as any other dish she made. Stuffing my face, I let the tears fall as my heart cracks in two.
I’ve not let myself break down. Not really, so in some ways, it feels good to allow my heart to pour out until I’m depleted. My fingers tremble as I grab yet another plate, eating until every last bit of the small dish is gone.
That’s it. There’s nothing left. Everything else in the freezer is from friends and strangers.
There’s nothing fucking left.
Drawing in a deep breath, I grab my cocoa, now tepid, and dump it out, making a fresh one to sip on. Again, I pour a decent dollop of alcohol into the mug, needing a bit of liquid courage to shore me up through the night.
After cleaning up the dishes and putting everything away, I go back to the living room, drink in hand. I draw my feet up on the couch and sip my cocoa as I stare out the window. Snow falls even heavier, blanketing everything in a pristine white. The schnapps warms my insides, driving away any chance at a chill as I turn back to the television.
As always, on Christmas Eve, I queue up A Christmas Carol. Despite the pain it causes, I don’t want to break with tradition. It will already be broken enough tomorrow when I wake up to an empty house with no Mom’s Special Pancakes waiting for me. I didn’t even get a chance to make them with her before she died, and there’s no way in hell I’ll attempt it tomorrow.
Perhaps I’ll just sleep the day away, granting myself the gift of solitude. While others spring from their beds and race toward the tree to unwrap their gifts, I’ll probably just start working on packing things up so I can sell the house. But even that thought makes my insides cramp as a fresh wave of tears prick my eyes.
It would be stupid not to sell. This house is in a prime location and will fetch a great price. Besides, since moving back in with Mom, I had to give up my apartment. There was no way I could afford rent when I wasn’t working.
As devastating as it is to contemplate, I need to move on with my life. Ten months I’ve been away from work on a federal medical leave of absence. Ten months I’ve been a caretaker for my mother. Six months I’ve taken care of her when she could no longer care for herself. Two months I’ve dealt with hospice as I watched my strong, vibrant mother wither away into nothing.
Now, for about a month, I’ve been mourning her memory and trying to figure out what’s next. Plans need to be made, and time is ru
Even if I don’t want to go back home and live my life again, I can always find work anywhere. I have excellent references and the drive to succeed. At least, I hope I still have that.
I don’t want that part of me to die along with my mother. She’d be heartbroken to see me wasting my life as I look for meaning in her death. Glancing back over to the window, my heart squeezes so hard I lose my breath for a moment.
Part of me still contemplates staying here and using the money from her insurance to fix this house back up, not to sell, but to live. I know I can find work at a local law firm. Unfortunately, I don’t think my heart can handle it.
Everywhere I turn, there are memories. I can’t even buy groceries without people shaking their heads and giving me those sympathetic looks. I can deal with it for the most part, but when they touch my arm and tell me how my mom was such a good woman… it’s just far too much to bear.
I know she was a good woman. She raised me. I couldn’t have asked for a better mom, friend, and confidant. Raising me by herself didn’t seem to affect her at all. We were best buddies until the very end.
Setting the empty snowman mug on the table, I curl in on myself, forcing my brain to shut down as I watch Ebenezer Scrooge berate poor Bob Cratchit. Whenever Mom and I watched this together, she was always fussing at both of them—Scrooge for being such a tight-ass dickwad, and Cratchit for not having a freaking spine.
A smile drifts across my lips as my eyes grow heavy. “Just you wait, Scrooge,” I mutter toward the screen. “You’ll get your comeuppance.”
My eyelids feel heavy as the ghosts warn Scrooge of the events of his night. Unable to keep them open any longer, they close as the first chime of the clock sounds, signaling his doom. With a heavy sigh, I drift off to sleep.
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CHAPTER 2
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JESSICA
An incessant hum floods my ears as I groan and squeeze my eyes shut. It must be my brain is throbbing from the alcohol. Since I only drink on special occasions, it would stand to reason the mug of hot cocoa would give me the hangover from hell.
I long to shake my head, but don’t dare move. I want to stay in this warm cocoon as long as I can. Even now, I can almost hear the chime of the clock from the television intermingled with Mom’s laugh.
The sounds converge, morphing into soft whispers and muddled sounds. No doubt I’m hearing Scrooge prattling on about this or that. Though I try to crack open an eye to watch the antics, I find my lids far too heavy to move.
A groan bubbles up from my throat as I turn my head, burrowing deeper into the blankets. I’m warm, just shy of burning up. Sleepiness wars with discomfort as I lie there, forcing my breathing to even so I can slip back into the abyss.
At least in my sleep, I’m not plagued by emotional pain or memories. I can dream of a life where Mom is still alive, and I’m back home doing research for a case. If only she were still here.
A blazing tear slips down my cheek unchecked. I haven’t the energy or desire to wipe it away. Again, a murmur of voices flit around my ears, making my heart slam in my chest. I don’t remember anyone in the movie having that deep of a voice.
Perhaps it’s the Ghost of Christmas Future? But then… he didn’t talk. Did he? I rack my brain, desperate to understand what I’m hearing. It almost sounds inhuman, but that’s just silly.
It’s got to be the peppermint schnapps. That’s the only logical explanation. My eyelids twitch as consciousness seeps in, ripping the last of my pleasant dreams from me. I have to wake up at some point.
Besides, with how my bladder is screaming at me, I can’t just lie here forever. Again, I groan as I realize I’ll have to walk over to the frigid bathroom, far away from the cozy warmth of the fire. I move to pull the blankets from me when everything stops.
I can’t move.
Desperation clouds my brain, turning it to mush as I lie there. There has to be some mistake. I must still be asleep or something. Sleep paralysis? It’s a thing, right?
Granted, it’s never happened to me before, but these circumstances aren’t exactly normal. It would stand to reason that my body seeks to betray me right now. Again, I try to open my eyes, managing to pry them just enough to be blinded by a searing brightness.
I screw them shut, my head throbbing as light continues to flash behind my closed lids. Definitely the alcohol mixed with bright sun bouncing off blinding white snow. Chuckling to myself, I try to lift my hand again, but find it still won’t move.