The Forest Knows Her Name

It was 1:25 when I received a call from my uncle Sam. I was lounging on my couch, engrossed in my favorite TV show, All Of Us Are Dead. I hit pause, stood up, and made my way to the kitchen counter where my phone lay. "Hello?" I answered after picking it up. "Hey Alice... I have some bad news." After hanging up, I glanced at the clock, still in shock. It was 1:46 when I learned that my mom had been found dead in her car. Uncle Sam said it was a heart attack. I collapsed onto the kitchen floor, tears streaming down my face, wishing it wasn't real. At first, I didn't believe it. Denial wrapped itself around me like a thick blanket. Maybe Sam was mistaken. Maybe it wasn't her. Maybe the doctors were wrong, and she would wake up in the hospital, calling me with her voice that always sounded rushed but comforting. I kept telling myself it wasn't true, whispering it under my breath until my throat grew raw. Then came the anger. Why her? Why now? I wanted to smash everything in my kitchen, tear the TV from the wall, and scream until my neighbors banged on the door. I was angry at her body for failing her, angry at myself for not being there, and angry at the universe for snatching away the one person I had left. My dad had died years ago, and now this. The unfairness of it was unbearable, and I felt it like fire in my chest. Bargaining slipped in quietly afterward. I whispered promises into the silence of my room. If I do better, if I try harder, if I become stronger, maybe somehow she'll come back. If I just hold on, maybe I'll wake up and this will be a nightmare. I prayed to anything that might be listening, even though I had never been the praying type. Each thought was desperate and hollow, but I clung to them because the alternative was too painful. Depression followed me everywhere in the days after. I stopped eating, stopped sleeping, and just stared blankly at walls or lay in bed until the hours melted together. My phone buzzed endlessly with family members checking in, but I ignored most of them. Their words felt rehearsed—"She's in a better place," "She wouldn't want you to be sad"—empty phrases that only reminded me she was gone. The funeral came, and I moved through it in a haze. Black clothes, flowers, the steady hum of voices, the smell of incense, the polished wood of the coffin—all of it felt like a play I was forced to perform in. Relatives hugged me, some I barely knew, their arms stiff or overly tight, their tears falling on my shoulder as if they had any idea what I was feeling. I stood there numb, listening to the pastor speak words that blurred together. When it came time to lower the casket, my legs nearly gave out. Watching her vanish beneath the earth was like tearing open a wound that would never close. Afterward, the relatives argued in quiet corners. Who would take me in? Where would I live? It was like I wasn't even in the room, just a problem to be solved. Eventually, it was decided I would move in with my aunt and uncle, people I saw only on holidays. Their house felt strange and unfamiliar, with walls painted in colors I would never choose and furniture that wasn't mine. I slept in a guest room that smelled faintly of lavender and dust, staring at the ceiling night after night, unable to adjust. Acceptance didn't come all at once. It was more like the slow rising of dawn. Some mornings, I could breathe without crying. Some afternoons, I could laugh briefly at a joke, even though guilt followed immediately after. I began to understand that grief wouldn't disappear—it would just become a part of me, woven into everything I did. My mom was gone, and nothing would change that, but I could carry her with me in small ways—in my habits, my choices, and the little pieces of her that lived inside me. My phone buzzed beside me on the desk next to my bed, but I couldn't bring myself to look at it. I knew it was family reaching out, and I would feel too guilty not to answer. "Are you okay?" "Have you heard the news?" "I'm here for you," they would say, just like they did when my dad died from a medication overdose when I was 13. That was six years ago. I'm 19 now, an adult, and now, I'm left alone—no mom, no dad. When I finally gave in and glanced down, to my surprise, it wasn't family. It was my best friend, Reese. I picked up the call. "Alice?" It took me a second, but I managed to wipe away my tears. "Hey..." My voice came out raspy and swollen. "I'm so sorry, are you okay? Well, obviously you're not, but do you need anything? What do you want? I heard you live at your aunt's and uncle's. Want me to pick you up and take you to your house?" Reese can talk a lot, and I adore that about her. I don't say much unless I'm with her, but she always drives the conversation. Once she starts talking, it's hard to stop her; she speaks as if there's always something exciting happening in her life. I want to be alone, but if she leaves me to my own devices, I'll be a wreck for another 3 months. Plus, she never takes no for an answer. "Sure, drop by whenever you feel like it," I replied, still trying to gather my thoughts. "I'm just five minutes away; I was downtown shopping, and then I thought about you!" She lives an hour from my place. I'm in the city, while she's out in the suburbs. After I hung up the phone, I looked at myself in the large oval mirror that sat in the corner of the guest room. The site was almost unrecognizable. My eyes were red and swollen, ringed with dark circles that told the truth of too many sleepless nights. My hair stuck out in tangled waves, matted and frizzy from tossing on the pillow. My skin was pale and blotchy, streaked with dried tears that made me look even more worn out. I looked like someone who hadn't just lost a night's sleep but someone who had lost everything. I forced myself to move. I grabbed a brush and tugged it through my hair, wincing as it caught on knots, then splashed cold water over my face in the bathroom sink until the puffiness in my eyes eased slightly. I changed out of the baggy shirt I had slept in and pulled on clean jeans and a soft sweater, not because I cared how I looked, but because sitting in that reflection any longer made me feel worse. When I looked back into the mirror, I still saw grief carved into my expression, but at least now I looked like someone who could step outside without falling apart completely. I needed someone to talk to and a distraction from everything. When she arrived, I was in my clean jeans and a soft sweater, my eyes still red and puffy. The doorbell rang, and I didn't even bother to get up; Reese always rings the bell out of courtesy but ends up barging in anyway. "Hey girl!" She was in ripped jeans and a long-sleeved light pink shirt, her hair pulled into a messy bun that somehow still looked effortless. She had a scarf loosely draped around her neck and wore sneakers that had clearly seen better days, but somehow it all came together, casual and confident. She rushed over and hugged me tightly, almost knocking the breath out of me, believing that the tighter the hug, the better I would feel. Quite the opposite. Reese has golden dirty blonde hair and striking green eyes. Then there's me; I have wavy chocolate brown hair with natural highlights, brown eyes, and skin that's slightly lighter than Reese's. We settled down to binge-watch Jeopardy. I found myself crying, and she wrapped her arms around me, comforting me until I could cry no more. I missed my mom. "You need to do something to distract yourself from all this, something that will bring you peace. No more lying around crying while scrolling through TikTok until the magical Wizard of Oz rewinds time." More sarcasm, just what I needed. "You should take an art class, go for a long drive, or try different restaurants in the city. Treat yourself; pick up a new hobby! You understand what I mean, right?" "Yeah, maybe I should just go camping, take a long hike into the mountains." I was completely serious, but she burst out laughing hysterically, as if I had told the funniest joke ever. "There's no way Alice, the one who lounges around at home, wants to hike into the mountains, sleep in the wild, and eat food from packages." "I do, and I will. In fact, I'll leave tomorrow!" "I still don't believe you, but if you really want to...let's pack." She informed me of everything I needed to know—even though I already knew. My dad was pretty much an expert; we went camping a lot, and he taught me everything he knew—and we headed to the store to buy all the essentials. Flashlight, batteries, shelter and sleeping gear like a tent, sleeping bag, and pad; cooking and eating supplies such as a stove, fuel, and cooler; safety items including a first aid kit that had band-aids and everything essential and a tourniquet, flashlight, and fire starter; personal items like toiletries and suitable clothing; and navigation tools like a compass, water purifier, and weird freeze-dried food packages that said "Mountain House" on them. I was all set, pulling out my dad's old hunting backpack to pack everything in. Reese left around 8:19 that night, and I had to reassure her that I would be okay. That night I fell asleep around 8:54.