It is that time of year when the heat of summer has turned into the cool of fall. Except here in the south, you have a mixture of warmth and humidity with that coolness.
I love how the damp leaves lie on the ground in various colors — orange, yellow, brown, and sometimes red. There is just a certain feeling in the air. It feels like the atmosphere is giving me a hug. Like it is saying, “You have made it this far. It’s not too much further.”
The sun sets earlier, and the sunsets are prettier. The moon shines brighter, or so it feels.
I am drawn to the death theme — more now, since my son passed. Halloween is the one holiday that gives me permission to acknowledge and embrace darkness. I love the ghouls, the skeletons, the witches, the bats, the black cats. I like the fake spiders but not the real ones — though I do admire their webs. I love darkness. Without it, I would have never seen light.
I can breathe better around Halloween. When I think of it, it feels warm. Like a bonfire — warm because of the cool around it, bright because of the dark.
I think the main reason it’s my favorite holiday is because of when it falls. By the time Thanksgiving arrives, that warmth is gone.
Paul sat at his dining table, staring at the license plate number he’d scribbled on the palm of his hand in haste as the woman from the library sped off. She barely acknowledged him, and he wasn’t even able to get her name. Instinctively, he smelled the palm of his hand, remembering the way her bookmark smelled, the way she smelled. He searched the internet for her address. Talking to himself, he said, “Oh, look, the car belongs to Mildred Huff. Mildred? Millie, that’s what I would call her. Mildred seems a bit old-fashioned. No, that can’t be right. Let me see how old this Mildred is.”
Upon further investigation, Paul discovered that Mildred was way older than the woman in the library. But Mildred did have a daughter named Debbie. “Hmmm, Debbie looks like she may be who I’m looking for. Dang, these privacy settings are getting on my nerves. I just want to find one good photo to confirm. I will keep searching.” Mouthing his thoughts, Paul continued searching the internet looking for a photo of Debbie.
****
Meanwhile, Debbie was conducting her own investigation. She kept her TruthFinder account active, one of the few apps she allowed herself to use. TruthFinder was a background-check app she downloaded after her incident with that guy at the coffee shop. She decided she would never go on another date without knowing everything she could find out about a guy first. But she didn’t find out anything more than she already knew about Paul. He was rich and donated generously to the library, at least that’s what the internet said.
For a brief moment, Debbie wished she still had social media so she could stalk him properly. But she’d deleted everything. Instagram, Facebook, TikTok, all gone. She’d even tried creating a fake account under a different name once, thinking she could slip back into the digital world undetected. But it didn’t feel right. She couldn’t keep up with all her friends and acquaintances without raising suspicion, and the isolation of a half-life online felt worse than no life at all. Not because of strangers like Paul, but because of her mother, Mildred.
Mildred stayed glued to social media, watching Debbie’s every move, commenting on her photos, messaging her friends, inserting herself into every corner of Debbie’s digital life. It was suffocating. So Debbie erased herself from them entirely. At least with TruthFinder, she could protect herself.
Mr. Paul was a handsome guy, but there was something about him that made her feel uneasy, and she wanted to know why. She wanted something tangible, something that she could say, Aha, see? This is why. But she found nothing. Still, his presence at the library triggered something in her, reminding her that she was never truly safe from being watched or consumed by someone else’s need.
Earlier, Mildred noticed Debbie had grown quiet, so she inquired about her night. “Are you okay, sweetie? Did something happen at the library?” she said in her raspy smoker’s voice, intently watching Debbie’s facial expression.
Debbie explained her awkward encounter with Paul. She told her Mom that he would not stop staring at her and how he would interrupt her reading to try to have a conversation with her. “In the library of all places, where you’re supposed to be quiet,” she said, frowning.
But as she spoke, she felt the memory of him again, how close he’d gotten, so close she could feel the warmth of him behind her. She remembered how he made her flush, but also that flutter low in her stomach. She was attracted and terrified at the same time, and that contradiction left her confused and a little ashamed. How could she be scared of someone but also drawn to them? It didn’t make sense, and she couldn’t explain it to her mother without sounding foolish.
Mom blew her off, said he was probably just trying to be nice. The reaction Debbie expected, which is why she left out the details of how he sniffed her hair and took a whiff of her bookmark before handing it back to her. She didn’t want to seem like she was over exaggerating. Even though Mom supported Debbie throughout the trial those ten years ago, she could tell it had worn Mom out, as if the incident had happened to her instead of Debbie.
She loved her Mom, but she was ready to have her own place again. She moved here to help her out after Dad died. No one thought Dad would go first; he was the healthy one, the one who held everything together. After he retired from military service, he drove Mom everywhere, even though she had her license. He cooked every meal, managed the finances, and made every decision with precision and authority. Mildred never questioned it. Although she spent decades resenting his control, she never actually did anything about it. Dad managed her as an Air Force Captain would.
When he died suddenly of a heart attack, Mildred didn’t just lose a husband. She lost her framework for existing. She didn’t know how to be alone, make decisions, or function without someone telling her what to do. So she’d turned to Debbie.
And Debbie had to step into her father’s role, driving her Mom to appointments, managing her medications, making decisions about the house, money, and everything. Once again, she became the one to hold her Mom together to absorb her anxiety and fear. Dad had chosen it, but Debbie had to slip back into it. The weight fell entirely on her, just like it had when she was a child, when she had to be Mom’s emotional support. Back then, Dad tried to be the buffer, but now he was gone.
Living here with Mom did come with a few perks, though, like free room and board and a classic car to drive. Mom’s old ’68 Ford Mustang. Debbie couldn’t wait to make it her own. Not that she was trying to rush Mom on to Gloryland with Dad, but rather that she was looking forward to it when the time came. At least that’s what she told herself.
It would be pretty shitty if she wished for her Mom to move on that way, wouldn’t it? But she did. And she even wrote about it in her journal once. It was late, she was exhausted, and she admitted it on paper. I wish she would die.
Only five words. And yet they looked so unforgiving and shameful on the page. She trembled as she stared at them. She didn’t plan to write them; they just spilled out like blood on paper.
Then she started to panic. What if Mom found it? What if she went snooping through Debbie’s things again? Debbie ripped the page out, tore it into pieces, and flushed it down the toilet. She watched the water swirl them away as her heart pounded.
But the thought of it didn’t flush away with it. It stayed, along with the guilt, the religious kind of remorse. Wondering how you could honor your father and mother while wishing she were dead. That verse haunted Debbie, her Mom reciting it whenever she disobeyed as a child or expressed a different opinion as a teen, and she remembered her pastor’s sermons in church. But how could she honor someone she resented? Someone whose neediness drained her dry, whose tears and complaints filled every room and every thought? Mom made love feel like a debt Debbie could never repay.
Often, Mom would sit and cry because no one talked to her, even though Debbie had just spent hours listening to her. Mom would get her feelings hurt when Debbie didn’t give her the time she felt she deserved, as if being a mother meant Debbie owed her everything. And maybe she did, wondering if that’s what honoring meant. But Debbie was tired of the one-way emotional labor; she was drowning in it and felt guilty for wanting her own life.
So, she endured her Mom’s smothering ways and how she made everything about herself. Sometimes she even caught herself doing the same thing. Once, she was texting a friend who was complaining and needing reassurance, and Debbie found herself telling her friend all about the times something similar had happened to her, instead of comforting her. She always did this, deflecting instead of dealing with it head-on.
Today, Debbie decided to stay in her room and read to avoid Mom. Also, because she was afraid to go back to the library. Now, where was she going to find good books to read for free? She hated reading books on an electronic device; there was something special about holding a book in your hands, the way it feels, the way the pages smell when you turn them. On a device, everything felt trackable. Books were real and tangible, something her Mom couldn’t scroll through, couldn’t monitor, couldn’t comment on.
Debbie loved underlining the words and phrases on the pages that spoke of her hunger and need for escape and self-knowledge. It was empowering and bold. Like being a graffiti artist in a small act of rebellion. Until the weight of guilt crept in. What if Mom finds the book and reads what was underlined? She would think it’s about her. And she would get her feelings hurt.
****
Paul refreshed the page again. Debbie Huff. No photos or anything to scroll. He leaned back in his chair, smiling.
“That’s okay,” he said quietly. “I know where to find you.”
****
From down the hall, her mother called her name. Debbie closed the book, thumbing the edge of the pages. She set it aside and closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep.
About the Author: Yoli Kae Reynolds is an author and Certified Journal Therapy Coach based in Central Arkansas. Her writing explores suicide loss, family trauma, and survival in the aftermath of abuse. Her personal essays have appeared on Medium in Women Write and Reaching Hearts. Through both her coaching practice and her fiction, she investigates how systems fail survivors and the violence that echoes through families.
They say it was never intended for a child to go before a parent, and she thinks that is because when they do, a part of that parent goes with them. There’s a hole.
Children know their parents will go someday, and they anticipate it — not in an excited way, but in a knowing kind of way.
But you never anticipate the death of your child, not unless you are told it’s inevitable and beyond your control.
And she knows there are parents who have lost children to sickness and health reasons, but for those of us who had healthy children, who weren’t expecting or anticipating this, it has taken something from us. No, she is not saying that her grief is any worse than theirs, or yours. It is and was nearly the destroying factor of her life, and this is what she is writing about.
Only those who choose to resist the destruction can survive.
She saw him lying there, white, cold, hands in his lap, feet crossed. Like he posed before he did it. Mouth open, eyes closed, breathless. Although there was blood, the only thing she could see was the lifeless body of her baby.
Her baby was hoisted on a stretcher and wheeled up a rocky hill into an ambulance with no need for the siren. Only lights for this ride to the morgue.
Everyone asked her if she needed an ambulance. She wondered why they kept asking her that. She was still standing, but she was only existing in their reality. For she was living a different one. The reality she was experiencing was different from theirs. Her reality was a vortex sucking her down into a dark abyss.
She looked for a note. She searched. Where is it? There has to be something. Some explanation. Some goodbye. Some why. But there was nothing. Just his body and the silence.
When the coroner said he found one, she didn’t believe him. She thought maybe he was just being kind, trying to give her something to hold onto. Trying to make it easier. As if anything could make this easier. As if a note could explain why her son was cold and white and gone.
Later, she realized he was right. There had been a note. But in that moment, standing there, her reality splitting in two, she couldn’t trust anything. Not even mercy.
She could feel her body sob. She remembered the other mom on the other side of town who lost two sons the night before. Then she, not wanting to feel sorry for herself, felt sorry for the other mom, as if maybe this sympathy could hold her in place, keep her tethered to this world, keep her from the descent into hell.
“Sir, do you think she needs an ambulance?”
Why do they keep saying this? She is not crazy. She only just seen the cold, white body of her son. She only wants the comfort of her own bed, not the bright lights of a hospital room. What did they think taking her to the hospital was going to fix? Was it because she couldn’t stop sobbing?
Her sobs are uncontained. She didn’t care. She didn’t even try to stop. This was too painful to hold in. After all the things she had been through, this was the very straw trying to break the camel’s back. This is the thing that was going to take her under, the thing that tried the hardest to destroy her.
And she knew that.
So she did not try to contain the pain. She felt it. Every painful second of it. Every painful memory of it. Every bit of it.
The coroner gave her the name of a therapist, someone to talk to.
Okay, she says, being nice. Polite. As if politeness mattered when your child is dead. She took the paper with the number on it. She never called. The paper sat somewhere — a drawer, a purse, a void. She was numb. Too numb to reach out, too numb to ask for help, too numb to do anything but survive each day as it came.
The coroner tried to explain it away. He tried to say her child was troubled, but it didn’t matter what he said. It was still her child, and he was gone.
Time moved. Life went on, as it does, indifferent to grief. She started therapy 3 years later. Grandbabies were born. Relationships ended. New ones began. The world kept turning, kept demanding she turn with it. And somehow, she did. She survived each day, then the next, then the next.
Luke — Forever my baby
It’s been five and a half years since that day, and pain stops by to visit sometimes. And she still entertains him. She pulls his chair up next to grief, and they all have a cup of coffee together. They remember that day. They remember her son’s childhood times, the way he laughed, the things he loved. They reminisce about many things they are thankful for.
But they also talk about the other parents — the ones still in the early days, the ones who can’t breathe, the ones who think they won’t survive this. They talk about how to reach them, what to say, and what not to say. They talk about turning this unbearable thing into something that might help someone else make it through.
She sits with Pain and Grief. She doesn’t turn them away. And she’s glad. Even though she never really invites them, she’s always glad they come, thankful for their visits. For the way they’ve taught her that pain doesn’t have to destroy, that grief can become purpose.
Mostly, she’s thankful that pain showed mercy and didn’t destroy her, but instead became her friend, her teacher. Guiding her toward helping others find their way through the dark.
The Mercy of Pain was originally published in Women Write on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
The thing I complain about the most is being cold. I hate to be cold. There aren’t enough articles of clothing I could put on to keep me warm in the dead of winter. And if I could put enough on to keep me warm, I would not be able to walk, move, or breathe.
“Move somewhere warmer.” You say.
Well, that would mean sacrificing some of the wonderful things I love about my hometown in the beautiful Natural State. In reality, our winters are mild until they aren’t. And when we have a “bad winter”, it usually lasts the duration of an entire week, and on rare occassions, two. And we are having one of those rare ones. The kind where the ice is refusing to vacate the premises.
I take a big gulp of Guinness. I remember her surprisingly acerbic words. She yelled them across the parking lot. “I hope something absolutely horrible happens to you on the best day of your life!”
It was all I thought of while I drove back to the Wagon Wheel. I did not make it a habit to drink in front of my employees. Yet, I needed to get the shopping trip off my mind. I tried to enjoy my drink. The place lit up as the door opened. I made the mistake of checking who had entered my establishment.
It was them. The gal from the mall with her mom. They sat at the round table near the corner by the pool tables. Mitzi went over, fully ready to ask to see their membership card. I tapped her arm and shook my head no. She knew that we would be making an exception this time.
I followed Mitzi to the back on my way to my office and told her not to let them pay. I would handle it. Mitzi gave me one of her suspicious looks and said she would need an explanation.
Later, when they left, I told Mitzi,
“I went to Dillard’s to get Shiloh and Drake their Christmas presents, and the entire parking lot was full. It was Christmas Eve, and I hadn’t even started shopping yet. I finally saw a handicap spot open up. I justified to myself that I wouldn’t be in there long enough to matter. You know, that is the exact same thinking that cost me my marriage. Cassie used to say I was always too busy rushing to the next thing. I never noticed who I was running over. I guess she was right. A car had been waiting for the same spot. I was closer, so I took it, even though she’d been waiting for it. Anyways, she blared her horn, rolled down her window, and yelled at me. I didn’t realize she had a handicapped person with her. I didn’t even care, honestly. But when I kept running into her at every rack and corner, I thought, here I am. I am an able-bodied man taking a handicap spot. Her handicap spot. More like an able-bodied asshole, that’s what I am. I couldn’t handle it, so I left. I feel like such an idiot. The least I do is pay for their time here.”
Mitzi had a big grin from ear to ear while she was digging through her purse. She pulled out a bundle of sage and handed it to me. I hesitantly reached for it.
“I told them that their meal and drinks were on the house. She told me to tell you to keep your Goddamn money. She also hopes that you need to take a shit when you step out of the shower.” Mitzi was laughing so hard that she had to cross her legs, and her eyes were watering.
The weight of it hit me harder than I expected. She wouldn’t even let me try to make it right. I’d been such a selfish prick that my apology wasn’t worth accepting. Maybe I didn’t deserve her forgiveness.
“What is the sage for?”
“That’s to get rid of their bad JuJu. We don’t need their attitude lingering. There ain’t nothing worse than trying to use toilet paper to wipe shit off a clean wet ass.” Holding her stomach, she turned to leave. “Merry Christmas, John. Give the kids my love.” She swung her hands up to the sky. She bellowed, “May your showers be warm, and your ass stay clean, bahaha!”
I looked down at the silver twigs, held together by handmade twine. I wondered if it works on people, too. If burning sage undoes years of being an asshole. The asshole who takes handicap spots and causes a divorce.
Sounds of a creaking door… As I write about the sounds Of water hitting bedrock below A crescendo from thirteen feet above.
More than a trickle, Less than a roar. Yet still a fall. A lazy stream’s descent.
Laughter behind a glass door. Nude. The house has finally warmed To a temperature that’s Birthday-suit worthy.
The buzz of a yellow jacket In search of food for winter. My fingers and nose tell me, It’s too cold for this creature To be flying about. Yet it defies logic, Buzzing close to my ear.
Wasp stings are a powerful, A Solid blow. I remember the time Three tagged me on the back.
BOOM! I felt it. BOOM! again. BOOM! a third time.
It was between the second and third I realized what was happening. Then I ran Yelling, crying, Screaming. A third of each.
The pain was immense. It did not stop. Not a throb,
A Stab. As if it were stinging me Again and again.
For over an hour.
So now, As this cold-weather fiend Flies near, I watch.
“What do you have to say?” I ask.
I listen. I observe.
All I can gather is… It is in no hurry.
It finds a grease stain On the patio chair arm, And begins lapping it up In the manner yellow jackets do, Until the spot is no longer visible.
Cleaned its mess. No Cleaned a mess. Not its own.
Like we as parents So often do.
I swing my hair Back and forth, Hoping it will leave me alone, Not lap any oil From my body.
Memories rise Panic follows.
I feel it there, On top of my head.
I swing my curls again, Trying to send a message: Go. Elsewhere.
But it is here. It was here before me. And unless I smush it, It will be here after me.
For now Gone. Or out of hearing reach. Out of sight.
The soothing sounds of nature… Not made by man.
Water falls onto rocks. Into a pond-like puddle Knee-deep, perhaps, Or at least it was last year.
From the top of the stairs I can see the bottom.
This place, carved by nature You can’t help but wonder What was on the Divine’s mind When it shaped it.
I want a place like this. All to myself.
But would I share it?
Places like this deserve to be shared.
Yet I want to hoard it. Keep it for myself. Unfettered access At all times.
And I suppose With a tweak in scheduling That’s always possible.
Cold water cascades Slaps, Claps, Splashes, Sings.
It continues its journey.
Boldly it goes Down, winding, trailing, Lulling. Its journey never ends.
Can you see the wind? No But you see the evidence.
Young, dumb, and 21. That’s what we were. We were of the age of invincibility. There was nothing we could not do, and if it was wrong, we would never get caught. We could drink all night and get up for work the next morning. There was no limit to the trouble we could get into or the amount of alcohol we could consume. As was the night of October 28, 1990.
Receiving an invitation to one of Brody’s parties was something everyone bragged about. So when we received ours, we were ecstatic! I called Cheryl and Lisa and told them the news. They, too, were just as excited. We asked ourselves if we should invite Christy, weighing the pros and cons. If she finds out we went to Brody’s without her, she will be so mad at us. She’s been wanting to go to one of his parties for a long time. But if we invite her, she’s only going to regret it in the morning, then ghost us for weeks while she gets right with God and aligns with her church and parents’ values. With that last thought, we decided not to tell her about the party.
The three of us pull up to Brody’s huge, lustrous mansion, the lights illuminating the circular drive. The valet took the keys to my bug and drove away.
“Wow, this is bigger than I imagined!” I said.
‘No, I thought it was going to be way bigger and way prettier.”
Lisa, wanting to keep the peace, said it was exactly as she imagined.
Once inside, a large staircase led upstairs, and people were sitting at the bottom. To our left, French doors opened into a huge room full of people. Brody had a DJ, and the room was dark, with strobe lights that danced like shooting stars. There were coolers and kegs and bottles of alcohol everywhere. We each grabbed something to drink and started mingling. We didn’t know anyone here. So, we regrouped in a corner.
“Do you know anyone?” Lisa asked.
“No. Do you?” Cheryl replied.
“Me either, this is weird. Well, the valet took my keys, and I’m starting to feel this drink, so we may as well make the best of it. Let’s go explore.” I pulled out my phone.
“Should we text Christy the address?”
Lisa shook her head. “You know how she gets. She’ll have fun tonight, then spend the next three weeks feeling guilty, ghosting us while she gets right with God.”
Cheryl nodded. “I can’t deal with another guilt trip.”
I put my phone away. We left the room with fresh drinks inside 24-oz tumblers with lids and straws.
“Wow, taste this!” I extended my cup to Lisa. Cheryl was a germaphobe. And shook her head no at the thought of sharing straws.
“Oh, that’s good. Here, try mine.” Lisa’s drink tasted of kiwi and pineapple with a lot of vodka.
Huge portraits of people we didn’t recognize hung throughout the house, and the bathrooms were bigger than our bedrooms. We found two kitchens and a room that I later learned was a butler pantry, equipped with a sink and fridge.
Before heading outside, we stopped in the ballroom to grab another drink. Bodies were dancing provocatively, a good indication that they were heavily inebriated. Cheryl wanted to stay and dance, Lisa and I wanted to go outside to the garden, so we parted ways.
We linked our arms together and headed outside, swaying and stumbling as we walked. The giant hedges arched into an opening, and we entered with the courage that alcohol gives. It was dark; the full moon illuminated the path before us.
“Shit, we’re going to get lost.”
Lisa burst out laughing. “It’s not like we will be stuck in here forever; someone will eventually come looking for us.”
“But what if they don’t?”
We stopped laughing and stared at each other for a moment, then burst into another sort of laughter. The kind that pushes away fear.
“Well, this is a dead end, I told you we should have gone right. You always go right. That’s the only way to go.” She scolded.
I hated to admit she might be right this time. So, we turned around.
“But we have to go left this time because we didn’t go right the last time.”
Lisa rolled her eyes, and we went left. “Ugh, this drink is getting to me. It was way too sweet. I’m going to set it right here. That way, when we come back out, we will see it and know we are going the right way.”
Onward we walked, hands grazing the hedge’s edge. When we came to a fork, Lisa reminded me to go right. And this time I listened. I set my drink down before turning right, knowing our drunk brains will need all the help they can get.
We stumbled through the maze, giggling. It felt like forever, dead end after dead end, but we were having too much fun to care.
Finally, we found the end of the maze. It opened into a garden full of roses and a gazebo in the center. There was a water fountain with a stream circling around. It was heaven.
“Wow, this is amazing. Have you ever seen anything like this?”
“Once, but it was Colorado when I hiked to a waterfall. But this is man-made, so it makes it more surprising.”
We walked to the gazebo and noticed someone was slumped on the ground.
“Who do you think that is?”
“I have no idea. In case you forgot, we don’t know anyone here. “ Lisa snorted.
“Hi. Do you mind if we join you?”
There was silence. I wondered if they were passed out and decided to check on them.
We stepped onto the gazebo floor and realized it was Christy.
“Christy? I am so glad you came!” I said.
Lisa’s eyes were huge. She stopped, her jaw dropping to the floor.
When I turned back to Christy, who was still silent, I thought maybe she was mad at us for not inviting her. Then I noticed her hair was matted to her head. I grabbed my phone and shined it on her. Her hair was matted to her face with dark, sticky, reddish brown crust. I stood up and gasped. I shined my light down her body. Her skirt was pulled up and her panties were tangled around her ankles.
Blood was everywhere. It was on me too. Lisa was frozen, silent from shock. I stumbled backward,
“Oh my god! I she….” I couldn’t bring myself to say, “…dead?”
There lay our friend Christy, whom we chose not to invite, in a pool of her own blood.
“It’s all my fault,” Lisa sobbed. “I’m the one who said we shouldn’t invite her. I said she’d kill the vibe. If we had invited her, she would still be alive.”
In the distance, I could still hear the music from the house. People laughing, dancing, living.
