I smile. “I wish I was like her. She was artistic and amazing. I’m…not. But I do look like her. I look exactly like her, actually, which is probably hard on my dad right now. Finn looks like him.”
“So she was born in England? Why did she move to America?”
It’s my turn to shrug. “She was. But I don’t know why she left. She said she didn’t get along with her parents very well. She hasn’t spoken to them in years, and I’ve never personally met them.”
“Huh. Interesting,” Dare murmurs. “I think it’s good you can talk about her. When my mom died, I couldn’t talk about her for almost a year.”
I do a double-take. “Your mom’s gone, too? You only mentioned your dad before. I’m so sorry! What happened?”
Dare stares out the windshield, into the night. I can tell he’s not really seeing it.
“She died in an accident with my step-father.”
My stomach tightens into a knot for him, because God, I know that grief, that sudden, shocking, annihilating grief. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him limply. He nods.
“Yeah, it sucks. But I know how you’re feeling right now, at least. I realized after my mom died that it always helps when someone knows what it’s like.”
He’s right. It’s hugely comforting.
“It’s hard,” I admit to him. “It’s especially hard because it was my fault. I called her at night when it was raining. If I hadn’t done that, she would still be here.”
Dare looks at me sharply. “You can’t believe that. That it’s your fault, I mean.”
I look away. “Of course I can. It’s true.”
“It’s not,” he argues. “I personally believe that when your number is up, it’s up. Surely, living in a funeral home your whole life, you believe that, too. Sometimes, there isn’t an explanation for something.”
“And sometimes, there is. In this case, the explanation is a telephone call.”
Dare shakes his head. “It’s going to take some doing to convince you that you’re wrong. I can tell.”
“You can try,” I tell him resolutely. “But if Finn and my father can’t do it, I doubt you can.”
“Challenge accepted,” he says seriously, and the look in his eyes takes my breath away.
“Why do you care?” I ask him suddenly. “You barely know me.”
He’s silent for a second, fiddling with the silver band on his middle finger. When he looks back up, his eyes are filled with a hundred things I can’t name.
“Because I feel like I do. Because we’re the same in so many ways. Because I know how horrible it was to lose my mother. I can only imagine how hard it is when you think it’s your fault.”
Yeah, I think to myself. It’s almost too much to bear.
“It is hard,” I admit. “But sometimes, when you least expect it, someone tosses you a lifeline.”
His eyes meet mine and I see that he knows exactly what I’m saying. That he might be my lifeline. There’s no reaction, though, only a silent acceptance and maybe a spark of satisfaction.
We fall quiet now, comrades in this special club of having lost our mothers. It’s not a club that anyone enjoys belonging to, but I know that I, for one, feel even closer to him now.
After a few minutes, I can’t stand the silence anymore.
“You’d better be careful with those questions,” I tell him, feigning a smile. “You’ve only got eighteen left.”
16
SEDECIM