Page 97 of Into the Dark, We Go
The sunset’s warm glow painted the faded wallpaper of my childhood bedroom a soft, pink hue. At first glance, everything looked just as I’d left it, but Mom had clearly been tidying up. My school notebooks were rearranged, and my clothes were out of place. I sat down on the bed, the same one I’d slept in a lifetime ago, when Dad was still alive, before Lucas entered the picture, and I still had my whole life ahead of me.
But there I was now: a twenty-three-year-old college dropout, moving back in with my mother, facing the loss of my independence and dreading the uncertainty of what came next.
And that was when it hit me, the same solitude I hadn’t known what to do with before, crashing down all at once. It buried me beneath a heavy coat of despair and loss. I had absolutely no one here. My high school friends had drifted apart after we scattered to different colleges. Even though some of them stayed in Cleveland, after Lucas’s disappearance, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to reach out. Now, reconnecting would feel awkward, like trying to force something that had already slipped away.
I thought about Mitch and June back in West Virginia, tucked away in the cabin, and a wave of warmth filled my heart. What were they doing now?
Then there was Nick. A part of me wanted to reach for my phone and text him, but another part knew it would be pointless. Instead, I cried myself to sleep, silently promising that tomorrow, I would not indulge in self-pity.
I woke up disoriented,momentarily unsure of where I was before it came crashing back to me: my departure, Nick, my childhood room. I lay motionless for a minute, trying to understand how I felt and whether I was ready to tackle the day. After a solid ten hours of sleep, I was surprisingly refreshed, andfor the first time in a while, optimistic about my future. Still in my pajamas—a faded teenage relic I’d found in the closet, a worn pair of shorts and a fitted top that seemed ridiculously childish now—I headed downstairs, following the inviting scent of coffee that filled the house. It was quiet, except for the gentle hum of the washer in the laundry room.
Mom was in the kitchen, folding dried clothes on the dining table. We hadn’t seen each other the night before. I’d gone to bed early, depleted by the raw, unprocessed emotions and the long drive, and then lulled by the familiarity of my room. She’d probably gotten back home quite late after her friend’s birthday party.
"Morning," I greeted her, focusing on the pile in front of her. Beyond the jumble of fabrics, patterns, and colors, I recognized my own clothes.
"Is this my shirt?" I asked, coming closer. "Are these my clothes?"
"I thought you’d like them cleaned," Mom sounded offended, as if I was accusing her of a crime she hadn’t committed.
"Did you get them from the car?"
"If I hadn’t, you would’ve been living out of it for another two weeks!"
I scanned the room and saw my suitcase, one of the boxes, and the blue Ikea bag—all emptied out. But the gym bag with Lucas’s things was nowhere to be seen.
"Where is it?" I asked, my heart pounding.
She shook her head, disapproving, without saying a word, like my question didn’t even warrant a response, like I should’ve known better than to ask.
"Where is the other bag?!" I demanded louder this time.
She didn’t answer, just let out an exasperated sigh. I waited for a few seconds for her to stop ignoring me, then stormed out of the house.
Rushing outside, I was met with my mother’s scolding. "Get back inside this instant! The neighbors will think you’re crazy, running around half-naked!"
She followed behind me, her measured pace a deliberate display of authority, like a police officer approaching a pulled-over vehicle.
As I reached the end of the driveway, I spotted the bag on top of the garbage can. I grabbed it without hesitation, relieved to find it still there.
"For Pete’s sake, stop feeling sorry for yourself! This is embarrassing! That boy walked all over you!" Mom’s scathing words cut through the air.
That was it.
"That boyis fucking dead!" I shouted, locking eyes.
A long pause followed. I grabbed the Ikea bag from the floor and hurried upstairs, frantically stuffing my belongings into it.
"Now, what are you doing?" she asked, her voice almost calm. She followed me into my room.
I gave her an icy stare, then turned back to packing, opting for a silent treatment of my own.
"I swear, sometimes I wonder how you make it through the day," she spat behind my back. "If you had an ounce of sense, you’d see he’s not worth it."
I spun around, my inner restraint shattering like glass, anger spilling out in every direction. "And ifyouwere a better wife, Dad wouldn’t have cheated!"
Slap!
And then I was cradling my cheek, and she was frozen with her palm still up in the air. Her eyes blazed, nostrils flaring, as she waited for me to respond, to say something. But I didn’t. Instead, I charged past her, still in my pajamas, grabbed the keys from the porch bowl, tossed my bag and Lucas’s things into thetrunk, and got in the car. My mother stood by the garage door, arms crossed, frowning. I rolled down the window.
