Page 4 of Give Me Strength

“I miss you, Mom,” I mutter, my voice cracking with emotion. “I wish you were here.”

She was my anchor, my inspiration, my beacon of hope.

My guardian angel.

She wasn’t the only one.

You are worthy — that was the phrase Mom had tattooed on her arm. You are beautiful was Rachel’s — mom’s best friend and my ballet teacher’s —tattoo, and You are enough was what they used to tell me all the time.

Ever since they died, no one has said the words to me. Their words stayed with me, though, all this time. It only seemed fitting that I get it permanently etched on my skin; that way, no one could take it away from me.

Not even Dad.

It didn’t stop him from trying, though.

And when he left for his last assignment without warning, it made it much easier to convince Aunt Bonnie to sign off on the release forms. Easier than tricking our long-time housekeeper, Mrs. Torres, into signing them. Dad would have blown his gasket if he saw it, but it doesn’t change the fact that the outcome remains the same.

He can’t take them from me. No one can.

As I trace the tattoo once more, I find a flicker of resilience amid the anguish, a whisper of hope amidst the darkness.

Back in my walk-in closet, the black dress Aunt Bonnie picked out for me lies waiting. It’s a simple black dress, modest, respectful, and a stark symbol of the grief that has engulfed my life. I pull it on, the fabric heavy and suffocating against my skin. Trudging back to my bedroom, I sit on the edge of my bed to put on my nude stockings, my hands shaking so badly I can barely manage. The two-inch black shoes she picked out are next, polished, and ready, yet they feel like foreign objects on my feet. So I swap them out for flats, the first autonomous choice I’ve made for myself in days.

I sit at my vanity and unwrap the towel from my hair. The brown locks fall in damp, unruly waves around my shoulders. I reach for the hair dryer and begin to dry my hair, the noise a welcome distraction. Going through the motions provides a temporary reprieve from the relentless tide of my thoughts. My hands are steady by the time my hair is dry. I brush it out and pull it back into a low bun, securing it with bobby pins.

I turn to the small jewelry box on my dresser and open it. Inside is the teardrop necklace Mom gave me for my thirteenth birthday. It was the last present she gave me, before the accident. I pick it up, the cool metal a bittersweet comfort against my fingers, and fasten it around my neck. The weight of it against my skin is both comforting and heartbreaking.

Finally, I apply a light layer of makeup, enough to mask the evidence of my sleepless nights, endless tears, and night terrors, but not so much that it feels inappropriate. I put a bit of concealer under my eyes, some mascara to bring some life back into them, and a touch of lip gloss. I take a deep, shuddering breath and study my reflection one last time.

Sadly, I still do not recognize the woman staring back at me.

It is just as well.

I am as ready as I will ever be.

With that, I gather my things and head downstairs, the reality of the day settling heavily on my shoulders. The rain continues to fall outside, a steady, mournful rhythm that mirrors my heartache.

I am alone now, truly alone.

But I have to keep going — for them, for Mom and Rachel, for the love they gave me and the strength they instilled in me.

For them, I must endure.

And somehow, I have to find the strength to keep going — after I say goodbye to my father.

2

GILBERT

The graveyard is a desolate place today, cloaked in a somber gray. The overcast sky matches the mood of the mourners gathered. Rows of gravestones stretch out in every direction, each one a silent testament to lives once lived.

The air is heavy with the scent of damp earth and freshly cut grass. Black umbrellas are open against the light rain, creating a sea of darkness against the gray sky. The low murmur of the minister’s voice blends with the rhythmic patter of rain on the umbrellas, mingling with the quiet sobs of those gathered.

A lone figure stands off to the side, slightly removed from the main group of mourners.

That lone mourner is me.

I stand at the edge of the group, feeling like an outsider. That’s because I am an outsider. Being here at Everett Crane’s funeral dredges up memories I fought so hard to bury — memories of Rachel’s funeral five years ago and of the raw, unyielding grief that nearly consumed me.

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