Bring Me Back

She sets the book she’d been reading on the coffee table. “So I was talking to this woman at the grocery store today about your situation, and she told me about this group—”

“Mom,” I groan, “why do you have to talk about my business with strangers?”

My mom has always been that way—telling everyone everything. When I was twelve she told the neighbors I’d started my period. I couldn’t look them in the eyes for six months.

“Because you never know what you might learn when you talk to people, Blaire,” she admonishes. “Anyway, she told me a

bout this grief group. I guess it’s sort of like alcoholics anonymous only for sad people.”

“For sad people? Really, Mom?”

She shrugs and smiles. “I didn’t know how else to say it.”

“So what do they call it? Sad Saps Share?”

She laughs. “No. It’s just called Group.”

“Sounds like an illness.”

“That’s croup.” She shakes her head. “I think you should go. At least once. It might help you to cope, and it might be better than seeing a therapist. These people have lost someone too.”

I shake my head and push up from the chair. “The last thing I need is to be surrounded by more people like me.” I head for the kitchen and she follows. I grab the orange juice from the refrigerator and pour a small glass. “I’m fine … Okay, I’m not fine,” I add when she glares at me, “but I’ll get there.”

“Not on your own,” she whispers and tears pool in her eyes. “You need help, Blaire.”

I lay my hands flat on the counter. “Mom, Ben died.” I choke on the word. “I don’t know how you can expect me to be okay so soon. It doesn’t work like that.”

“I know,” she agrees, “but you’re not even trying.”

I close my eyes. We have this argument practically every day.

“Here,” she says, and I open my eyes. She’s pulling a scrap of paper from her pocket and she slides it across the counter to me. It has a phone number scrawled across it in unfamiliar handwriting. “That’s the number of the guy who leads the group. Call him. Please. But don’t do it for me. Do it for you.”

I take the piece of paper and hold it in my palm. I stare at the ten numbers. I want to throw the paper away, but for some reason I don’t.

I close my fist around it and hold on.

“Here, Kid.” My dad holds out a plastic bag from Walgreens.

“What is this?” I raise a brow and take it from him. I peek in the bag and pale. “Dad. No.” I shake my head back and forth rapidly and shove the bag back in his hands. “I’m not pregnant. I got my period this morning.” I sniffle and look away. I hadn’t wanted to tell him, or anyone. I’d been holding onto one last ounce of hope that I was pregnant. When I saw the pink stain in my underwear it was like a kick to the gut. Now, I think my illness was normal and probably a result of not eating much and not being able to eat much. Grief, I’ve learned, is crippling.

His shoulders sag dejectedly. “I really thought …”

“Me too, Dad,” I whisper. I wipe away a tear. I think a part of me believed a baby would fix this. Fix me. But I realize now it would’ve only made things worse—how on Earth would I raise a baby by myself?

He tosses the bag in the trashcan and covers it with stuff so my mom won’t find it. I have to smile to myself over the thought of my dad going to a drugstore and buying a pregnancy test. I mean, he dresses like a lumberjack—jeans, flannels, and heavy boots—and he just has the aura of being a tough guy.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop, working on ordering decorations for a corporate party.

“How you feelin’, Kid?” He pulls out the chair across from me and peers at me from over the top of my laptop.

I shrug. “Better than I thought I would. This is … It’s for the best,” I say. He raises a brow like he highly doubts that. “Look at me,” I add. “I’m a mess. I can’t raise a baby right now.”

“Your momma and I would help you.”

“Dad …” I shake my head. “you guys have your own life.” I sigh and look away.

“You are our life,” he says. “We’d do anything for you.”