By: Anvika Bheemarasetty
The smell of burnt toast and laundry detergent filled my nose. Standing in a corner of the room – a ghost in my own past – watching my younger self argue with Mom.
I want to scream, tell her that it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what we were arguing about. It never mattered.
I remember being furious, face flushed. Mom crying, trying to apologize, hand resting on the back of the chair. I remember feeling so righteous, wanting to be right more than kind. Before I got the news.
Don’t walk out, I tell my younger self, but my voice makes no sound, stay and hug her, I want to say.
But the younger me ignores, grabs her keys and slams the door, the sound echoing through the house. Mom stands hunched over, tears streaming down her face, looking small. I watch her take in a shuddering breath, unaware that it’s the last time I’ll see her alive.
I want to reach out and touch her, but I know better. I’m just a spectator in this cruel loop. I have to watch her walk towards the garage, towards the night that will take her away from me forever.
Back in time, but I cannot save her, just watch the moment everything slipped out of my control. Over and over again.
i’m staying over at a friends. don’t try to find me
If I hadn’t sent that text, if I hadn’t run away, if she hadn’t tried to find me, maybe she would be here today, celebrating my 18th birthday.
I would blame that driver if I could, for being drunk, but I can’t. I can only blame myself, for being so stupid, for being so arrogant.
Then I wouldn’t have gotten that call. I remember laughing with my friend, lying on her bed watching a movie, when my phone started vibrating.
The words, “Greenlake Hospital” flashed on the screen.
I remember feeling confused, I had no family or friends in the hospital.
I picked up.
“Is this Miss Avery Hart?”
“Yes. How may I help you?”
“We are deeply sorry to inform you that your mom, Ms. Lauren Hart has passed away…”
My world went black. I didn’t hear the rest of that sentence. Frozen, I dropped the phone.
Maybe they had gotten the wrong person?
I stood there in numb shock, fingers trembling, staring at the phone, its bright screen still glowing in the dark, as if the words would be taken back. A mistake. A misunderstanding. Anything but that.
My friend was talking, asking if I was okay, but her voice sounded muffled, like I was underwater. I tried to answer, but no words came out. The room tilted as I fell to my knees gasping as reality sank in. Somewhere far away, someone was crying. It took me a moment to realize it was me.
At the hospital, everything was unfamiliar, too bright with its starch white walls. A doctor spoke to me softly. I nodded when he paused, even when I didn’t understand.
They said a drunk driver ran a red light.
They said there was nothing they could do.
They said they were sorry, but I didn’t want their apologies, I just wanted my mom back.
After that, my world blurred. Faces swirled together, apologies and condolences fading into senseless noise. Someone pressed a cup of water into my hands. My aunt’s voice broke as she called my name. And me, as I waited to wake up and escape reality.
Now, I’m standing in my room again, the one I left in a rush. Bed still unmade, sweatshirt draped over the back of my chair. And my phone, lying on the nightstand, face down.
I already know what’s waiting.
A missed call.
A voicemail.
For weeks after the accident, I didn’t listen to it. I couldn’t. It felt like crossing a line where I couldn’t come back.
Here, I don’t have a choice. I flip the phone over, fingers shaking as I press play.
“Hey sweetheart. It’s Mom.”
Her voice is calm. A little tired but not upset.
“I know you’re angry. I know I didn’t handle things right, but I just wanted to say I love you. Call me when you’re ready,”
There was a pause, and faint traffic noise filled the background.
“I’ll always pick up.”
The message ends.
The room feels too quiet, like the air is holding its breath. I lean on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall letting the words sink in, as a tear rolls down my cheek.
I scroll back to the last text I sent her,
i’m staying over at a friends. don’t try to find me
I remember sending it, my fingers moving faster than I could think. But now I’m standing here, and I don’t even remember what we were fighting about.
The house creaks around me. The world moves on, indifferent to my pain.
I replay the voicemail again,
“Call me when you’re ready, I’ll always pick up.”
My fingers tighten around the phone.
“I’m ready.” I whisper into the empty room.
But the line is dead.
And it always will be.
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