—Joshua—

I’d given Chris the news and parted ways with the rest of the team at the airport. I’d spent five hours there waiting for the next available flight, sitting on my phone, trying to research all the ways a person can suffer from grief. I wanted to be ready for anything when I got home. I’d been through this with Tommy before, and while his and my father’s relationship was short lived, they were still close. I didn’t want to compare which loss would be greater for him, and I definitely didn’t want to assume. He was older now, and a lot more in tune with what went on in the world. I’d be there for him, but I’d let him grieve in his own way.

Becca, though—I had no idea what to expect with Becca. I didn’t even know what to search to find out.

How does a person with a history of depression deal with death?

How does a person with a history of abuse handle grief?

What to expect when someone with a mental history loses a loved one?

How to be there for someone who’s lost a grandparent.

The list went on and on, and it did nothing to clear my head and lessen my assumptions, but it did help deflect from my own feelings—feelings I wasn’t ready to recognize.

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?”