Hollow (Heaven Hill Generations #4) - Laramie Briscoe Page 0,39
on his face. “I dunno, but they really wanna talk to you.”
He hands the phone to me and leaves. Hardly anyone calls me, much less someone who I’ll need to have privacy to talk to. This is all very odd.
“Hello?”
I’m not prepared for the voice on the other end of the phone.
“Hey, Walker.”
“Mom? Is that you?”
“It’s me! They gave me permission to call you.”
While I’m very happy to hear her voice, it drives a sharp pain into my gut because she isn’t here with me. “I wish you were here with me so we could watch TV before bed together.”
I’m pouting and even I can recognize the tone of my voice. Things have just been so weird for us and I don’t know how to respond to it all. It’s a lot to take in.
“Well, that’s why I called. I have a TV in my room, you have a TV in yours. I thought maybe we could watch together. How’s that?”
“What if I fall asleep?”
“Then I’ll hang up and we’ll talk to each other later.”
This is everything I’ve wanted, but there’s still something holding me back from being excited about this turn of events. “Mom? When are you coming home? When are we going to all live together again?”
She sighs slightly, and so do I. I’m tired of trying to figure out why adults do what they do and maybe she’s sick of me asking questions, but how else am I supposed to understand?
“Hopefully soon, Walker. I wish I could give you an actual date, but it depends on how well I respond to treatment. I’m doing my best though. I want to be home, I want to see you and your dad.”
I guess that’s part of the problem too, I don’t understand what kind of treatment she’s there for.
“I just miss everything,” I whisper, feeling my throat tightening up. I’m about to cry. Every feeling I’ve had over the past few months is crashing in on me, and I don’t know what to do.
The last thing I want to do is cry in front of my mom, but there’ve been so many emotions I’ve hidden and kept to myself, I have to let this one go.
“I miss the way we used to fall asleep at night, getting up in the morning and helping Dad with breakfast, and the way you two used to tell each other I love you, and when you both used to love me,” I sob, the last words coming out as a jumbled up mess.
Strong arms wrap around me, and I know Dad’s there, holding me tight. He takes the phone from my hand, and I hear him talking to Mom.
“Just give him a few minutes, he’s crying pretty hard. Don’t hang up yet, babe.”
“Don’t let her hang up.” I panic, not wanting to drive her away. That’s happened enough. This is the closest I’ve been to her in months. I’m breathing hard, feeling like my heart is about to pump out of my chest, trying desperately to center myself in the moment.
For so long I kept trying to get her to see I was there, when she’d drink and line up her pills. I know she lost my little brother or sister, but I was there. I needed her.
I’m here, I’ve been here the entire time.
I never got to leave. Both of them did, but I was the ping pong ball in the middle, trying to make both of them happy when I was struggling too.
I don’t realize I’ve said the words out loud until I hear him.
“Walker,” he soothes quietly. “Let it all out.”
Anger courses through me as I tell my dad what I’m thinking. I beat against his chest. I want him to feel that I’m a real person, one who’s been here, who’s been lost in the shuffle of trying to heal our family.
“I’ve always been here,” I cry. “But I’ve never been good enough. You always wanted something else. There’s always been something else that seemed to be more important to you than me.”
Neither one of them says anything for what feels like forever, and I worry that I’ve lost them. What if my outburst pushed them away? Even though I’ve been hurt, I don’t want to lose my parents.
Now I’m scared, terrified I’ve gone too far. What is it that everyone’s always said? Don’t go too far and take yourself to a place you can’t come back from.
Did I just do that?
“Walker.” Mom’s voice is watery, probably because of