Free What You Left Behind by Jessica Verdi Page B

back and get to my feet. “Do you honestly think I don’t know that?”
    â€œI don’t know what you think, Ryden! You don’t talk to me like you used to. And you clearly haven’t been working to figure out the day care situation—”
    â€œNot true! I told you, Alan is going to watch her.”
    â€œYeah, during soccer practice . I’m not talking about soccer practice. I’m talking about when you go back to school. Unless Alan graduated early, he’ll be going back to school in two weeks too. Which puts us no closer to a solution. This isn’t going to magically work itself out. This is real life, Ryden. You need to start acting like it.”
    Now it’s my turn to stare at her. “I can’t believe you just said that. I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do. I’m trying everything I can think of to do right by Hope. I got a job. I haven’t seen any of my friends all summer, and when I have, it’s like they’re freaked out they’ll catch the fucked-up-life disease from me. Meg is gone . She’s gone, Mom, and she’s never coming back, and it’s all my fault.”
    With no warning, all the bullshit inside me forces its way out in violent, hyperventilating gasps, and I’m suddenly reaching for my mom as she gets up from her chair, rubbing my back like she did when I was a little kid.
    Goddammit . Today was supposed to be a good day.
    â€œIt’s okay, buddy,” Mom whispers. “Let it out.”
    I don’t know how long we stand there like that, but eventually the shaking subsides and my lungs start working again. I pull away, slowly.
    â€œSit,” Mom says.
    I do.
    â€œTalk to me,” she says. “ Please .”
    And I do.
    It’s not like any of it is really news to her—she obviously knows all the major plot points of the story. But I’ve never told her the little things about Meg, the things I loved most about her, like how she used to concentrate really hard on what the teacher was saying in class, as if she was eager to soak up as much knowledge as she possibly could. Or how she used to talk me into letting her braid my hair when we were alone and how she used to laugh at how ridiculous I looked when she was done. Or how she was the only person I’d ever seen eat ice cream (okay, sugar-free, organic frozen yogurt—Meg wouldn’t have eaten real ice cream) out of an ice-cream cone with a spoon.
    I’ve never told her how Meg was always pushing me to track down Michael, how she thought there was some big question mark in my head where my dad’s face should be.
    I’ve never told her that sometimes when I look at Hope’s face, really look at her, I feel sick to my stomach because she looks so much like Meg that it’s like being haunted by a ghost.
    I’ve never told my mom how much I hate myself for how everything turned out, how much I regret having sex with Meg without a condom, knowing she had cancer and that things would be bad if she got pregnant, and how I should have pushed harder for her to have an abortion. Even if it meant Meg hated me forever, I should have done whatever it took to make her think of herself for once, to stop her from sacrificing herself like this.
    But I tell her now.
    â€œIt wasn’t supposed to happen this way, Mom. Everything was supposed to be fine. Meg promised me! She was so sure she was going to make it.”
    Before she got pregnant and after, during chemo and post-chemo, right up until the end, Meg never once believed she was going to die. And if I’m being honest, despite all our fighting about her decision to stop her treatment, deep down she had me convinced of it too. I really did believe she would make it through…right up until that horrible day late in the sixth month of her pregnancy when I looked at her face and realized pieces of her were already gone.
    All Mom says is, “It’s okay,