Living With Regret (9 page)

June 24, 2013

TODAY’S NOT GOING TO
be easy, but I’m the only one who knows that, because I haven’t let anyone else in on my plan for tonight. There are some things that just have to be done, no matter how much they’re going to hurt.

“Are you going to be okay if I go into town for a couple hours?” Mom asks as she breezes through the living room. The woman has never worked a day in her life, but she never stops. If she’s not cleaning or cooking, she’s running into town. This errand. That meeting. This event. It never stops.

“I’ll be fine,” I answer, looking up from my book.

This morning she actually sat next to me for an hour trying to make plans for the rest of my summer. Inside I was screaming because, with the giant storm cloud hanging over my head, it’s hard to plan any sort of future, especially if it involves fun.

“Your father has a trial today so he won’t be home until late, but I’ll fix us dinner when I get home. Is there anything you’re hungry for?”

Clearing my throat, I look up at her anxiously. “Actually, Sam’s going to pick me up after work and get me out of the house for a couple hours.”

She stops picking up, or whatever she was doing, and glances over at me. “It’s way too soon for you to be going out. You’re supposed to be resting.”

“Jesus, Mom, I’m not going out to the freaking bar.”

Her lips part as she turns and focuses her attention out the window. I’ve never been a big drinker, but now that one night will forever define me. She’s probably sat around wondering how many other times I’ve drank. How many times did I put the lives of others at risk? Honestly, that was the first time, and that’s what’s making it so hard to believe.

“There’s somewhere I need to go,” I whisper, waiting for her to turn back around.

When she does, her eyes are full of unshed tears. “I can take you. I have to decorate the church for the fundraiser this weekend, but that can wait.”

Her defeated appearance softens me, at least enough to ease up on the battle—put my weapons away. “I’m sorry, Mom. I need to do this with Sam. It’s hard to explain, but it’s something I need.”
My soul needs.

“Okay.” She nods, crossing her arms over her chest. “If you start to feel sick or weak, I want you to come home right away.”

“He promised to have me home by eight.”

Without another word, she disappears out the screen door with her purse in hand. It’s always been my opinion that some people go to church because they believe, and others go to keep up appearances. For my mom, I think it’s about social standing and companionship. It’s an expectation fueled by her selfish need to be the best at everything. It’s about belonging and being my dad’s perfect wife. I, myself, have always gone because it was an expectation. I heard the sermons, but I didn’t really listen. I was a believer who didn’t understand exactly what it was she was supposed to believe in.

My family only prays when we have people over for dinner. My eyes have scanned past the Bible on the bookshelf many times, but I’ve never picked it up. We’ve never been forced to believe that a life exists after this one.

I’ve seen things through a different pair of glasses the last few weeks. I want Cory to be in a better place than this. It’s the only thing that puts my mind at ease, keeping my guilt from boiling over. Belief is my salvation … my hope that there might some day be forgiveness, that maybe one day I’ll get to join him where he’s at.

My heart rate picks up the minute I hear Sam's old Camaro pull into my drive. That thing has always been like an alarm bell, alerting everyone in town to where he is or where he’s heading. Today, it's just a sign that I'm one step closer to the goodbye I've waited weeks for.

I hear his heavy boots on the front porch right before he knocks on the screen door. “Come in!” I yell, smoothing down my long pink and cream printed skirt, which I paired with a matching pink tank. For this, I feel I should look nice, as if Cory might actually be able to see me … maybe he can.

Sam steps in with his hand braced against the door to keep it from slamming. He looks like he always does in faded blue jeans and a tight white T-shirt. It's simple, but he wears it well on his fit build. As soon as his eyes find me, the hint of a smile appears at the corner of his lips. “Suddenly, I feel underdressed, but you look nice. Are you going to tell me where I'm taking you?”

“The cemetery,” I whisper, watching the easy-going expression fall from his face.

He nods, shoving his hands in his front pockets. He knows; that’s what’s so easy about being around Sam. He just gets me.

“Do you need some help getting out to the car?”

“Just an arm. My balance isn’t quite right yet.”

When he comes to stand in front of me, I grip the hand he offers and move to my feet with a small shoebox tucked under my arm. “Tell me if I'm going too fast.”

We weave our way through the living room furniture and out the front door. I feel feather light with most of my weight being held by him. That's how our friendship's always been. He’s always been strong when I’ve been weak. Sometimes I wonder if he has a tin coating around his heart, or if he just hides things well.

“Does your mom know where you're going?” he asks as we walk across the porch.

“She knows I'm with you. That's all she needs to know.”

“I'm sure that put her mind at ease,” he teases, helping me down the three front steps.

“Things aren't like they used to be when we were kids. I don't need anyone's permission.”

He opens the passenger door, slowly lowering me in. “I guess not.”

When he pulls my seatbelt across my lap, I grip his forearm, stopping him. “I can do that.”

“I know,” he says, pulling his arm back.

Sam’s a protector, a doer. He takes what he wants because it’s the only way he’s going to get it. His father was always hard-nosed, not the nurturing type we all crave as kids. He didn’t come home to fresh cookies after school or wake up to pancakes in the morning. He started working in his father’s shop about the same time he entered elementary school, while other kids were busy watching cartoons and playing video games. I think that’s what makes him different. His father made him fly before he even knew he had wings. I think Sam’s tried to show me how to do the same a few times, but I’m not a quick study.

After my door clicks shut, I rest my forehead against the window and take in the smell of the old Camaro. I’ve only been in it one other time, and besides the loud roar of the engine, the distinctive smell is all I remember. It reminds me of my grandpa, a mixture of brut and peppermint. It doesn’t sound all that great, but it’s the most soothing smell in the world. It makes me wish Grandpa was still here to make this all better.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” he asks as he climbs into his seat and revs the engine.

“Cory is out there, and I need to show him that he’s not alone. That I’m here,” I say quietly, feeling the seat vibrate beneath me as he puts the car in drive.

He reaches over, his eyes finding mine as he brushes his finger against my jaw. “It’s not your fault. I’m going to keep telling you that until I feel like you really believe it.”

I don’t believe him … not yet. Probably not ever. This summer could have been so different—time at the lake, barbeques, and long rides through the country with the windows down. Where I’m going now … this is my fault.

By the way his eyes narrow on me, I know he’s seeing through me. “We’re going to talk about this again. I promise you that,” he says, turning the car onto the main road.

The ride is quiet as I watch familiar houses go by, but I’m not really paying attention to the details. It’s a distraction, a way to look occupied. I need it to be this way so I can gather myself.
This isn’t going to be easy
, I think to myself as I look down at the shoebox that sits on my lap … it’s a box of memories I want to leave with Cory. It’s going to hurt so freaking much, but I owe him a proper goodbye.

Every story has a beginning, middle, and end. Cory was supposed to be my middle and end. Now, I don’t know what part he plays. Maybe my life was meant to be a series of short stories. And every story gets its own conclusion. This one doesn’t have a happy ending … it ends in goodbye, and I want it to be perfect. I need him to know how much he meant to me. How much he still means to me.

It doesn’t take long until we’re pulling up next to the cemetery. It’s tucked away in the trees on the outskirts of town, giving some solitude to mourners who need a quiet, tranquil place to say goodbye.

Closing my eyes, I cradle the shoebox and say a silent prayer. It’s a call for strength, courage, and understanding, because this might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.

“Ready?” Sam asks, unbuckling his seatbelt.

“Yeah. I, ah, I just need help getting to his grave.”

I chose Sam to bring me here because I knew he’d understand my need for space. People tend to think we need a shoulder when we’re sad, but in my opinion, the only way to deal with sadness is to hit it head on.

My mom wouldn’t have let me cry alone, but Sam gets it. He knows I need him here for support, but that I also need some space to mourn. I have things to say, things I don’t want to share with anyone but Cory.

We make our way over to a large gray tombstone. This time, the weight builds in my chest, another heavy brick added with each step. Things are bad when you’re not even sure you deserve a second chance. I’m ready to beg, to do whatever it takes so I can have one.

Seeing Cory's gravestone makes everything feel that much more real. I hadn't envisioned what it would look like, but it's simply stated.

For days, I've thought about what I'd say to him in this moment, but now that I'm here, that's all washed away. Pain pierces my chest, down deeper than I imagined it ever could. The worst loss I've ever experienced is now in front of me, in full color, and I'd do anything to turn back time and put him right back in my arms where he belongs. Even if I could just see him, his smile and his boy-like dimples, everything would be so much better. I don't think I ever took him for granted because I always fought for him and gave him everything I had, but if I could have him back right now, I'd find a way to make things better.

I'd always say good morning with a smile on my face.

I'd end every argument with an ‘I'm sorry’ even if it wasn't mine to concede.

I'd kiss him in the need-you-want-you way at least once a day.

And I'd never fall asleep without saying good night. That's what this feels like ... going to sleep without a good night.

This is the reason why people hate goodbyes.

I kneel in front of the grave and look up at Sam whose own face looks like a mirror of my sadness. He was never Cory's biggest fan, but he has a heart. One that recognizes that someone lost his life too soon. I wonder if deep down inside he thinks it's my fault like everyone else but can see past it because of the close relationship we once shared. He knows the good parts of me and can forgive the bad.

“Can you give me a few minutes?”

He nods toward his car, taking a couple steps back. “I'll wait by my car. Signal when you're ready, and I'll help you back.”

“Thanks,” I whisper, turning to the grave. The ground around it still looks freshly dug, and a few flowers decorate the front ... they’re his mom's favorite: white daisies. Thinking of his mom without him just causes another onslaught of tears.

“I miss you. Every day I tell myself that it will get better, but it doesn't. I wake up thinking about you. I spend my days thinking about how much I love you, and my nights fighting all of it. And when I'm trying to sleep, I drown in my own guilt because I'm the reason you're not here. I'm the reason your life was cut short, and there's not a damn thing I can do to change that.”

Tears slip down along my chin. It's a hot, humid June day, but it might as well be raining.

Opening the shoebox, I eye its contents, second-guessing whether I want to leave them out here for the world to see and judge. In the end, I know I have to leave a piece of myself—a piece of us—with him. It's part of letting go. The first thing I pull out is the bracelet he bought for me after the first time we said ‘I love you’ to each other.