"No, you're mistaken. No one is dead." Mom says. Her voice falters on that last word. As it cracks, I freeze.
"No, no, no, no, no, no, no." Mom sounds broken. "He cannot be dead, he was just here."
Amber stops. Her arms still gripped by my hand as mom shatters into slivers of porcelain that splatter to the family room floor. Amber looks at me. She grabs the clothes I've set out and starts getting dressed, like if she does as she was told, maybe that will fix whatever this is. I see fear in her eyes. I imagine if I look in the mirror, mine will be the same. My body goes hot and numb. I slide down the wall onto the carpet, hugging my knees to my chest like a cannonball.
Arthur's wails join Mom's, just as sharp yet just as distant. It's like I'm back in the pool after finding Bo's stiff dog body in the yard. Like I'm listening to this from deep underwater, watching it through blurred waves. All I can feel is the hollow thudding of my heart. I hope for someone to find me, to pull my head up so I can breathe again.
I feel the door push open and see Mom's bare feet cross the threshold. She holds Arthur in her arms as she joins me on the carpet. Amber is there, too—all of us at the bottom of this pool. All of us breathless, fighting for air.
We sit for hours, or maybe seconds, caught in this moment where sadness is all that exists. Days or maybe minutes later, our four cries become three.
Mom kneels and then stands. She brushes herself off and pulls each of us up.
—Annabelle Tometich: The Mango Tree
Holly Margl is the award-winning author of Witnessing Grief; Inviting Trauma and Loss to Our Coaching Conversations, An Enneagram Perspective, coach, coach mentor, and trainer specializing in grief, trauma, and the Enneagram.
