Not yet.

I waited until I was on the plane, until we were in the air and the meals had been served, and the cabin lights were dimmed to pull the thin blanket the airline provided over my head so I could shield the other passengers from my cries. I let the memories flood me, let it all sink in, and I let it hurt. Because I know better than anyone that it’s not worth losing control of your actions, control of yourself, just to hold it all inside and one day explode, destroying everything that mattered to you. I sobbed into the blanket, curled into myself, my body shaking with the force, until I had no tears left to cry. And at some point—I don’t know how, I don’t know why—I just stopped.

Just… stopped.

And I sat up in my seat, lifted the window shade and looked out at the wide-open sky and the pillows of clouds I seemed to be floating on. They were pink—the same shade of pink as the roses that lined Chaz’s porch—and this strange calm washed through me.

I’d never believed in God.

I’d prayed to one, but never truly believed that a higher power existed.

I’d joke in the past that Chaz was the only God I knew, the only saving grace I’d ever need.

And as I stared out the window in awe of how vast the world was, my beliefs didn’t change.

Chaz was the only higher power I needed to know, and it wasn’t Google who was going to help me get through this, who was going to help me process this new normal with Becca. It was Chaz’s guidance and the knowledge that I wouldn’t have felt peace in my heart, in my soul, if Chaz wasn’t the one offering it. Because she felt it, too—at peace—in a world above the clouds where her mind was as clear as her memories.

* * *

Becca sits on my closed toilet seat while I tend to her bleeding fingers. She’s smiling. I don’t know why she’s smiling, but I smile back because I don’t know what else to do or what to think or how to feel.

“Do you like my dress?” she signs, once I’ve applied the last bandage.

I stare at her, conflicted. A part of me wants to be just like her—to carry on as if nothing’s happened—but another part of me wants to shake her, make her wake up and deal with this. Mourn and grieve, and do all the things she should be doing. But then her emerald eyes lift to mine, clear of pain, of heartache, and I almost want to wait until Tommy gets here and sit them both down and treat her like I would him.

Tommy… he’s gone through way too much change in his six years.

“Do you?” she signs, her eyes wide, waiting for my response.

I push away all other thoughts. “I love your dress, baby.”

Her smile widens. “It’s your favorite.”

Grief can cause insanity, I tell myself. “I know. Thank you for wearing it.”

“Can we eat ice cream?”

“What?” I ask, tired and confused. I step back when she stands up.

“I C E C R E A M,” she spells out.

“I know what you said, but I don’t…” I don’t know why you said it, Becca. “I don’t think I have any.”

She nods, her lips pressed tight. “My dad will get me ice cream.” She walks out of the room on a mission to get to her phone.

Slowly, I follow after her. “When is your dad getting here?” I ask her back.

She stops mid movement, her shoulders lifting with each inhaled breath. Then she turns, her head cocked to the side. “I don’t know,” she signs slowly. “When did you call him?”

“I didn’t, Becs.” I approach her with careful, heavy steps. Did you?”

She looks at me a beat, as if coming to terms with her actions. Then her head moves from side to side and she steps away from me. Her hands come up between us, shielding her from me. Tears fill her eyes, and a moment later she’s on the floor, her hands covering her head, her body rocking back and forth like she’d done in the past when a nightmare had taken her down to the depths of her hell. Only this isn’t a nightmare. It’s real. And it’s happening right now.

“Becca.” I rush to her but I don’t dare touch her. I know enough not to.

For minutes, she stays that way, her cries silent, and her thumb between her teeth. Finally, she looks up, her eyes void of any emotion. She looks through me, her hands raised, shaking as she signs, “She’s dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead—”

I cover her hands to stop her from repeating the word, and I use my chest to cover her face, cover her pain. Then I find the strength to pull away and I kiss her. I kiss her, I kiss her, I kiss her, until the trembling stops and she kisses me back, her hands desperate as they wander over me. We stand together, our lips locked and movements frantic as we strip out of our clothes and make our way to the bedroom where we both know that we need the physical pleasure to take away at least some of the torment. And with tear-soaked eyes, and broken hearts, we do what we can to protect our broken, shattered souls.

36

—Becca—

crazy

'kreɪzi/

informal

adjective

1. mad, especially as manifested in wild or aggressive behavior.

My grandmother loved summer storms. From the very little, yet random things I knew about her, that was one of them.

One night during the summer I stayed with her, she jerked me awake just so we could stand out in the rain and listen to the thunder and watch the lightning turn the world white. “Some people believe that storms are God’s way of showing us his anger,” she’d shouted. “But I don’t believe it. God can never truly be angry. It’s just his way of reminding us that we exist, not just in ourselves, but as an entire race. That’s why the heavens open, Becca. So we can celebrate life together.” She danced in the rain that night, her bare feet stomping, splashing water around her while her laughter outweighed the claps of thunder.

I’d stayed on the porch, protected by the roof, completely mesmerized by her movements, her words. Just her.

I never got the chance to dance in the rain with her.

Never got the chance to celebrate life.

But I am now.

I spin in circles, my feet splashing, my head tilted back letting the rain pour down on me. Thunder cracks, and I flinch. But then silent laughter bursts out of me and I widen my spins, my arms slicing through the air, through the heavy sheets of raindrops.

My therapist says I control who I am and who I want to be. My mother was crazy. So was my grandmother. But my mother was crazy in the evilest form, while my grandmother was a million different shades of it in all the best possible ways.

If I got to choose which brand of crazy I’d end up being, I’d choose to be like Grams.

“What the hell are you doing, Becca?” Josh shouts, standing just outside his apartment door. He’s wearing nothing but boxer briefs, exactly the way I’d left him in bed a couple of hours ago. He squints down at me through the darkness of the night. Another clap of thunder, followed by a flash of lightning. “Jesus Christ, you’re going to get yourself killed!”

I don’t know why he’s yelling at me. I’m just celebrating Grams’s life like she’d have wanted. I sign up at him, “Dance with me!”

He charges down his stairs, only slowing his steps when he’s a few feet away from me. He’s so beautiful, so graceful.