Then you’re my blue skies, Mama.
Logan would always be the rainbow, colorful and happy and effortless no matter the storm.
I want to play the song, but I’m afraid.
I want to ask about Lo, but I’m afraid.
I want to be there for Mama, but…
I’m terrified.
I’m terrified that talking to her about anything other than our lives as they are now will break her. Will she shut down again? Cry? Freeze? Go silent? Will she stop seeing me as Emery and start calling me Logan again?
I want to know about her job and what she has for breakfast and what she does with her spare time. But I also want to know if she visits Lo and talks to Grandma and sees a grief counselor like everyone has suggested.
But I can’t.
Because Mama’s smiling.
Because Mama’s eyes are green.
Because I love her too much to hurt her.
In my head, I sing the song.
In my head, Mama sings with me.
Instead, she touches my bracelet, stares at the letters, and then kisses my cheek before going to bed. It’s early, but not as early as she usually went to sleep. I wonder if she still takes sleeping pills.
Grandma doesn’t come back right away, so I clean up the kitchen and living room before heading back to the place I hold the most memories. My bag rests on my old bed—the new white and blue comforter set on it is one I haven’t seen before. It’s tucked in and folded at the corners like you’d see at a hotel, and I know it’s Grandma’s doing because she used to be a housekeeper.
The room is exactly as I remember it. By the nightstand is a dent in the wall from the time Lo and I were jumping on my bed and I knocked over the lamp in the process. It smashed against the drywall before shattering on the ground. It was Mama’s favorite.
It hasn’t been repainted, the off white I remember it once being now looks more cream. The entire house could use some upgrades like Dad always told Mama he would start when we were little. She wanted a new apple-themed kitchen, something red and bright and welcoming.
Pushing the thought away, I examine the bookshelf. I had books galore covering every inch, along with hidden picture of Lo in between books I knew Mama didn’t want to read. The ones I left behind aren’t on the shelf anymore, which makes me walk over to the closet.
It’s empty.
Heart hammering, I look under both the beds for any of the frames I’d taken down for Mama’s sanity. They used to haunt me while I slept, guilt seeping into my bones worse than the aches did. Now they’re gone, the space under my bed dust free like someone cleaned it special for me.
I vaguely hear the front door open and Grandma call our names. Panic buries itself in my chest as I open dresser drawers and plastic storage bins to see what happened to Lo. Every memory taken of her is missing, and I need to see them. I need to know they’re there.
“Emmy?” Grandma’s voice is closer, but I struggle to hear it. My chest is so tight I think I might be dying from suffocation.
Someone shakes me.
Someone calls my name.
“Breathe,” a soft voice commands.
Not Grandma’s.
Mama’s.
I’m crying into her chest while she sits next to me on the floor, rubbing my back and hushing me like she used to a long time ago. She was humming. It wasn’t our song.
It wasn’t our song.