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Doctor Turner always said the special days would be the hardest. Birthdays, holidays, anniversaries... days where her absence is glaring, impossible to forget and unwilling to be ignored. The days that, before, always belonged to her — countless Christmases and Halloweens, a scrapbook of memories shared together, suddenly cut short with half a lifetime of torn pages. Those days, he told her, would hurt the worst, because her absence would ring louder than ever.
He was almost right. Mom’s birthday was the hardest, just a few months after she died. No one felt like celebrating. Julie holed up in her room and cried for hours, until her face was chapped and her entire body felt wrung out like an old washcloth. (On every birthday, Mom wore bright colors and played her favorite songs. Tía always brought over a cake, and the birthday chica’s favorite martini mixers. Julie gave her a bracelet one year, a homemade pot holder the next... no matter how cheap or clumsily-made the gifts were, Mom always smiled bright and said she loved them.)
Christmas was painful too, the quietest they’d ever had. (Mom used to love Christmas. She and Julie took up the job of decorating the whole house every year. Christmas cookies were an annual tradition, as was Mom’s favorite midnight mass. The Molinas didn’t attend church as a rule — at least, Dad didn’t, and the kids followed his lead — but Christmas mass was their mother’s favorite tradition. They always went as a family... and it was beautiful, if only to see the candlelight shining in Mom’s dark eyes.)
Carlos’s birthday, Julie’s birthday, her parents’ wedding anniversary... all of these events passed quietly, without so much as a whimper. Stepping stones, Julie tries to remind herself. Every ‘first without’ will make the pain more distant; the next year won’t hurt as much. One day, maybe it will stop hurting completely.
Deep in her heart, though, Julie knows that‘s only a wish. Grief has made her a lot of things, but not delusional. Mom’s absence will never stop hurting… because every day, she should be here, and she just isn’t.
Funny enough, there’s where Doctor Turner went wrong. Sure, the special days are a unique sort of agony, but the real heartbreak lies in all the days in between.
The insignificant ones. The moments that don’t matter. Early mornings and late nights... afternoons bent over homework, days when Dad’s too busy picking Carlos up from soccer practice to remember Julie needs help with her calculus. All the empty moments, now filled with nothing at all. Before, they wouldn’t have been remarkable, but they would have included her. Every time Julie looks up, a joke on her lips or an instinct to turn towards a familiar presence... she’s never there.
The days that shouldn’t matter are the ones that hurt the most.
Grief, Julie has learned, is an insidious thing. It makes sense at face-value, yeah. You cry, you mourn, you miss someone at all the right times, in all the ways people want to see. People expect you to cry on your dead mom’s birthday. They understand that.
They don’t know what it’s like to catch a whiff of her perfume on an old summer dress, and suddenly feel her right behind you — but when you turn, the room is empty, and the emptiness is overwhelming. They don’t recognize one of her favorite songs playing on the radio, how when you close your eyes, you can almost hear her voice singing along. They don’t understand missing the notes she’d sometimes slip into your homework binder, smiley face doodles and encouraging words for the day. They don’t understand missing everything: the way she always left pens uncapped, how she swore in Spanish when she stubbed her toes, her raised eyebrow across the dinner table when the conversation took a turn she didn’t approve of.
Grieving is missing everything all at once... usually, without even realizing you miss it at all.
It all wells up inside of you, and hollows out a part that can never really be filled. Julie feels the emptiness with every breath — as much as she feels Mom’s absence. She may not be a ghost, but Mom’s presence lingers everywhere. They still buy the dish soap she used to like; her magazine subscriptions still haven’t run out, delivered monthly with her name on them; her favorite plates, with painted flowers along the edges, still come out for special occasions.
Mom is everywhere. Julie sees her in the garden, in the studio... even when she looks in the mirror, in her own dark eyes and untamable curls.
Some days hurt less than others. Every day brings a new distraction. School, Flynn, the guys, writing songs and performing as a band — it all helps more than she can comprehend, and makes the days bright. Time has certainly helped too, not to mention rediscovering music. More than anything, being surrounded by people she loves, both new friends and old, makes the difference. Somehow, Mom’s absence has become... bearable.
Most days.
Then there are the days that mean nothing, shouldn’t be important at all... but just hurt, for reasons Julie can’t actually name. The only logic she finds on those days is one non-negotiable truth: her mother is gone, and will never come back.
Instead of heading straight to the studio — her usual routine when she gets home from school — Julie makes a beeline for her front door. Today, there’s no stopping in the kitchen for a snack, no calling out a greeting. Julie stands in the front hallway for a minute, taking in the silence of the house — silence, where there was always music, always laughter. She exhales.
To get up the stairs, she has to trudge past the dining room. Dad is at the table, hunched over his computer, the blue glow reflected back on his face. Half-draped in the chair beside him, Reggie leans over his shoulder, observing as he works. They both look up at the sound of Julie’s footsteps.
Immediately, Reggie breaks into a wide grin. “Oh, heya Julie! How was school?”
Dad knows better. One look at Julie’s face, and he just gets it. A tight press of his lips is all the question he needs, and a tiny nod is all the answer Julie can give. Ignoring Reggie completely — and she’ll feel bad about that later — she turns away. Slowly, with feet weighed down by lead, Julie trudges up the stairs.
Dad understands. The guys will, somehow. She’s just not up for it today.
For a while, she lays on her bed, scrolling mindlessly through various apps; Flynn texts her a few times, but she doesn’t open the notifications. Scrolling turns into drifting, and before she knows it, she’s pulled up the camera roll on her phone.
It’s to easy to travel back in time through a lens and screen, to remember how things used to be. Three years ago this month, she and her mom got brunch at their old favorite restaurant. They took a quick selfie in the booth together — both makeup free, hair unbraided and smiles wide. Two years ago, they dressed in their best and stepped out onto Hollywood Boulevard. Julie posed next to Celia Cruz and Gloria Estefan’s stars; her mom, in sunglasses and a leather jacket, struck a pose with Carlos beside Queen’s. Pictures turn into videos, of everything and nothing — quiet moments, goofy moments, Mom laughing and Mom humming as she did the dishes and Mom being brave just before her first round of chemo...
Suddenly, she’s everywhere. Her smell hangs over Julie like a blanket; her voice washes over her like a song. She can feel her hug, the light weight of her hands in Julie’s own, see the creases next to her eyes when she smiled...
For a moment, she’s as alive as she ever was. She stands in the room beside her, dancing in the spaces between light and shadow — impossible to look at, impossible to believe in, but real nonetheless.
Julie never wants to let her go.
When she opens her eyes again, the room is shadowed with late-afternoon light, and she is not alone.
For a minute... just a minute, she thinks it could be...
“Uhh… Julie?”
No. Of course it isn’t.
Sitting up takes more energy than she has, but Julie forces herself to anyways. When she turns, her heart does a painful cartwheel. Alex hovers in the entranceway of her room, hands tucked in the pockets of his shorts, shoulders hunched and head lowered. He’s come alone.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to, uhh...” He fidgets, glancing around her room to avoid her eyes. “To intrude. We just wanted to check on you.”
Julie swallows back a bitter taste as it floods her mouth. She should have said something to the guys, gave them some kind of heads-up. Of course they’d be worried. Sometimes Julie makes it to practice late, but she always shows.
“I’m sorry,” she says. Her voice is hoarse, and very small. Something in Alex’s expression shifts, and she has to look away.
“Hey, it’s no problem. We’re not going anywhere. But...” She hears him take a step closer, even though the floor doesn’t creak beneath his weight. When he speaks again, his voice is painfully gentle. “Are you okay? Did something happen at school?"
Yeah. It did. She really doesn’t want to talk about it.
“I’m fine, Alex. Thanks.” She rubs the sleeve of her sweater beneath her swollen eyes, and draws her knees closer to her chest. No doubt Alex is searching out her gaze, trying to find some reassurance that she really is okay… but Julie has none to give.
He’s quiet for a long time — long enough that Julie almost thinks he’s gone away — before speaking up softly. “Is it your mom?”
Julie’s shoulders go rigid, but she doesn’t turn around.
For a moment, Alex doesn’t say anything either. She can feel his unease like a tangible presence, a ghost within a ghost lurking behind them both. When it becomes obvious she’s not going to say anything, Alex clears his throat.
“If you need anything… we’re right here. Anything you need, Julie.” A pause, a breath, then, “You’re not alone.”
Maybe I want to be.
She doesn’t say that out loud, though; even in your worst moments, it’s never fair to lash out at anyone else. (Mom taught her that.)
When Alex leaves, she feels it. He switches on her fairy-lights before, just so she won’t be left in darkness as day slowly fades into nighttime. They twinkle over the window like dancing stars, blurring as she lets her eyes go unfocused. It’s easy to find a melody in them — like wind chimes on the wind, or the gentle shimmer of a waterfall. When Julie was little, she asked her mom once if people became stars when they died; only people, Mom answered, who were very, very loved.
If her mother’s a star now, is she watching over her?
Dad knocks on the door with a plate of dinner — microwaved pizza, tonight — and doesn’t leave after she’s pulled it into her lap. Instead, he takes a seat by her desk, folding his arms over his knees. They don’t really talk; they don’t need to. Dad’s grief doesn’t take the same shape as Julie’s, the constant dull ache occasionally spiking into paralyzing agony, but he gets it. He feels it, too.
“How was work?” Julie asks softly after a while, because she can’t stand the silence.
Her dad shrugs. “Pretty good. We got a new client, a new ad campaign to shoot… eh. It was a Monday.”
His lips quirk up, and Julie finds herself mirroring the expression.
She does feel a little better with food in her stomach. It no longer feels like something’s gnawing at her from the inside-out, trying to burst from her chest. She undoes her hair from their messy braids, listening to her father talk about a new project he’s working on; by the time she’s combed her curls through, the pain feels almost numb.
“I found a note,” she finally says. “In my old chemistry binder. I hadn’t cleaned out my locker since… before, and when I opened it, it just fell out, and —“
Her mother’s handwriting. The tiny doodles, stars and smiley-faces, made in a bright red pen. You’re going to rock this test, Julie! I believe in you! followed by that familiar, half-scrawled, Love Mom. One look, and Julie remembered; they’d stayed up past midnight studying, bent over her study guide as Mom patiently talked through chemical reactions with her. The next day, she got a B+ on the test. Mom was so proud, she made Julie’s favorite empanadillas for dinner that night.
It was one of their last good days, before the cancer got really bad.
Julie swallows, ducking her head, suddenly unable to meet her dad’s eyes. “For a second, it just felt so real. Like… she was still here, and I’d come home, and she'd be waiting, and…”
There were a lot of those moments in the first few months. Julie thought they’d gotten past all those sore spots, disarmed all the land mines. She wasn’t ready for this one. It knocked her off her feet.
Her father is very quiet for a moment, before he pushes out of the chair. When he settles beside her, Julie’s mattress creaks. His scent is familiar, and she leans into him, even as his arms wrap around her shoulders. Dad holds her, and for a second, it feels… warm. Not right, and definitely not perfect, but… warm is more than Julie has felt all day, and she’ll take it gladly.
“She’s always with us, mija ,” he murmurs into her hair. “Even if you can’t see her. Can’t hear her…”
“Can’t feel her?” Julie whispers.
“Even then. She’s right in here…” He draws back, just enough to press a hand to his own chest. “And right in here.” He brings a hand up to tap Julie’s temple, drawing another smile unwillingly to her lips. This time, it lingers. When Julie leans back into her father’s chest, she sniffs back a sudden sting of tears, and takes comfort in his presence. Something frozen inside her has begun to thaw, and she can feel again.
(Sometimes, not letting yourself feel is worse than feeling it all.
She didn’t learn that in therapy.)
Even though she doesn’t expect them, it’s no surprise when she hears a soft knock at her door anyways. Immediately, she knows it’s Luke. She can always feel the boys, like tiny lightbulbs in her chest, glowing whenever they’re near, but Luke always shines the brightest. He’s also trying hard to remember to knock. The tentative, impatient rat-tap on her bedroom door is unmistakable.
“Come in,” she says, closing her laptop.
Luke pokes his head inside first, followed by his whole body. He’s grinning, but that’s his default response whenever he sees her. “Hey,” he says, and she catches a gleam of relief in his eyes to find her sitting up and responsive. “Sorry, I know it’s kinda late.“
“Only ten,” she replies with a shrug. On a school night, too; usually, she’d be winding down around this time, but there’s homework she’s neglected all day. Luke’s presence isn’t unwelcome.
“We just —“ Luke starts to gesture to the door, thinks better of it, and turns to face her again. His gaze has a funny way of making her itch. It’s some kind of talent, and Julie almost resents how he doesn’t have to try. Luke takes a step closer — cautious, for him. “Are you feeling better now? You — you look okay.”
Julie opens her mouth to reply, but the automatic answer dies on her tongue. Luke’s face is open and earnest, searching for the truth; she decides to give it. “I don’t know.”
“Oh.” He doesn’t know what to make of that. He shuffles his feet, anxious, and shoves his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. As always, he’s so sincere it hurts. “I… I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to be. It’s not your fault I’m upset."
“I know,” he replies, looking up at her from lowered eyes. “I’m just sorry it hurts so much. And I know that nothing can make it better… but Julie, if I could take your pain away, even a tiny piece of it… I’d do it in a heartbeat.” When he sighs, his whole body shakes with it. “I wish there was a way I could.”
Something twists in her chest, like a pinched nerve. Julie inhales. Then, she’s shifting over before she quite knows why, patting the side of the bed. From the look on Luke’s face, she may as well have handed him water in a desert.
“You can just be here,” she says softly, once he’s scrambled up onto her bed. If Luke were a puppy, his tail would be wagging a mile a minute; he makes the mattress bounce as he gets settled, content just being near her. Julie allows herself a tiny smile before lifting her gaze towards the closed bedroom door.
“You guys too!” she calls.
A second later, Alex and Reggie step through the door, both trying for their own versions of innocence. Julie could feel them out there the whole time, though. She shakes her head, beckoning them closer, and they don’t waste a second.
It’s not the first time they’ve all ended up in a cuddle pile together. Somehow, Julie always forgets how soothing it is to be surrounded by her boys… until her head is pillowed on Alex’s chest, and Reggie’s leaning against her shoulder, and Luke’s playing with her hair. They’re warm, despite being long-dead; they each have their own smells, their own auras, their own presences. She knows it’s Alex’s hand massaging her arm gently, and Reggie’s breathing is steady near her ear.
It’s amazing, how they can be dead, yet be so alive .
“I wish she were here.” Julie doesn’t realize what she’s said until the words have left her lips; she didn’t mean to speak at all. It’s too late to take them back, though, so she forces herself to continue past the lump in her throat. “Even… even as a ghost. I’d do anything to just feel her again.”
None of the boys say anything. Reggie just nuzzles further into her shoulder, and Alex’s arm tightens reassuringly around her. Luke looks up at her with sad, sweet eyes, and Julie can’t tear her gaze away.
“Wherever she is,” he says after a minute, “she’s proud of you. You make her happy every single day, just by being you. She’ll never be gone, because… you keep her alive. Every time you think of her, every time you say her name…”
“Every time you tell a funny story,” Reggie pipes up, “or talk about your favorite memories…”
“Every time you play her favorite songs, or do the things you used to do together…” adds Alex.
" You keep her with you. You keep her memory alive.” Luke pokes a finger into her chest, his gaze steady. “And that’s what matters most.”
There’s something ironic about those words coming from an actual ghost. They make Julie feel warm all over anyways. A tear rolls down her cheek, and she doesn’t brush it away. It falls onto the collar of Luke’s shirt.
He reaches up and tucks a stray curl back from her face. His hand lingers there for a moment before falling away.
Tomorrow will be another day, and Julie knows it’ll hurt less. The pain never goes away, but it can’t last forever… especially when she’s got family and friends around to keep her from drowning in it. They’re her raft in the open ocean, and Julie could cling to them forever, just to keep her head above the water.
For tonight, something else will have to do. She hesitates a minute before stirring — enough to lean over and grab her phone, before settling back into the band’s embrace once more.
When she unlocks her phone, a picture of Mom immediately appears on screen. She’s practically glowing, grin wide and hair loose around her; in her favorite pair of earrings and a wide sunhat, she really could be an angel.
“That was the day we went to the beach, and Dad got sunburn all on his back,” Julie murmurs, smiling. “She was wearing her favorite bathing suit — see, purple dahlias? Yeah... Mom loved the beach. She could spend whole days there, listening to music and soaking in the sun. Sometimes Dad called her his girasol, his sunflower…”
She’s never spoken to them about Mom before. Not to anyone, really — not Flynn, not even Doctor Turner. Revisiting the memories hurts too much, like digging up a grave… but Luke’s right. They’re all right.
Keeping her mother alive means feeling the pain in all the ways that count… letting herself feel it. Not closing herself off, just to be alone. Not keeping it all inside. Not imagining Mom’s here, hoping desperately for a whisper, a half-second of believing in ghosts…
Julie speaks, and her boys listen, and for just a few minutes, her mother is really with her again.
It makes all the pain worthwhile.