Confession Read online

  My mom, the only parent I’ve ever known, has been dying for the last three years. She was diagnosed with leukemia when I was fourteen, went into remission when I was fifteen, and relapsed when I was sixteen. After many second and third opinions this past year, there isn’t much left for her to do or try. She stopped all treatments almost three months ago, and it’s attacking her body now. Recently she’s been battling lots of secondary infections and it’s horrible to even say this, but it’s not the leukemia that’ll end up taking her. It’s these goddamn infections.

  So here we sit, waiting for the inevitable which over the last couple months, has arrived with a vengeance. She’s stopped eating for the most part and spends a majority of the day sleeping. She should be in the hospital, hooked up to the best pain meds available as she suffers through the shitty cards life dealt her. But she wants to stay in the house as long as possible, for my sake, I think. Her stubbornness has forced her to hire private nurses that come and check in on her a few times each day, and throughout the night as well. They’re here so often, they’re family now.

  Every day for her seems to be harder than the last. I know we don’t have many more days left together. Instead of spending every second I can with her though, I find myself doing the opposite. Watching her waste away is pure torture. It might be the saddest thing I’ve ever witnessed. I’ll never say this to her face, but I feel bad she’s hung on for as long as she has. Like she’s doing it for me, even though she’s in so much agony and needs to be free of it all. I can’t say I’m ready to not have her here anymore, but I can’t say I haven’t started mentally preparing for it as well.

  “I was trying to make you boys some breakfast,” she sighs.

  Coop opens all the kitchen windows and fans the smoke with a dish towel. He walks over to the balcony, throwing the doors open where we are greeted with a gust of salty ocean air.

  I finally move from the spot my feet have been glued to. “Mom, you don’t need to do that,” I say, sitting down at the table with her. “You shouldn’t be doing that. We’ve talked about this.”

  “I can make a pretty damn good breakfast sandwich if you’re hungry,” Beck chimes in, turning the water off and dropping the pan in the sink.

  Beck’s grandparents have owned a local restaurant called Dolly’s Beach Shack, that’s perched right on the sand dunes of the ocean, for the last forty-some years. It’s a staple here in Flagler with the locals. It’s weathered every hurricane that’s blown our way without even a missing roof shingle. She’s unbreakable.

  When Beck’s parents decided their Navy careers came before raising their son, he came to live with his grandparents. I’ve only seen his parents twice in the eight years I’ve known him. Sometimes I forget Beck wasn’t born here. The first day Coop and I met him he was down at the beach riding the waves like he was born in the ocean and walked out of the womb with a surfboard in his hands. It takes a lot to impress Coop and I, who have been surfing since we could stand, and we were definitely impressed. Beck fit right in and we went from the two of us, to the three amigos in a matter of minutes. Nothing has changed since that day.

  The smoke alarm comes to a screeching stop. The silence makes my ears ring and my head pound. My stomach churns too. I need water, and something greasy. The sooner the better.

  “Dude, I could go for a Dolly’s special right now,” Coop exclaims. “You want to whip me up one?” he says to Beck. “Or better yet, let’s go to Dolly’s.”

  “You going to go in your old blankie?” Beck questions him.

  Coop threatens to untie it. “Why not? Ladies like a man who’s not afraid to show some skin.”

  Beck throws a pot holder at his head.

  My mom pushes herself back from the table and drops the blanket to the floor. “You boys. Make me smile. I’m glad you have each other. Go ahead and go … I’ll be fine. Might take a nap. Maybe read a little.”

  I glance between Coop and Beck. They both shake their heads. We aren’t going anywhere right now. I can tell she isn’t feeling good, that today is one of those days. Her words are winded and her coloring seems off. None of us move. Her morning nurse will be showing up at any moment, and that’s the only thing that keeps me from calling her with my concerns. I have her nurses as direct contacts on my phone, and trust me, I call them all the time.

  Mom seems to sense our hesitation. “Boys,” she sighs, forcing herself into a standing position. She takes a minute. Did she wobble? She definitely wobbled. “Go,” she demands, and she starts making her way out of the kitchen.

  I know before she even falls, that this is the moment I’d been told about. The moment her nurses have each told me to be ready for. The moment of no turning back. The last morning with my mom in our house. I stand up quickly, waiting, ready to be there when it happens.

  And it does. It happens.

  She goes down like a ton of bricks, which is hard to believe seeing as though she weighs so little now. I slide across the kitchen floor, burning my skin on the tile, and I’m right there to break the fall before her head hits the ground.

  Immediately, Beck is on the phone with 9-1-1. I also can sense Coop behind me on the phone with her morning nurse because yes, both Coop and Beck know her nurses’ phone numbers too. These are the type of friends I’ve got. The ones who can get shit faced drunk with me the night before, but also the ones who know what to do when shit hits the fan. Shit has hit the fan in my house, and they’ve taken it upon themselves to do what needs to be done so I can have this moment.

  Everything sort of becomes transparent and all I can see is my mom lying across my arms looking up at me. She’s trying to put on a brave face. She’s trying not to show me she’s hurting and in pain, but she’s my mom … I can tell. I blink fast, pushing the tears away before they fall from my eyes. I don’t want her to see that. Please, don’t let her see me cry. I’ve held it together all this time, I will not fall apart in front of her now.

  “Oh, Bodhi. I’m so sorry,” she says, her eyes glossing over. “There’s so many things—”

  “Hey,” I interrupt her, pushing the sweaty hair off her forehead. “It’s okay, Mom. I’m going to be fine.” I had to tell her this. I needed her to hear this. “For real, I’m going to be fine.”

  “You will,” she smiles weakly, grabbing onto my hand. “I know you will. I wish—I wish I had more time—”

  I wipe my eyes. “I do too. Shit, mom. You fought for three years.”

  She nods. “There’s never enough time.” Her face suddenly becomes serious, which confuses me. “Bodhi, you’ve gotta get her back. It’s going to happen. She needs you, and you need her. You both need each other. Promise me you’ll try? Promise me, Bodhi.”

  At this exact moment, it’s pretty obvious who she’s talking about. My soulmate. This girl, she was also like a daughter to my mom. When I lost her, it hurt my mom as much as it hurt me. It hurt us both. We’ve both had to learn to live without her, but I will not question her right now. I don’t want to hear her name come from my mom, knowing these might be some of her last words.

  I quickly say, “I will, Mom. I promise.” And I pray she doesn’t let her name slip from her mouth.

  One week later, I said goodbye to my mom for the last time.

  It wasn’t a drop to your knees, cry for days sort of ordeal. We both felt it coming. We were ready, as ready as we could be. We’d been unknowingly preparing for this day since the moment she relapsed. When it was right in front of us, when that day was here, I begged her to come home so that the two of us could be together like we always have been.

  The very last coherent thing she said to me was, “Bodhi, I will not die in the house you are going to raise a family in one day.”

  I’ll always appreciate that, even if it pissed me off.

  No mother, no father, no soulmate. Parentless and alone at seventeen. I’m sure you have so many questions. I’m not an adult yet. Technically, I’m now an orphan, with no other living family members that I’m awar
e of. Where will I go? Who will I live with? Who’s going to take care of me? I’m damn near confident I can take care of myself. At seventeen, I’m pretty self-sufficient and more than capable of doing fine on my own. I’ve had to be these last few years.

  Yes, it’s all depressing. It’s the beginning of my very own tragic tale of becoming an adult way too early in life and not having a parental figure to guide me through this crucial time at the end of my childhood. But do me a favor, okay? Whatever’s floating through your worried mind about me, please don’t lose any sleep over it. Don’t even shed a tear. This story, it’s never been about my mom and I. It’s never been about my mom’s death.

  It’s always been about her, my soulmate.

  Confession.

  As tragic as this all might seem right now, this horrible event that happened in my young, innocent life … this is the exact point in my life where my story begins.

  chapter two

  Eva

  N ine days. It only took nine days of summer vacation for me to be as bored as hell. In fact, right now I’m lying under my blankets, running through every scenario that would make leaving my bed today worthwhile. The only one that sounds even remotely entertaining, is taking my boat down the Halifax and visiting my one and only friend where she works at Hidden Treasure. If I sneak out early enough, I might get on my boat without Porter catching me. An entire day without seeing Porter, sounds glorious.

  Who is Porter? He’s my boyfriend. I’m sure it doesn’t sound like it though. Porter and I have been destined to date since our dads became business partners eleven years ago. This is how it works over here on the Halifax. You grow up together, your parents work together, make business deals together, and set up their children as future spouses. Then the children take over the companies and pass it down to their children, and so on and so on and so on. It’s an endless cycle of wealth and prosperity mixed in with the constant desire to appear as if you are far better off than everyone else around you.

  I’ve known Porter Channing since I was five, but it wasn’t until last summer that we started dating. I ignored him for most of my life, until my boobs grew and he started showing up at my house on a regular basis. My mom and dad welcomed him like a long-lost son, and most likely have had my future planned out since I was in kindergarten. I sort of fell into my relationship with Porter thanks to my parents, who seem to only have one future ambition in mind for their perfect, obedient, seventeen-year-old daughter.

  Make her a Channing.

  What do I think of Porter Channing? If I want my life to end up exactly like my parents’ life, he’s great. His family is by far the wealthiest family in Flagler, and by family, I mean just he and his dad. His mom left before I even met Porter, and from what he’s told me, which isn’t much, she lives in Charleston with her new husband and Porter’s half-siblings. This didn’t stop Porter and his dad from building a massive mansion on the Halifax though, one that would fit multiple generations of families even though it’s just the two of them. The Channing men have always had money, but Porter and his dad came into an inheritance about a decade ago, which helped make their bank account double overnight.

  Porter will make a great husband to a southern wife who wears fitted sundresses every day. Someone who sips sweet tea with her girlfriends, while complaining about how the house cleaner missed a spot behind the toilet in the guest bathroom that never gets used. Someone who marries for money and the desperate need to fit in amongst the other designer wearing housewives. Someone who’s merely a trophy on the arm of a man who will never love her the way she needs to be loved. I’m not that girl. Even though my parents believe I am. I will never be that girl, but pretending I am might be the only way I’ll get out of this life. Trust me, that day is coming.

  I finally push the blankets off my body and fling my legs out of my bed. I can tell by the sunlight bouncing around in my room that today is another glorious day in Flagler, and I mean that sarcastically. Every day is the same day in Flagler, at least for me.

  Some days, before Porter and I started dating, there would be days I never even left my room. Depression and I have been best friends these last few years. Porter forces me to pretend I’m normal. I’m great at hiding the fact I’m always about one intense emotion away from a full-blown anxiety attack. Porter has no idea who he’s dating, and it will always stay that way.

  I open the doors to my balcony and pull them hard to greet the sauna like air that awaits me. I take a deep breath and step out into the blinding sun, shielding my eyes from the intensity of the morning rays. My room faces the back of our house, the Halifax. We have an enormous pool to the left, our dock to the right, and straight out from my balcony is our patio that I’m ashamed to say cost more to put in than some homes along the beach cost.

  My parents have no idea that every night I shimmy down my balcony, gracefully land on the overpriced patio, and venture out to sit on the dock, watching the quiet Halifax alone. Living on the Halifax is tolerable, but only without the disruption of everyday life and people. Sitting there by myself is my current favorite thing to do.

  This morning, I see my mom and dad out on the patio below me, enjoying their morning coffee while my four-year-old twin brothers are being tormented by their private swimming instructor in our pool. I’ve eavesdropped on plenty of conversations from standing right here, minding my own business, and not being seen. Oh, the twisted tales I could tell about so many people in Flagler, including my own family.

  “Did you hear?” my dad’s deep voice asks my mom, not even looking up from his phone. “Lenora Bishop passed away a few days ago.”

  My heart leaves my body. I fight back instant tears. The balcony sways on me, and I’m forced to grab the railings to keep me upright.

  “Oh, no! That’s horrible!” she gasps. Her face is riddled with emotion and she’s clutching her coffee cup extra hard. I’m waiting for it to shatter in her hands. “It was the leukemia? Should we tell Eva?”

  I slouch down onto my balcony. Memories flood my mind. Who was Lenora Bishop to me? Only my idol. I wanted to be just like her, I also wanted to be her daughter. She was a photographer from right here in Flagler, that graced my private school with her presence during local artist week when I was twelve. I had just started my love of photography around that time, and seeing her work and hearing her tales, I fell in love with everything.

  I raced over to her when the assembly was over. She was so beautiful and so confident, and her photos were amazing. I told her I wanted to be her apprentice, and she didn’t even hesitate when she took my hand and said in the most soothing and honest voice, “Let’s make it happen.”

  It happened. For two beautiful years I rode my bike to her house twice a week after school, and even more days during the summer. She taught me the art of photography like no one else could, all while treating me like a daughter at the same time.

  Did my parents know what I was doing during those two years? No, no, they did not. During that time my mom was pregnant with the twins and dealing with adjusting to life with two new babies pretty much on her own. My dad spent most of his time working, out of town, or locked away in his office. I don’t think either of them even realized I was gone. This was the typical parenting style in my house as soon as I became old enough to do things on my own. It was glorious. Two days a week, most of my summer, away from my hormonal mom, detached dad, and screaming baby brothers. Just me, Lenora, and Bodhi.

  Who’s Bodhi? Well, for starters, I’m pretty sure he’s my soulmate, but Bodhi is also Lenora’s son. He’s my age, and at first when some girl from the Halifax showed up at his house and took his mom’s attention away from him, he treated me like some spoiled little sister. As time went on, things changed. Bodhi would greet me in the driveway, his adorable curly blonde surfer hair always draped over his forehead. Sand was visible on his scalp and eyebrows, and he always looked like he’d just stumbled home from the beach.

  He started going on the photography outings wit
h Lenora and I. He took an interest in my work and I craved his attention, but it wasn’t just photography that pulled us together. We almost instantly gravitated towards one another. Almost like we had been best friends since birth, even though we didn’t meet each other until we were twelve. We were inseparable. Soulmates.

  Lenora was always around, but she also always gave the two of us space. Every evening before I would leave, she would come down from her studio, make us Shirley Temples and grilled cheese, and we’d sit around the table laughing about our day. When we were done, Bodhi and his two friends would ride their bikes home with me doing stupid boy things along the way. It was our secret. He knew my parents didn’t know I was with them, and I loved it. I’m pretty certain I loved him.

  I know what you’re thinking. A cheesy romance between two kids that would fizzle out before high school and never be heard of again, but no, it wasn’t like that at all. Bodhi was someone I could trust, someone who I could depend on and tell things to, someone who listened. Something I never got at home.

  We had this game we would play, a confession game, where he would confess something stupid to me and I would try to top his confession with something equally stupid. An innocent childhood game that meant so much. The older we got, the more serious our confessions became. Telling him my secrets is one thing I miss the most, besides him of course.

  I remember our final confession together, a couple days before my last day with Bodhi. We had stopped our bikes on the side of the road, to sit along the water before turning down my street. It was just the two of us. We were side by side, just close enough that our shoulders would brush up against each other every time either of us moved. That feeling, of his shoulder touching mine, was terrifyingly comforting.

  “Confession,” Bodhi announced.

  I groaned, which caused him to laugh. I looked over at him, waiting to see what he was going to confess to me now.