Page 52 of Grim

InevitabilityCalling

I walk down the narrow hall that feels too long now.

Seek’s absence trails behind me like fog.

The paradox of my pain is not lost on me.

I helped him cross. I offered solace. He found strength.

Now he moves on. The dichotomy of loss aches.

Shrouded beauty. It is, as we are, more than one thing at any given moment.

The worn leather of my notebook anchors me to the present, to this moment.

The house groans beneath my feet. Old wood creaking out the sounds of even older memories. My bare soles pad along the cold hardwood, but I don’t feel it. I’m too full of splinters.

The phone is exactly where I left it—half hanging off the edge of the table, like it’s ready to make a break for it. The screen blinks, a weak pulse. Low battery. Ten percent. Fitting. Everything’s running out.

I do not want to make this call. Does anyone? That’s not a rhetorical question. I would really like to know the answer. I would like so many more answers.

What I do know is that if I don’t make this call, I’ll never forgive myself. And eternity is a long time to hold on to regret.

It takes three tries to unlock it. My fingers are shaking too hard. I keep hitting the wrong button. Before calling, I change the name on the Contact to read simply Mom . Sometimes, so little says so much.

My thumb hovers, then presses the green button.

How does one say goodbye without saying goodbye? How does one leave without letting those they love the most know they’re going?

It rings.

How do I do this?

It rings again.

“Ruby Rue.” The first voice I ever heard singsongs my name. “How’s my only girl who’s too busy to call her only mother?”

“Hi, Mom.” I do everything I can to hide the break in my voice—or was that only my heart that broke on those words?

“And here I thought, I was going to have to buy one of those spirit boards to get ahold of you. After all, death is the only reason to avoid your mother’s calls for days on end.”

I let out a huff of air that might be a laugh. “To quote Monty Python, ‘I’m not dead yet,’” I say in a poor imitation of a British accent and think instantly of Asher. His presence looming.

“Oh, you think you’re funny.” Her voice is tinny through the speaker, but familiar. Home, in the shape of sarcasm. “Do you know how many voicemails I’ve left? I almost drove down there. Had my keys in my hand and everything.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Doing what? Staring at walls? Collecting dust like a haunted porcelain doll?”

Falling in love. Living. Dying , I think to myself.

“If I were a doll, I’d be made of something far tougher than porcelain,” I say instead. How often do we say what we really mean?

“Rue.” She sighs my name. Maternal worry bleeding through the cracks in her bravado, like liquid through cheesecloth.

I push away from the table and start pacing. Movement is easier than stillness.

“I’m okay, Mom. ”

“No, you’re not. Don’t insult me. I can hear it in your voice. You sound like you’ve been crying.”

“I’m hormonal.”

“You’re terminal.”

“I met someone,” I blurt out. I’m not sure if I’m more interested in sharing this truth with her or if I’m simply trying to change the subject, but it’s out now anyway.

“I take back my previous comment. There are two acceptable reasons to not call your mother. Tell me everything. Who is he? Or her? Where did you meet? What does he do? How?”

Juliet levels of pining for Kane take over as visions of him dance in my head at her enthusiasm. Her final one-word question pours ice water on that.

“Wow. Thanks, Mom,” I reply dryly.

“I’m kidding.”

“Turn it off,” I tell D coldly.

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, then it does not make a sound. If he turns this off and I do not bear witness, it will not happen. Everything can change.

“Nothing can change now, Kane,” the prick replies, reading my thoughts.

“Then let me out of these fucking chains and take me to her.”

He cocks his head, considering, as a smirk forms across his face. “Can’t help you with the latter,” he says at last, almost cheerfully. “But I don’t see why I can’t accommodate the former.”

He snaps his lithe fingers, and the grey chains instantly release me from the confines of the chair.

I roll my wrists and stare helplessly at the framed screen playing out this ghastly scene.

“Make yourself comfortable, reaper,” D says behind me, almost bored.

“Fuck you.” I seethe .

He sits back in his chair, propping his legs up on his desk.

“Shh.” He presses his fingers to his lips. “This is my favorite part,” he whispers, and we both turn our attention back to a conversation we should not be watching.

“His name is Kane,” I tell my mother, deciding there can’t be any harm in bumping up as close to the truth as I can.

“Ohhh,” she hums, drawing the sound out. “Strong, vaguely ominous. I like it. What’s he do?”

“He’s a doctor. Wildly intelligent, and, boy, does he know it.” I chuckle softly.

“Oh, confidence, bordering on arrogance? We do love that, don’t we? Tell me more.”

“He doesn’t smile much,” I admit softly. “But when he does, it’s earned. And his eyes—Mom, his eyes speak volumes in a look.” I pause for a moment before adding, “He’s a bit of a sarcastic ass as well.”

“Well, you’re used to that with me,” Mom interrupts. “You’re welcome. Where did you meet?”

I smile wistfully, remembering the first feel of his mouth against mine. Remembering every beautifully imperfect moment we shared since.

“Dumb luck,” I murmur. “The wrong place and the right time. Or maybe it was the right place at the wrong time.”

“Sounds like the right place at the right time to me. Fate,” Mom exclaims, and my heart physically shudders at the word. “Is it serious?”

Her continued litany of questions keeps dragging me back to the present. Guilt begins to creep in as I fear I might be misleading my mom or giving her a false sense of hope. But I want her to know this. I want her to have this.

“It is, Mom. Very. It’s been fast and passionate and real. He loves me. He makes me feel it in the most extraordinary and mundane ways. And I love him. And it’s just the best feeling, Mom. The best.”

How can a single moment be the best and worst of my entire meaningless existence?

Nothing has burned brighter or stung more sharply than this moment.

Nothing has ever lifted me this high while simultaneously slamming me so hard into the cruel ground.

Nothing sings and stings with as much potency as Rue Chamberlain’s unknowing declaration of her love to me.

She talks about me like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to her. But I am not. I failed her.

The room feels like it’s pressing in.

I feel the strength leave my body through the single tear that falls from my right eye.

“Oooooooooh,” D purrs from his perch in the corner, watching me and the screen simultaneously. “That was juicy.” He extends his hand toward me. “Popcorn?”

My words are failing me in this moment, my vocabulary not doing justice to my emotions, even now, when the stakes are so high.

“I am so happy for you, baby.”

I can feel the smile in my mom’s voice. It feels good.

“Thanks, Mom.”

I sink into one of the old chairs, wincing as it creaks beneath me. I get it, chair; believe me, I get it.

“Anyway,” I say, changing the subject, “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

The kitchen smells faintly like mint and mildew. The old kettle still sits on the stove. The chair across from mine still has the indents from a night I can’t get back. My hand presses over my heart, and I try to memorize the sound of her breathing through the phone.

“Remember when I used to fake fainting to get out of math class?” I do not know where the recollection comes from, but I voice it back into being.

“You didn’t fake it. You committed. Hit the floor like a sack of flour,” Mom says with a light laugh.

“I was a theatre kid at heart.”

“You were a menace.”

“Your menace.”

She exhales, long and shaky. “My fucking menace.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “You always did have a mouth on you.”

“Didn’t think you got your vocabulary from your father, did you?”

I chuckle lightly. “He was a fisherman.”

“Yeah, and I taught him a few words that made him blush.”

“Speaking of words,” I begin, pressing my thumb deeply into the soft exterior of my notebook.

This is my chance to share my work with Cerulean.

I’m not sure I was wholly aware at the time, but this is the thing I need to tell her.

I want her to know that I inherited more than just her foul mouth.

I got Dad’s broken heart and Mom’s tortured artist soul. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Yes?” Mom asks as I realize I stopped speaking.

I thumb the notebook open to the same page as before. “May I read you some of mine?”

“From your little diary?”

I roll my eyes, but instead of getting frustrated, I own the space and claim this moment. “They are more than journal entries, Mom. I write prose. I have dozens of short stories about love and loss and adventure and regret. I write poems too. And I want to share one with you.”

I can hear the cautious enthusiasm in her voice as she tells me, “Of course, Rue. I would love to hear your words.”

“Okay. This one is called ‘Rue’s Lament.’” I clear my throat and take a fortifying breath. Then voice aloud:

R ue’s L ament

What begins in the light ends in the dark .

Heated wax melting into memory.

Liquid pools formed from that initial spark.

Every wick burns out eventually.

Fear not the candle’s smoky finale

Celebrate instead the way it burned bright

Tendrils of grey-black smoke, the last sally

Of a flame that flickered with all its might.

The chandler crafted with wick and tallow

Each piece meant to serve an earthly purpose

So, burn your candles, lest they lie fallow

Trophies to obsolescence for the corpus.

Heat, light, and power dancing off the tip.

Snuffed out, brief candle. Sweet life, what a trip.