Crazy For You

suddenly bombarded me. I sat down on the edge of the mattress and cradled my head in my hands. Every time I thought of Mom, another piece of my soul was ripped away.
Taking a deep breath, I got up once again. I couldn’t keep crying. I couldn’t keep making myself miserable. But it was hard not to shed a tear any time I thought of Mom.
Stella, my Maine Coon, purred from her perch on my chair in the corner.
“It’s okay, girl. Just thinking about Mom.”
She meowed as if she, too, was still mourning Mom. After we’d buried her, Stella looked for her everywhere. It had broken my heart to see her wandering aimlessly around for weeks.
“I know, girl. I’m still grieving too.” I turned on my nightstand lamp, and the soft glow shined on the dirty clothes piled on the floor near Stella.
I wasn’t the cleanest person. That award went to my BFF. Her room was immaculate, but then again, I didn’t have a maid who picked up after me.
I ambled over to Stella, then rubbed her head. “Go back to sleep. I’m just going to crack the window.” Maybe the air wasn’t so stifling outside.
A car door slammed as I was about to raise the blinds. I didn’t have to look out to know Mr. Caldwell, our next-door neighbor, was stumbling up his driveway.
Regardless, I peeked. Sure enough, he was swaying as he walked. The man had a drinking problem. I’d overheard his wife, Bonnie, telling Dad one day that, after his thirteen-year-old son drowned, Mr. Caldwell hadn’t been the same. “He drinks to drown the misery,” she’d said.
Dad and I could sympathize with their sorrow, but alcohol wasn’t the answer. Or at least that was what Dad had said to Bonnie.
The therapist Dad and I were seeing explained that everyone dealt with problems differently.
For sure. I daydreamed and cried. But I also read a ton. When I wasn’t skateboarding, I was reading. I devoured books like a hungry animal, from romantic comedies to political thrillers or anything to keep my mind from wandering down a deep, dark hole that I couldn’t get out of.
Dad, on the other hand, tinkered in the garage during his free time. He liked to fix golf clubs for some of his friends. And every Saturday, he played eighteen holes with his buddies. If he drank, it was never more than one beer.
Once Mr. Caldwell was out of sight, I lifted the window higher, hoping a brisk wind would blow in. Sadly, the humidity was too thick for anything to cool down.
I picked up my Stella. “How about we check the thermostat and then sit outside?”
We had one of those large wraparound porches, which was what had drawn Dad to our modest eighteen-hundred-square-foot home. He’d grown up in the deep South in a similar two-story with lots of land. We didn’t have a large yard, but the neighborhood was decent, and I liked the moss trees and the azalea bushes that decorated properties up and down our street.
I loved sitting in one of the rockers, watching cars and people walk by. I’d practically lived on the porch only to get a glimpse of the boy next door. Colton Caldwell was dreamy in every sense of the word. He had wavy brown hair, almost the color of mine sans the blond streaks. Colton was tall, with eyes the color of warm melted chocolate, and a sexy grin that made my belly swarm with butterflies.
Stella jumped out of my arms, then took off the moment my feet hit the cool tile at the bottom of the stairs.
The moonlight filtered in through the large transom window in the family room, highlighting a path for me as I headed into the kitchen.
As my feet slapped on the tiled floor, I heard faint crying. I held my breath as I sharpened my hearing.
The deep-baritone sob grew louder.
Dad? The last time Dad had shed tears was at Mom’s funeral.
I hurried down the short hall to his room. The closer I got, the louder his cry became.
My heart split in half, and I fought hard not to let my own tears fall. Seeing Dad sob twisted my insides like a violent storm.
Our therapist had said that time would help ease the grief, which was total bull crap. Anytime I thought of Mom, that empty, hollow feeling came back as strongly as the day the social worker had called to tell us that Mom had died on the way to the hospital.
I knocked softly. “Dad?” Then I opened the door and faltered.
Dad was on the floor with his back against his dresser as though he’d fallen and couldn’t get up.
I ran like a sprinter, hoping my legs wouldn’t give out. “What is it? Are you having a heart attack? A stroke?” I dropped to my knees.
He shook his head, blinking several times, his blue eyes clouded with tears. “Why are you up? You have school in the morning.”
“Don’t worry about me. What is it?” I felt his carotid artery as if I knew what I was doing.
His fingers wound around my wrists. “I’m fine.”
“You’re crying. So you’re not fine.”
He patted a spot next to him. “Sit with me.”
Once I did, I grabbed his hand. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Dad was my anchor, my saint, my world, and if he died, I would die a thousand deaths. I rested my head on his shoulder. “Are you thinking of Mom?”
“No, sweetheart.” He took a huge breath. “I need to tell you something.”
I stiffened at the despair weaving through his voice. I knew that what he was about to tell me was bad, not only by his tone, but also by how hard he was squeezing my hand.
“Do you remember what Lou Gehrig died of?” he asked so softly that I almost didn’t hear him.
I nodded. “He lost the ability to control his muscles.” Dad and I were big baseball fans. In the South, we rooted for the Atlanta Braves. Truth was, I didn’t