I left my husband in the dining room.
I couldn't continue the conversation without hearing another explanation.
I needed to see Jeremy.
The hallway was quiet.
His bedroom door was partly open.
I knocked gently.
He was sitting on his bed.
The room was dim except for the small lamp beside him.
He had changed into comfortable clothes.
His school bag was on the floor.
A book rested on his desk.
Everything looked exactly as it usually did.
But Jeremy didn't.
He looked older than thirteen in that moment.
Not because of his height.
Because of the way he was sitting.
His shoulders were bent forward.
His hands were resting together.
He looked like someone who had spent a long time trying to keep something inside.
I sat beside him.
"Can I stay?"
He nodded.
I looked around the room.
There were books on the shelf.
A few things from school.
The dog had settled near the doorway.
I smiled at the familiar sight.
Then I noticed a small photograph on the bedside table.
It was an old picture of Jeremy and Janice.
They were sitting together.
Both were smiling.
Their little faces were close.
I picked it up.
"I remember this day."
Jeremy looked at the photograph.
He nodded.
"You both looked so happy."
He touched the edge of the frame.
Then he spoke.
"She liked being with me."
I smiled through my tears.
"She loved being with you."
He looked at me.
"Every day."
"Yes."
He turned the photograph slightly.
His finger rested against Janice's face.
I remembered how inseparable they had been.
How they seemed to understand each other without needing explanations.
I had always thought that connection was beautiful.
Now I wondered how painful it must have been to lose it.
Jeremy put the photograph back.
Then he looked at me.
"Mom?"
"Yes?"
"Do you believe me?"
I felt my chest tighten.
I moved closer.
"Yes, sweetheart."
He searched my face.
I continued.
"I believe that you're telling me what you remember. And I want to understand."
He looked down.
His eyes became wet.
I held him.
He leaned against my shoulder.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then he said something very quietly.
"I didn't want her to go."
I closed my eyes.
"I know."
He shook his head.
I looked at him.
"Tell me."
He swallowed.
"She was my best friend."
I kissed his hair.
"She always will be your sister."
He began crying.
Not loudly.
Not the way children sometimes cry when they fall or hurt themselves.
It was a quiet, exhausted kind of crying.
The kind that made me realize how much pain he had been carrying.
I held him until his breathing settled.
I didn't ask him to explain anything else.
I didn't mention his father.
I didn't ask what happened at the lake.
I simply stayed.
After a while, he pulled away.
He wiped his face with his sleeve.
I reached for a tissue on the bedside table.
He accepted it.
Then he looked at the photograph again.
I wondered how many nights he had looked at that picture.
How many times he had wanted to tell someone what he remembered.
How many times he had decided not to.
I had spent eight years trying to bring my son's voice back.
I hadn't understood that the words might be attached to a memory he was terrified to share.
I stood to leave.
He caught my hand.
I turned.
"Stay?"
It was a small word.
But I sat down again.
"Of course."
That night, I remained beside him until he fell asleep.
The photograph stayed on the table.
Janice was still smiling.
And for the first time in eight years, I felt that Jeremy wasn't completely alone with his memories.
Click here to continue reading: PART 16: The Next Morning, My Son Was Still Speaking, and I Finally Understood That I Needed to Listen Without Looking Away
Eleven Minutes Apart, Two Children Who Seemed to Understand Each Other Without Ever Needing the Rest of Us
Part 15 of 20
