Aftermath

TW: Car crash, child death, mental health

The whimpers stop. I try once again to twist in my seat, to look at the child in the car behind me, but I still can't. The crushed metal still has my legs held in place, and there's only so much I can turn my upper body. It's not enough to see him.

"Jackson? Jackson, baby, you have to stay awake, okay? It'll be fine. They'll be here to help us soon, I promise. Sweetie, please talk to me."

Silence. 

I push harder on the remnants of what was once my front bumper. The other car came out of nowhere, and between the shattered windshield and the blackness of night, I can't see it. I don't know if the people there are okay. I don't even know if I'm okay. But Jackson isn't answering. 

My free hand reaches back, and I grasp blindly for his car seat. Something wet and viscous coats my fingers. 

"Jackson!" He has to be okay. He had to be in the car seat right. I triple checked before leaving. I promised Aunt Clarisse nothing would happen to him. 

"Are you guys okay in there?" A flashlight momentarily blinds me. 

"I'm fine, but my cousin...he won't answer me, and I'm stuck. I can't reach him. Please tell me he's okay."

The man, whose features I still can't make out, thanks to the flashlight, swings the light to the backseat. There's a long stretch of silence. Too long. I struggle against the dash again.

"Do you have his mother's number?" The light swings back to me. "And an emergency contact for you, too."

"Yeah, it's on my phone. But I can't reach it." My head swings to the side, changing gears to grab my phone. He's right. I need to focus. I need to...

Blackness envelops me.

Six months later, and I still can't look my aunt in the eyes. Actually, I can't look anyone in the eye. All I see when I try to is the devastated look on my aunt's face when I told her Jackson, who'd only been three, wasn't coming home. Or the look on the EMT's face when I woke up screaming for him. Or the look on my mother's face when she assured me it wasn't my fault. And the other driver's face when they discovered their drunken joyride ended the life of a three-year-old boy. So I try not to talk to anyone anymore.

 My ceiling fan continues to turn. I really should get up and do my laundry. I really should get up and do something. It's lazy of me to just lie here, staring at the fan or scrolling social media. Logically, I know that. And I know that there's really nothing wrong with me. I healed up fine from the accident. Aunt Clarisse is back at work, and when I stopped by a month ago, at her request, her house was as immaculate as she had kept it before.

But I'm on my last point at work. One more absence, and I'm fired. And my house...well, the laundry is the first thing on a very long list of things that need to be done. But today, of all days, I don't feel like getting up. He would've been four today. And all I can think about are his little brown curls, the dimples in his cheeks as he grinned. If we'd left the zoo five minutes earlier on my birthday, he'd be alive. 

Five minutes. Hell, five seconds might've saved him. I rub my eyes, reaching for my phone again. Maybe I should call Clarisse and let her know I'm thinking of her today, or thank her for the forgiveness she gave me I don't deserve. But today isn't about me, and my feelings, or at least it shouldn't be. My phone rings before my fingers touch it.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Amanda, I was wondering if you wanted to hang out today. I don't want you sulking in that apartment all day by yourself." My mother's forced positivity makes me clench my jaw. 

"Thanks, Mom, but I don't feel like going out."

"Then we can binge a show together." My eyes immediately slide to my pile of laundry, and my mind flashes to the stacks of dirty dishes in the kitchen downstairs.

"I don't feel like having company." I lie. It would be nice to have her around...but I don't want her to see my mess. This is my mother, after all.

"Too bad. I'm already outside. Now let me in." 

"Mom, I'm serious. I don't want company. Go take care of Aunt Clarisse or something." There's an edge to my voice, making me feel even worse. I hate talking to her like this.

"Amanda Lynn Newman, you let me in this door right now." My mother accentuates the demand with a knock. My eyes squeeze shut briefly before I get out of bed, struggle into a pair of pajama pants, and open the door.

My mother stands with one hand on her hip, the other still holding her phone to her ear, like the person she's on the phone with isn't right in front of her. She has her chocolate brown hair pulled back in a braid, and she's wearing a cobalt blue sweater over leggings. Casual but stylish. She definitely planned to go out today.

Her eyes sweep over me, taking in my oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts, the rings under my eyes, and my unbrushed hair, all indicators that I haven't left my bed. Then her gaze shoots behind me, into the kitchen, then to my nonperishable groceries, piled on the counter instead of the pantry.

"Yes, my house is a mess. No, I don't want to talk about it. I'm fine, seriously. Aunt Clarisse needs the company more than I do." I snap, pressing the end call button on my phone. I don't need a tiny echo.

"Amanda, I wasn't even going to mention the house. I just want to hang out today. Aunt Clarisse has Uncle Jimmy to keep her occupied. You don't have to talk if you don't want to. Just let me be here, okay?" She smiles, and I sigh, defeated.

"Yeah, sure. Let me clear you off a spot on the couch." Said couch is littered with blankets and even more laundry.

"I'll do that. Why don't you go get dressed?" Nodding, I turn and leave Mom alone in the living room, and pretend I'm not mortified by the fact she's in my mess of a house.

Once back in my bedroom, I tame my hair, remembering how Jackson had the same dark brown curls I do. The clothes I grab are just as cozy as the ones I slept in, yoga pants and a tank top. Getting dressed takes me longer than it should, but I'm procrastinating going back downstairs. I love my mom, but I'm not read to spend time with someone else today. Not yet.

Music drifts up from where I left her downstairs. My favorite band. Huh. I exit my bedroom and walk downstairs to find my mother planted in front of my kitchen sink, frothy white bubbles spilling over the sides. Her fancy sweater is spattered with water. 

​"What are you doing?" I ask, even though I know the answer.

"You spent so long up there, I got bored. And these dishes looked like they wanted my company." 

"Mom, I don't want you in here doing my stuff for me. I can handle it." There's enough bite to my voice that my mom looks up from the suds. She takes a deep breath.

"There's nothing wrong with asking for help when you need it, Amanda. Let me help you help yourself. I promise you'll feel better when we're done."

​"You hate doing dishes."

"Then why don't you take over? I'll start your laundry."

"I still don't want you—" My mother turns the music up louder. It's one of my favorite songs. Her hips swish in time as she dances to the laundry room. 

Sighing, I turn to the stack of dishes, slowly and methodically scrubbing it down. I can't believe my mom's doing my freaking laundry right now. I can't believe I'm letting her.

​The next song starts, and she sweeps back into the room, grabbing my hands, twirling me around. She sings along, then splashes me with water before dashing back into the laundry room.

"Hey!" I shout, soaked from the water. Her laughter echoes back to me, and I laugh too. 

Hours later, my apartment is clean, and I'm in a much better mood, dancing and laughing with my mom. But the sun has set, and I know she's going to leave soon. Then it'll be quiet and empty. And suddenly, I don't want that. At all. Reading my change in mood, my mom stops dancing.

"I did have a reason for coming by today, you know."

"Which was?" I ask, eyebrows raising.

"I wanted to let you know that Jackson would've wanted you to be happy." My eyes close. I don't want to talk about this.

"Aunt Clarisse wants you to be happy, too. She never blamed you for what happened."

"She should. I promised her—"

"It. Wasn't. Your. Fault. The crash was a freak accident caused by someone who is paying the price for their actions. The first step to getting better is forgiving yourself." 

"Oh, and you know so much about it." I snap.

"I've been in therapy since your father died, Amanda. His death wasn't anything like Jackson's, but I spent a long time blaming myself for it anyway. And then I blamed myself for not spending more time with him. I can't read your mind, but I know this guilt you feel is normal. The depression you feel is normal. But you have to start dealing with it before it takes control."

I look around my now clean house, thinking about how it looked before. She's right. I know she's right, but...

"My therapist is great, and she already knows about your situation. I've been meaning to tell you to go see her for months now. It's just hard to tell someone to go to therapy, you know? But I love you, Amanda, and I don't want you to keep living like this. Jackson isn't the only one who would've wanted to see you be happy." Mom continues. 

"I love you too, Mom. And I get what you're trying to say, I do. I've thought about it. But it feels wrong to just move on. It feels like forgetting he existed."

"Wallowing in guilt and grief isn't honoring his memory. It's actually the opposite. Moving on doesn't mean forgetting. It means living."

"Okay. Give me her number. I guess I'll call your therapist and maybe set an appointment. Are you happy now?"

​Mom smiles, the same joyful grin she's worn most of the night. "I've been happy all day, Amanda. I got to spend the day with my favorite daughter."

​"I'm your only daughter." We've had this exchange a million times as I grew up, and the familiarity brings a smile to my lips. Mom fishes a business card out of her pocket and hands it to me before yanking me into a hug.

"It'll get better. You'll get better. I promise." She gives me another squeeze before leaving. 

But suddenly my apartment doesn't seem so cold and lonely after all.