Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 55395 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55395 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Any thought of me returning to school went out the window. Instead, I doubled down and became a caretaker again because while Dad did what he could with Mom, he still had a job at the end of the day, but he’d have to let the Marine Corps know. Another hit yet again.
I did what I did best and read through every public forum available about how things could and would potentially go. He was honorably discharged with full medical benefits. As if the blows weren’t enough from losing Mom, I had to watch my dad slowly decline, too. He was confused at first, wondering why he no longer had to be out the door after drinking his coffee at four o’clock in the morning, and I’d remind him. He’d look lost for a moment, become quiet, blink a few times, then sit down in his chair.
For years, I watched this disease ravage my father, and before that, I watched my mom do the same. Over a decade, I was there for them, and I’d do it for ten more decades if it meant getting to spend as much time as I could with them.
The only problem I have now is how to go on. How do I live for myself after living and breathing for them? I’m thirty-five years old and have to learn to live for myself. The only problem with that is, how does one do that? The minimal work experience and a college degree that luckily, I was able to finish online, leave me with little options as far as work goes, let alone getting out there again to make friendships.
A memory appears out of nowhere, pulling me in. It’s one I’ve tried to forget, but it calls me like the tide calls to the moon. A time and place where I could get lost in the feel of his arms, the lure of his kisses, and tell him about everything.
Jagger Steele.
My one and only love from a time long ago. Except I lost him, just like I’ve lost my parents.
I’m numb inside, the rain falling like sheets of ice around us during the burial service. It doesn’t matter that there are tents set up on the lawn for us to sit under; the cold has settled deep in my bones, and the pain is splintering my heart in two. Unlike Mom’s service, where the sun shone, the trees swayed, and a bird chirped here and there, Dad’s is cold and desolate, exactly how I’m feeling.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Skye.” I’m standing off to the side, receiving condolence after condolence. In true Marine Corps style, he had the military sendoff of all sendoffs.
“Thank you.” I take the offered hand or place mine on top of theirs as they pat the side of my arm or whatever.
“Call if you need anything.” A broken promise here, another one there. I heard the same song and dance at my mother’s funeral. They’ll be here for the first week, maybe two, before they fade away into the background.
“I will,” I tell Marge, my parents’ neighbor. My parents finally quit moving around when Dad received a higher rank. Mom found a cute three-bedroom, two-bathroom house in a quiet neighborhood, remodeled what needed updating, mainly the kitchen and bathroom, and they were both content to live their life for the rest of their years there. Nobody knew they’d succumb to cancer and dementia.
I stand, waiting for the line to die down, attempting not to snort at my use of the word die. A morbid sense of humor probably isn’t the best to have at this point in time. I look around, seeing the soldiers standing at attention; they’ll stay here until I’m done hearing their condolences and will stay until I say my goodbyes. As much as I want to stay and stare at their headstones and the pile of dirt when they lay my dad to rest, I won’t. No, I can’t. I’m broken inside. A piece of me is missing and will always be gone. I’m the last living relative on the Skye side as well as my mom’s side. Both my mom and dad were only children. Their parents have been long gone, and as much as my parents tried for a second child, it never happened. Now, I’m here alone and feeling like an orphan while in my thirties.
“Naomi.” I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m able to let my guard down when she pulls me into her arms. Truth be told, this woman right here helped me through all of the travesties we’ve been through. She was mother’s best friend and traveled around the globe to be here with me.
“Lyric, my girl. I’m sorry I couldn’t come until now,” she says with a Parisian accent. My mother and Naomi grew up together, and they kept in touch when my parents met. My parents fell in love, got married, had a child, and moved more than most people ever have. Still, she and Naomi managed to talk once a week at least, if not more. When Mom got worse, she flew in and stayed with us until she passed, or really until after the funeral. Naomi made me promise to keep in touch, and we have. Our phone calls helped keep me sane, and she insisted I take the help provided by my father’s insurance. I’d gone to work part-time; finding a flexible job as a receptionist at a dentist’s office really helped my mental health. I told them about the happenings in my home life knowing it would be a lot. The office manager told me in no uncertain circumstances that I was not to come in when Dad had a rough day.