Dead River - By Cyn Balog Page 0,63

quiet, even when I misbehaved. She certainly never ordered me around. It just seems so unlike her. I refuse to be impressed. Before I can stop my gaping, she turns her eyes toward my face. She motions for me to follow her, but it’s like my feet have rooted in the ground. I don’t want to go. I need to get away. Just be alone. To sort out this whirlwind of emotions inside me. She gives me a look as if to say What are you waiting for?

But I can’t. I can’t bring myself to move. This is my mother. The mother I lost so many years ago. Standing in front of me.

“I, um, have to use the bathroom,” I manage.

Her face breaks into a small smile before melting into a frown. She shakes her head. “Kiandra …”

I can tell by her expression that I’ve flubbed, that obviously dead people don’t need to do such things. Heat rises in my face. I peel my feet from the ground and trail behind her into the woods. As we walk she says, “How is your father?” as if he’s some acquaintance and not the man she was married to for ten years.

“Fine,” I say, forcing the word out of my throat.

“I miss him,” she says softly. Then she stops and looks at me. “I missed you. You’ve grown up so well. You’re beautiful.”

“And you missed it all,” I mutter.

She nods. “I know. I feel bad about that. But obviously your father didn’t do such a bad—”

“No. He didn’t. You’re right.” I don’t mean to snap, but my words come out that way. Once again I feel like I’m seven years old, back in that house on the river, having a tantrum.

She stares at me. “You’re angry.”

With her eyes boring into me, I get a familiar feeling. I feel the waterworks starting. I’m going to cry again. Whenever she would look at me that way, for breaking a vase in the living room, for hiding my new dress when I ripped it, or whatever, I would always stare into those eyes and cave. I’d run into her arms and beg her for forgiveness, beg her to love me again. But not now. Now I’m beyond that. I don’t need her approval anymore. And I’m not going to cry for her. “Wouldn’t you be?”

She sucks in her bottom lip. “Your father didn’t tell you anything.”

“No,” I say, looking away and hardening myself. “And after a while I stopped asking. I know why he wouldn’t. Suicide isn’t something you discuss with a seven-year-old.”

“I’ll never forgive myself for not saying goodbye to you properly. It was just … too hard. I wanted to. But I knew if you cried and begged me to stay, I wouldn’t be able to go through with it. And I needed to.” She stares hard at me. “I needed to. For you.”

I squint at her. “For me? That’s stupid.”

“I know it might have been cruel to leave. But it would have been even crueler if I’d stayed.” She sighs. “I had a brain stem glioma. Do you know what that is?”

Now we’re alone among the tall pines. The wind rustles through them but makes no sound, so I swear I can hear my heart beating. “Brain stem? You mean …”

“A tumor. In my brain. A very serious one. The prognosis was bad, and some days the pain was unbearable. I talked it over with your father. If I was going to die, I wanted to have some control over it. So that was what I planned. I meant to say goodbye. Really, I did.”

I swallow. “Why didn’t Dad tell me?”

“Did you ask him?”

“I didn’t think I had to! I thought I knew what happened. I thought you …” I know I didn’t think anything at the time. I thought my mom had gone away, and my father wouldn’t say more than that. Over time, though, I put the pieces together, and it formed a picture that could mean only one thing. Suicide. And it was suicide. She didn’t have to do it. She could have had more time with me, and she chose something else. Even a day more, an hour, a minute—all that precious time we could have had together was thrown away. I stand there on the path, shaking. “You should have stayed with us.”

“And have you see me so weak? So sick? I wasn’t your mother anymore. I couldn’t care for you. I was helpless.”

“I wouldn’t have cared!