“Think of a door, Eury. A door.”
Words I didn’t know, from a voice I didn’t recognize.
I set my ear to the door. Nothing—no sobs, no movement. But I knew she was there. Where else would she be? She’d lived almost her entire life in that kitchen or in the bedroom. And the rain had already intensified, pounding on the windows.
“Mama,” I said.
No answer.
I set my hand to the knob. The door had no lock. It was only a matter of turning it and pushing in.
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bear to see it again. I would crack like glass. The world wouldn’t ever be right if I saw it a second time.
Better to run. Better to hide.
I pressed my eyes shut with my hand on the knob. No, no?—
“Think of a door, Eury.”
Who was that? I couldn’t remember. I only knew this was the door. If I didn’t open this door, I would spend the rest of my life running away from it. Always returning to it, staring at the knob.
This door. I needed to open it.
The knob turned with ease under my grip. I pushed it open until it swung inward on its own.
There she lay, fetal in the bed, the sheets rumpled around her. A panel of green window light illuminated her. Her brown hair was mussed and sweaty.
Mama.
Her eyes opened, found me. Brown eyes. A flash of pain, of accusation.
This was my fault. Somehow it was my fault. This was the moment I should run.
But I wasn’t a child anymore. Anger rose in me—then softness. She was my mother, and she was suffering.
I came over to the bed and sat on the edge. “What’s wrong, Mama?”
I knew. Of course I knew.
“Leave me be, Eury.”
That wasn’t what she wanted. It was never what she wanted.
I reached out, took hold of her hand. She jerked it from me and writhed away, tucking her body tighter into itself.
Run, run, run.
No.
I lay down in the bed behind her and slid my arm over her. Tucked my face up against her back. “It’s okay, Mama. It’s okay.”
She fought me a little, but I held on tighter. And eventually she relented and cried while I held her. Every sob was a knife. My fault, my fault, my fault. Every time she made noise, I held her tighter.
My fault for what?
What had I done?
That was when I saw it. There, splayed open on the nightstand, illuminated by the green light. Her journal—and she’d written in it. A quill and inkpot sat beside it, the smell of ink still faintly lacing the air.