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Blue. Blue. Blue. Twist. Blue. Blue. Orange. Black.
His eyes. Blue on brown. A promise. A loss.
A foggy three months of vomiting until her throat is raw and her face is permanently blanched. Boxes and removal trucks. A goodbye with no one to leave behind. Not anymore.
And it’s her fault.
Her fault.
California is sunny and new and fresh and it’s her fault. The backyard is shaded by palms and the boulevard by the ocean is beautiful and it’s her fault. Her kids start school and smile more often and make new friends and it’s her fault.
Every night is the same. Every night is a dinner table full of rejuvenated young faces and loose laughter and coca cola spilled down shirts. Every night is a freshly cooked meal with all the right nutrients bought fresh from the local grocers that she tells herself she’ll eat. Tells herself that she’ll get down every last bite. Tells herself she’ll keep it there. Tells herself that tonight, it’s going to be different .
It never is. By 10pm, her knees are sore against the cold porcelain of the bathroom tiles.
The scales drop fast and her cheeks hollow into swooping valleys. Her jeans start to hang loosely off of her jutting hips and the cups of her bra empty out. Eyebags are a permanent feature of her face now. In the mirror there’s a haunt and it’s herself; but she deserves it, right? She did this. She turned those keys. It’s her fault.
But it’s fine, she tells herself. Nothing lasts forever. It will get better.
So she keeps going. She plucks up a plasterboard smile and dolls herself up as best as she can and spends hours on the line at her shitty sales job. She laughs with her kids and asks them about their days and gently reprimands them when they tread dust tracks over the sitting room carpet. She does it all, like she’s always done, because she’s Joyce Byers. She’s fine . She can get through this. Things are going to change .
It never does.
The night is just as routine as the day. In those foreign hours, when only the sick and dying are awake, the bedroom door cracks open and in slips her youngest with the sliver of amber hallway light, her eyes bleary and cheeks pinkened. The sheets lift and the cold hits her trembling thighs and in slides El, her daughter , the wobble of her lip and the rhythm of her cries as familiar as the California tides are becoming. She knows the warmth of her daughter’s body, knows the feeling of El’s nails clutching the fabric of her flannel like it’s an anchor, knows the right things to say. Knows how to soothe her, to get her back to sleep.
But she doesn’t know how to look her in the eye. The fear of the resentment, the anger, that she might find keeps her away.
Tonight, the routine is no different.
“It’s okay, honey,” she whispers into the crown of El’s hair, lips feather light, and curls around her tighter. “You’re okay.”
Her voice wobbles. “I…I saw him again,” she confesses. “In my dream.”
He’s a frequent occurrence in their dreams. He’s the only occurrence in Joyce’s dreams.
“I know, I know,” she soothes, stroking her nails through El’s tangled curls. “I did too. I did too.”
“I miss him,” El chokes out, pulling her head back. Joyce still doesn’t meet her eyes. “It’s not fair. ”
Your fault , she hears. This is because of you.
You killed him.
She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to block out the echo of blame. “I miss him too.” She does, more than anything. More than she misses her dear momma and the dirt of the driveway at her old place. “We all do.”
El is silent for a moment, breath catching on her sobs. “Did you love him?” She asks, so quiet that the hum of the downstairs fridge is more audible. Her voice is small. But the words are not.
Joyce’s breath catches. It’s not imperceptible, she can tell; El stiffens beside her, chest stopping mid-rise. Maybe she could lie and get out of this. Maybe she should lie.
But she won’t.
“Yes,” she confesses, voice climbing to a break. “I did love him. Your dad. I loved him a lot.”
“Like a friend?” El whispers through tears. “Or…like more?”
She swallows. Her tongue tastes of salt. “Like more.”
“I think,” El sniffles, “No, I know . I know that he loved you, too.”
Joyce blinks back tears, the words hitting that little nook of her brain that looks like him and sounds like him and smells like him. He could’ve been here. He could’ve made their stupid date. He could’ve been okay.
Your fault , she hears.
Your. Fault.
“El,” Joyce chokes out forcefully, coughing on her own tears. “I need you to know that,” she inhales sharply, voice wobbling, “I need you to know that I am sorry . I am so, so, so sorry. Your dad- he should- he should be here. And if you blame me- then I understand. If you hate me, I understand. I won’t be mad.”
El stills beside her, breaths quietening. “Joyce,” she says seriously. “Look at me.”
She tries. She can’t. It’s hard.
“It isn’t your fault,” El insists steadily, and Joyce’s heart drops from her throat back to its resting place for the first time in eight months. They’re the sweetest words she’s heard since she sat with Hop on the floor of that damn lab. She can’t help but cry harder.
No one has ever said that to her before. It isn’t your fault. The words almost feel unbelievable. Impossible.
“I don’t blame you,” El continues, clutching Joyce’s shoulder. “I am not mad at you. It is not your fault. I love you, Joyce. Look at me. Please.”
This time, she does. Eight months of avoidance and staring at walls and a gut filled with guilt end. Brown meets brown and a pressure lifts from her chest; there’s not a hint of resentment or anger in El’s wet, dark eyes. They’re shining in the shadows with tears. But she doesn’t blame her.
“Oh, honey,” she cries out, and pulls El in tighter. They’re both shaking, both trembling with tears, both fatigued and broken. But at least, Joyce thinks, as she strokes a hand up and down her girl’s back, they have each other. “I love you too.”
El’s sobs deepen, wracking her chest violently as she presses herself even closer. Joyce doesn’t know how long she holds her until her breaths even out and her chest falls into a gentle rhythm; it’s a long time, and it feels like forever, but forever is good. Forever is what he didn’t get.
She holds El until she falls into a deep sleep, watching her delicate face as the creases in her forehead smooth out into dreamlessness. Now that she’s got her, really got her, she doesn’t ever want to let her go. She can’t lose another person that she loves. Especially not his daughter; the last piece she has of him, aside from the flannel shirts she sleeps in to chase the familiar scent of cigarette smoke and dollar store deodorant that never arrives. El is so much like him, in so many ways- she rolls her eyes the same way, has the same attitude, the same tastes in shows. Miami Vice on Fridays. She can’t lose that. She loves- no, loved - him, and she loves El, too.
The tides of sleep pull her in after not long, the weight of El in her arms like home, more than a shiny new condo in California can ever be. The vague silhouettes of her too-large bedroom fade out into nothingness, and for a second- a blissful, long, second- she feels him. Right there, standing at the end of the bed, gaze warm. Watching on, looking over them. His girls.
Thank you for taking care of her .
Always , she whispers into the dark. I love you.