I'm laying on the guest bed, shifting between bafflement and agony as my mind repeats the day. I can't stop remembering the phone call. As much as it hurts to recall it, I can't stop. The strangest part about it was the fact that my world didn't slow. Movies make it seem like this muted, slow-motion moment, but it's not. The camera of my life didn't zoom in on my face to capture that very instant when I cracked. Things just happened, but somehow I was so much more aware of my surroundings.

I remember feeling every smack of my heart beneath my breast. I remember that sickening sense of doom when my father's voice had resounded on the other end of the line. That moment when I knew instantly that something was very very wrong. It wasn't in slow motion; it was just more pronounced. It's a moment that I'm sure will never leave my memory. It's like my mind has been branded with the horrors I experienced. Time might lessen the severity that the memory has on my current state, but it will never be erased.

I want to think that that's a bad thing, but I don't. Instead, I feel panicked that I'll one day forget what it feels like in that instant of devastation. I don't want to forget the pain that I felt, because as long as I feel that pain then I know I'm hurting. And without my mom in this world, I never want to stop hurting. I never want to get used to the world without her. I never want to think of her death without having a twisting slice of pain in my heart. Because the moment I get used to the idea that she's gone, then I'll feel like I'm letting her go.

I'm not ready to let her go.

My stomach clenches again, and I roll my legs up to my chest as fresh tears spill onto the pillow beneath my head. I never realized that tragedy could cause physical illness, but it does. My body doesn't want to feel sad, so it's doing the only thing it knows how in order to get rid of that sensation. I haven't actually vomited again, but the nausea refuses to leave me alone.

A knock on my door has me sitting up. I rub my eyes as I holler for whoever's out there to come in. The door opens tentatively and I see a blonde head peer around the side. The moment I lock eyes with my baby sister, everything comes roaring to life.

Without a second of hesitation, she barges through the door. I stand just as her arms come around me, and we hold each other tight. All those same emotions spring up and I wonder how it's possible that I could have this much liquid inside of me. We hold each other for a long time, sniffling and sobbing as if we've just heard the news for the first time.

Finally gaining control, Hope steps back and rubs her eyes. I just stand watching her. Her purse is still slung over her shoulder and I can see the weariness in her posture that comes from traveling.

"This doesn't feel real," she says softly, pulling a Kleenex package from her purse. She offers me one, and we both take a moment to wipe away the evidence of our tears.

"I know," I mutter, my eyes staring at my hands where I'm fixated on watching myself fold and unfold the small tissue in my grasp. "Did dad tell you what happened?"

She nods.

"It's not fair," she says after a moment, her words quiet. "Out of everyone in the world? Why her? She happened to be one of the only people in this whole world who actually enjoyed her life. Why couldn't God have picked someone who actually hated their life?"

"Hope," I say with a gentle hint of admonishment in my tone. "You can't blame God for the stupidity of humanity."

"I know," she says with a nod, but then almost instantly stiffens up, her voice hardening. "But I have no problem blaming that butthole who did this to her—to us."

"I know," I tell her. "I mean, I know it was just a mistake on his part, but that doesn't change the fact that he will forever reside on my 'hate' list."

"You have a hate list?" Hope asks, a teasing smile breaking out through her tear-streaked cheeks.

"Well," I say with a shrug, "he's the only one who's ever made it that low. As bad as it sounds, I would like to smother him with a pillow."

Hope cracks a smile and suddenly we're both chuckling. It's sad laughter, but it's laughter nonetheless, and I'm shocked that such an emotion can even find room to escape from the gloom that's crowding my soul.

The moment doesn't last long, but the smiles do remain. The room is silent, both of us in some sort of deep thought. My mind keeps dancing back to the moment when this happened. A sick part of me wishes I'd been there to see it. I want to know what exactly happened. For some reason, I'm almost fascinated by the details. I just need to know everything.

Dad mentioned that the funeral is going to be closed casket because the accident did cause some unsettling damage to my mother's body, and yet, I want to look. I want to see what my mother looks like without a soul. Will she still look like my mother? Would I even recognize her? Would it be horrifying, or would I just stand there looking at her as if looking at a mannequin?

My dad lost his mother several years back, and he told me about his experience. We'd all been at the emergency room when it happened. I actually remember watching the heart monitor as it bleeped with life. My eyes had been transfixed between her unconscious face and the line jumping with every beat of her heart. I was more curious than saddened. Maybe it's because I knew that living would mean suffering at that point, or maybe it's just because I'm a callous horrible person. Either way, I wasn't heartbroken when the monitor stopped jumping as it filled the room with a continual ring of death. She was gone.

My dad had told us what he'd experienced in that moment, and it's definitely not what I'd expected. He said that he remembered just standing there, staring at his mother, and only one thought was going through his head...

... that's not my mother.

He'd just stared at her lifeless body and he knew right then that that woman was not the lady that raised him and loved him. It was just a vessel. The spirit that made her his mother was now gone. Nothing of her remained apart from flesh and bone. He hadn't even cried in that moment. He'd just stared in awe as realization dawned on him. He said it was the most surreal experience of his life.

Now I'm in his shoes, but I'm nearly positive that my opinion would be different. I don't see this as a moment of awe or realization. I'm not basking in the weird reality that my mother no longer lives on earth. No, I'm groveling in it. I'm squirming in this painful sensation of loss.

While I might be slightly curious about her current state, I'm not curious enough to destroy my mind like that. Right now, I have good memories of my mother. I close my eyes and I see her smiling face, her goofy laugh, her addictive spunk. I refuse to taint those memories with a moment of stupidity-driven curiosity. I choose to remember my mother as living. I don't want images of her dead eyes gazing back at me. I don't want to see her body mangled and broken inside of a casket. I don't want to stare at her frozen chest as I beg her to take a breath.

I just don't want to hurt anymore.

I know for a fact that no matter how much my deranged curiosity eats at me, I will not give in. I will not insist on viewing my mother one last time. Because that one last time could destroy a lifetime of memories that we've shared. I'm not that self-destructive.

"How was your flight?" I suddenly ask, trying to get our minds off the misery we keep soaking in.

I don't want to be sad right now. I'm with my sister for once. I haven't seen her in nearly six months, and I'm dying to know about her life. I should be eagerly listening to the stories of her college experiences. I want to listen to her gush about a boy she's obsessed with. I want to listen to her complain about her excruciating Statistics class. I want to drown myself in her stories and just pretend that yesterday never happened.

So I do.

We chatter for nearly two hours before there's a knock on the door and Seth peaks in on us curled up on the guest bed. We both swing our gazes to him, our smiles being the only greeting we offer.

"Lunch is about ready," he tells us.

We both mutter an okay and then begin scooting our way off the bed.

"How are you two doing?" Hope suddenly asks just as I'm about to stand. I freeze, settling my body weight back onto the bed and turning to look at my inquisitive sister.

"Better, I think, " I tell her honestly. She doesn't know anything, and yet, there's something in her gaze that makes me think she's aware of more than she should be.

"Mom told me about your little meltdown at dinner a couple of weeks ago."

I groan, cupping my forehead with one hand and digging my fingers into my temples. "Yeah," I sigh. "Not my best moment." Suddenly I'm wanting to cry again as I realize that that's the very last memory that I'll ever have of her. Why couldn't it have been a good one? I gaze down at the carpeted floor, my eyes trained on a mysterious stain to the left of the closet door. "We haven't been doing real great," I suddenly say.

I'm almost shocked by my own announcement. I'd sort of been hoping that Seth and I could get our problems figured out before anyone questioned how we were doing. I wanted to just glide through our problems unnoticed until we could fix them ourselves. I guess that's not going to be happening, because the next thing I know, I'm spilling everything to Hope.

She sits nodding and smiling as I spill all the details. I tell her about the divorce papers and Seth's odd behavior. I tell her about Tracy and our heated moment at the cabin when she'd suddenly texted and ruined everything. I tell her how I'm dealing with it and how he seems to be wanting to reverse the damage we've done to each other.

"So, what'd he say about the divorce papers when you mentioned them?" she asks once I've finished talking. I glance up at her, slightly startled by the question.

"Uh." I scratch the side of my head, offering a lopsided smile."He said he was using them as, like, an experiment. It was his way of adjusting to the possibility of me divorcing him."

"Merc," she growls. "You bonehead!" I stare at her wide-eyed as she turns her body to face me straight on and I get the feeling that a scolding is coming. "You two are both so stupid. Have you never heard of this new concept of talking? Gosh," she swings a hand up in the air with exasperation. "Clearly, you two need to figure your crap out if you're both thinking the other is wanting a divorce. Gosh, you guys are dumb. Just tell him what you're feeling. Or are you one of those girls who expects him to read your mind?"

"I did tell him how I feel, and he said nothing," I groan, flopping back on the bed to stare at the ceiling. "It's just that—It's like we've forgotten how to communicate."

"Well, here's a bright idea for you," she says, standing and offering a hand out to me. "Learn."

I let her tug me upwards, my body limp with the draining thought of actually expressing all my emotions to Seth. It sounds horrible. I don't want him to see my vulnerable side. Sure, I've admitted I love him, but there's so much more to it than that. We have so much to catch up on and so much to figure out. It's conversations like that where I'll be forced to let go of all my pride. I don't want to let go of my pride when he's so unwilling to do so himself. I don't want to. I just don't want to.

And yet, I know it's the only way to fix things.

"By the way," she says as she starts to turn the doorknob. I stop and glance to the side at her, a look of expectation on my face as I wait for her to continue. "He loves you."

"What?" I actually laugh at this. It's just so ludicrous because he sure doesn't act like a man in love. Yesterday and today have been the only times that I've questioned his devotion to me, but I've realized that he's just pitying me. He's showing concern and kindness to a person he cares for. That doesn't mean he loves me. It just means he cares. If he loved me he would have uttered those words in response to my own.

"What put that stupid idea in your head?" I guffaw as I begin walking again, ready to pass through the doorway.

"Seth did."

I stop again, wide eyes swinging to pin her in place. I'm shooting questions at her with my eyes. I don't verbalize any of them but she seems to catch on. With a prideful smirk, she just shrugs and shuffles past me. But, just as she gets to the top of the stairs at the end of the hallway, she turns with an expression wise beyond her years and offers a genuine smile before she allows three life-changing words to vibrate past her lips...

"He told me so."