Finding Me Read Free

an assistant at Mather’s Science and Technology and I was hoping to speak to the … the … someone that knew … Elaine Boggman.” My words were jumbled as my eyes frantically searched over the information for the point of contact’s name, only to come up with a W, making myself cringe at the fact I hadn’t thought to prepare that far in advance.
    “This is Wendy,” she replied. “I’m her … was … her daughter.”
    My eyes welled with tears and my skin prickled with goose bumps. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Wendy.” My words came out barely above a whisper as I attempted not to choke on them. I stared into the brightness of the bulb shinning from my desk lamp, not allowing my eyes to blink or pool with any more tears.
    “Wendy, I wanted to ask you a few questions about your mom if that’s alright.” I paused, feeling my pulse racing in my fingertips that were tightly gripping a pen. “I understand if it’s too difficult.” The lump in my throat expanded with each word.
    Certain things used to trigger a breakdown: the smell of whiskey, the scent of Max’s cologne, seeing a father and daughter together, pancakes, and many other everyday things used to make me dash to the nearest restroom where I’d hide until the sobbing subsided. Eventually, the sobbing became stray tears and now, most days, I can cross my arms tight across my chest, count down from five, and be okay … most days.
    A month ago, I even began exposing myself to some of the memories after I woke up in a panic and couldn’t remember the sound of Max’s voice. I went to the liquor store and bought a bottle of whiskey. The memories infiltrated my brain with just the scent and continued with each drink, filling me with tears of relief.
    “How can I help?” Wendy’s voice sounded slightly timid.
    “I … I’m studying heart disease and your mother looked like she was in good health. I was just calling to see if there was something that might be missing from her medical records.”
    “She was in excellent shape, but the last few years were really hard on her. You see, my dad passed away about five years ago, and my mom … she couldn’t get over it.” Before I could stop the tears, they slid down my cheeks in thick streams, tickling my chin. “At first she wouldn’t get out of bed or get dressed. I think she felt guilty if she let herself be happy, so she worked to keep busy and shut herself away from the world. I think she died of a broken heart.”
    I knew that she was wrong. Although there is a condition called broken heart syndrome, it’s very rare one dies from it. However, the lump in my throat had become a boulder, and the room was so blurry it took me several seconds to manage a reply.
    “Thank you, Wendy,” I choked out, pinching the skin on my forearm, desperate to feel something else. “I really appreciate your time, and I’m so sorry for your loss.” I hung up before she could reply and slid into to a heap beside my desk as the sobs took over.
    I’m not sure if Fitz had walked in at the beginning, middle, or very end of my phone call; I’d never noticed him, but I felt his hands on my shoulders that racked up and down.
    When I was finally able to breathe without crying, I gathered my files and locked them in my drawer, grabbed my purse, and left.
    I spent the rest of that week dutifully avoiding my lab and Fitz. The following week I was scheduled to officially begin working with him. Fitz entered, looking surprised to find me ready and waiting. He set down his things while staring at his desk and then looked back up at me.
    “So what’s your deal? You don’t talk to people. You don’t seem to have any friends that I can tell. You don’t date anyone … are you Mormon?”
    I furrowed my eyebrows and shook my head.
    “Are you a lesbian?”
    Was that what people thought? I laughed. “No, I’m not a lesbian.”
    “Then what’s your deal?”
    “I don’t have a deal. I’m here going to school and