The Art of Letting Go

The Art of Letting Go

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  This is a work of fiction. Any characters, names, incidents, or otherwise are the sole work of imagination. If a resemblance to a person should occur, living or dead, then it is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This work should not be reproduced or transmitted through any means without the permission of Stephanie Campbell.

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  The Art of Letting Go

  Stephanie Campbell

  Copyright Stephanie Campbell 2011

  The Art of Letting Go

  By Stephanie Campbell

  Camille sat quietly in the bedroom, staring straight ahead. Her gut ached and she could taste her own stomach acid on her tongue. She held a six year old family picture in her hands, one with only two people in it—her and her son, Michael. Michael was a good looking boy, even at twelve. He was tall but still bulky with dark brown curls so thick and wild that it looked like a bush had settled itself upon his head. One of his hands was wrapped around her plump waist.

  What a day, she thought, feeling sadness fill her. Downstairs, she could hear the sound of Michael talking excitedly on the phone. Chattering. That was normal for him. The house smelled of the remains of the breakfast that she had prepared, pancakes and bacon. Michael's favorite. It wasn't like she would see him for a while. He was leaving her, going to war. God, how she would miss him. She had loved him since day one. She remembered when she held Michael for the first time.

  She was fifteen years old, alone in the hospital room except for the doctor and the two nurses. Her boyfriend had abandoned her for greener pastures, and her own parents had disowned her the moment that they found out that she had gotten "knocked up," leaving her with her dysfunctional and alcoholic grandmother.

  Her hair was drenched with sweat, which she could taste on her tongue because a lock of it was in her mouth. Blood drizzled down her legs and her whole body felt hot. Her son's wailing filled the air, shrill and desperate, and she felt fear at the sound of it. That was the sound that would be ruling her life from now on, the one that she would have to listen for every day. It was horrifying. She wasn't ready, not for that. Why had she been so stupid? One night had ruined her whole life.

  Yet when the doctor laid Michael across her stomach and she looked down, her heart felt as if a fire had been kindled in it. Her son's face was the most beautiful thing that she had ever seen, even while wailing. She let out a sob, not of unhappiness but of joy, and drew Michael closer, holding him. So she had made the right choice after all.

  The sound of somebody opening the door jolted her from that memory, and when she looked down at the picture that she held, she realized that there were drops of liquid on it. When she reached up to touch her face, she felt tears streaming down her cheeks. I promised myself that I wouldn't do this. She wiped at the tears, desperate, knowing that there was only one person that would come into the room at this moment. It was Michael. She did not want him to see her cry. It hurt like hell to lose him, but at the same time, she loved him too much to make him stay. He needed this. He needed to grow up.

  "Mom?" Michael said, behind her. His voice sounded timid and sad, so unlike him with his goofy, prattling ways. "Mom, I probably have to go."

  She wiped at her face desperately, one last time. A last sniffle left her throat. "Right. Yeah, you probably do need to go."

  Standing up, she hid her face from Michael, looking down at his dark brown boots that were only half concealed by his dark blue jeans. She heard his heavy breathing and knew that he was struggling with the situation too. That was another reason why she had to be tough. She didn’t want to make this harder on him.

  "Mom, are you alright?" Michael asked.

  "Of course I'm alright," she said, stepping into the hallway. "You just need to get going."

  She headed down the flight of stairs and into the bottom floor of the condo. The living room, a crème colored room decorated with country style furniture, looked strangely empty without her son's mess in it. Normally, there were crushed chips scattered across the table, a stack of gamer magazines lying on the couch, and a paused horror movie on the television. Her whole life she had tried to make the room clean, but now that it actually was, she felt physically ill. This was the breaking point. She pressed her hand to her mouth, tears streaming down her face as she released full-blown sobs, likely loud enough for even Michael, who was still upstairs, to hear.

  There was the sound of Michael thundering down the stairs as he always did, and within moments, she was in his arms. Even at the age of eighteen, he still put on too much cologne, and the smell of it overwhelmed her senses and caused a bitter taste to form on her tongue. Yet now she did not lean away or even tease him for it. Instead she leaned against him, squeezing him so tight that her arms hurt, and let out yet another sob. Her heart felt like it was being ripped out of her chest. She had always thought that she had seen the worse when her boyfriend had left her or when her parents had shown her the door with nothing but her backpack, but this was much, much worse. Michael had always been a part of her, the better part, and even though he wasn't dead, he would be gone. Things wouldn't be the same between them again.

  "I love you, Mom," Michael whispered. "I love you so much, okay? Don't be too sad without me here."

  "I love you, too, baby," she said. "You be careful, okay?"

  "Of course, Mom. You taught me well." He sighed against her hair. "I'll be back to visit in just a couple of months. This isn't forever, you know."

  Silence filled the room. She felt Michael tremble against her, but when she pulled away, his eyes were clear. Excited. Now was his time to shine, and unfortunately, her time to hurt. She exhaled, wiped at her face, and told herself to calm down. It did not make the hurt go away, but at least she no longer cried. She would have enough time to do that when Michael left and the house was empty—no blaring television, no crunching of chips or dinging of the microwave, and no Michael. The worst kind of alone.

  "Mom, do you…do you remember when I was twelve, and I ran away from home?" Michael asked, frowning at her.

  Of course she did. What parent didn't remember horrifying moments like that? She remembered it as clear as day.

  Michael sat on the couch, playing another of his games. On the counter lay his report card. She studied it, her mouth tight—F,F, C, A, B. Her stomach clenched in horror. To get by, she was having to work twelve hour shifts at a warehouse and came home exhausted every day, and for what? She tried so hard to make sure that Michael had the things that she never had—a safe home, a chance at college. But he was blowing it all away.

  In her anger, she stomped up to the television and unplugged it from the wall. The screen went black. Michael looked up at her, his pimple speckled face tense with anger. She put her hand on her hips and narrowed her eyes at him, shaking the report card.

  "What is this?" she asked. "What is it?"

  "What does it look like?" he snapped. "It's nothing."

  "Yeah, well, that's what those grades are. Nothing."

  His mouth opened and shut several times, and then he was on his feet, shaking. She was so mad that she felt her insides burn, and her mouth tasted sour, as if she had not brushed her teeth in days. She neared him and smelled the overwhelming scent of his sweat. Her teeth ground together as she felt the beginnings of a migraine.

  "You are grounded," she said. "No television, no video games."

  "Fuck you," Michael said, his face turning red.

  She went still. She didn't even know how to react to that. Michael didn't say things
like "fuck you." Where had he learned it? Her mind spun, back to when she was a teenager and had said similar things to her parents. Michael's life flashed before her eyes. He was abandoning a child, just like her boyfriend had done to her. An explosion happened. She stomped forward and slapped him across the face, and his eyes widened in surprise and hurt. His cheek was a flaming red.

  It took her a moment to realize what she had done. She drew up her swollen hand to her mouth and then shook her head. She had never hit Michael before. Never. She loved him too much.

  "Michael, I am so sorry," she said.

  But he was already moving, turning and heading for the stairs. Her heart thudded with panic as she chased after him, up the flight. Her legs burned by the time she reached the top landing. Unfortunately, she was too late. He slammed the door in her face and the lock clicked. Panicked, she knocked repeatedly at his door until the wood caused her knuckle to ache. On the other end of the door, she heard loud movement.

  As she knocked, growing more desperate, the sound of movement did not stop. Just as she yelled, "Michael, let me in!" the door was jerked open from underneath her knuckle and Michael came out with a fat black backpack hung over his shoulder. His face was red and his eyes were narrow in anger. She reached for him, panicked, and grabbed a handful of his