Blue Nail Polish

Fiction by Amy Cosner

Honorable Mention for College Fiction - 2019 Met Awards

The sky is gray above me. The lake is a mirror, reflecting the trees and mountains all around. There is a chill in the air, so I pull the wool blanket more tightly around myself. The woods are silent, as if all it’s inhabitants are waiting for the day to begin. It amazes me. That the sun still rises in the east. That the earth still turns on its axis. That life goes on for everyone else. My chest burns. My head aches. My heart throbs. I stare down at my bare feet, at the chipping blue nail polish. The knot in my throat won’t let up; I want to cry, yell, sob, but I'm too tired. Too drained to even stand. I need to sleep, but I won't. I wouldn't last night and I won't now. My sleep is tormented with nightmares and her face. Dreams of her voice and when I reach out for her, she vanishes and I wake more worn out than ever. Everyone is so worried. Avery begs me to sleep, pleads for me to eat. She doesn't understand that I can't. But how could she?
 
She means well. This trip was her suggestion. The woods have always cheered me before. I would eagerly anticipate our camping trips. Long for the smell of the trees and the soft dirt beneath my feet. We spent hours on the lake just the two of us. Gossiping about boys and giggling over the stupidest little things. This was my happy place, where I felt safe and free. I wish I could feel that way again. But I won’t. There are too many memories here. Too many campfires and too many hikes. Too many deer sightings and far too many nights spent stargazing.

The funeral was a week ago. I sat in a pew, wearing a black dress and a pearl necklace that she left behind. My father sat beside me. Tall and ridged. His knuckles white from clutching the bible in his hands. The service ended and everyone offered their condolences. I didn't hear a word. We went to the cemetery and I watched as the woman who sang me lullabies and taught me to bake cookies was lowered six feet underground. I dropped dirt into her grave. I broke.

She was in a car accident. The other driver was on his cell phone. There was a collision. She was alive and then she just, wasn't.

Everything happens for a reason. That's what everyone keeps saying, but I don't I buy it. What reason could there be that my mom isn't here with me anymore? That she's going to miss my graduation? That she won't be at my wedding? That she'll never meet her grandchildren? The world is sick, and cruel. That's the only explanation that makes sense. It still doesn’t.

We sat on my floor that last night, on the green shag carpet that I was always begging to get rid of. She sat cross-legged, with her hair up in a bun on top of her head and a bottle of blue nail polish in her hands because “Everyone wears red nail polish” and I wasn’t everyone. She gushed about how grown up I looked in my dress and reminisced about changing my diapers. I rolled my eyes.

Avery’s mom picked me up in her SUV and I waved, calling a quick half-hearted, ‘I love you’ over my shoulder. If only I could go back. I would hug her so tight, the way I used to as a kid and never let go. She would have never gotten into the car.

If I had agreed to spend the night with Avery, she would have never had to pick me up. I wouldn’t have stood outside the school for an hour, furious that she wasn’t there yet. I would have never gotten the phone call that brought me to my knees, vomiting onto the asphalt. 
I never got to say goodbye.

Now I breathe in the scent of pine needles and the coming rain. I hear his footsteps behind me and his arm brushes mine as he settles onto the dirt next to me.

“It’s beautiful.” He states simply, and it is. The sun has begun to peak over the crest of the mountains. The clouds begin to part, reveling the pink and orange flames illuminating the sky.

My father isn’t the sentimental type, but he isn’t the stony, distant type either. He’s gentle and kind, and while his I-love-you’s are few and far between, they are warm and meaningful, like the hot chocolate my mother made every Christmas Eve. I don’t expect an elaborate speech or words of comfort. That’s not Dad’s way and he knows that it wouldn’t help me. Instead, he wraps an arm around me and I curl into him, resting my head on his shoulder. Here we sit, silently, tears dripping down my cheek, until the light streams through the branches above us. I’m struck again by the stillness of it all. The quiet serenity of the morning.

“You know.” my father says, finally breaking the silence, “She wouldn’t want this.”

I stare straight ahead at the ripples in the river.

“Your mom.” he explained, his voice thick and eyes rimmed with red. “She would want us to keep living.”

I gulp back a sob.

The image won’t leave my mind. Her still white hands folded carefully on her stomach. Blue nail polish on her cold fingers.

My dad’s right. It would break her heart to see me this way, this broken. But I can’t let go. I never will. I don’t want to. Maybe it won’t hurt so badly someday, but do I even want relief? Do I want this excruciating pain to end? It wouldn’t be fair to her. So here I'll stay, tear streaked and shattered, craving the sound of her laughter.

About the Author

I'm currently in the process of getting my English degree. I've always loved to read and always wanted to write, but I haven't had the courage to share my personal thoughts and fears in my work until now.