All This Time

by Mikki Daughtry

  When we get to the house, I stand there in the rain, clutching the cardboard box from the hospital to my chest. Inside are my dress shoes, the tattered remains of my suit, and the charm bracelet hidden somewhere in the mess, those unclaimed links that will never be filled.

  The rain stops abruptly. I look up to see a black umbrella looming over me. My mom reaches to touch the rain-logged bandage around my head, but I gently brush her hand away. I don’t want to be comforted or taken care of. It won’t work anyway.

  “I just need you to be okay,” she whispers to me, her mouth barely moving.

  Okay.

  Like I could ever find a way back to okay. She gives me a concerned look, her eyes boring into mine as she takes the box from me and tucks it under her arm.

  I need to be alone.

  I steady myself with the crutches before I hobble toward the house and up onto the porch, my head foggy as I try not to put weight on my shattered femur, currently held together by a metal rod. She helps me through the front door, and I make the world’s slowest beeline for the basement, wishing for a dose of whatever they gave me in the hospital to let me fade away to nothingness. My crutches thump noisily on the floor as I go, loud and steady, like a heartbeat.

  “I thought maybe you’d stay up here,” my mom calls after me. “I made up the couch. You won’t have to worry about going up and down the—”

  “I want to be in my own space,” I say firmly. I pull open the door to the basement, the floor that’s been my own since sophomore year, and noisily fight my way down the staircase, determined.

  I hear her coming after me, and her hand wraps firmly around my arm just as my foot reaches the bottom step.

  “Wait, honey…,” she starts to say, but it’s too late.

  I flick the light on and instantly see all the tiny holes where she used to be. Books missing off the shelf, her favorite blanket missing from the couch, even pictures missing from the wall.

  “Where…,” I start to say as I push through the door to my bedroom and stumble inside. My hand reaches up to touch an empty nail where Kimberly’s senior picture used to hang.

  “Her parents came for the things she left here. I didn’t expect them to—”

  “They took everything,” I say, feeling like I’m going to throw up. I missed her funeral. And now this?

  I swing my head around, looking for anything they might have missed. But even the pink charger she always used to keep here is gone. Ripped out of the wall like a life-support plug.

  Anger builds inside me, growing and growing, until all at once I deflate. They weren’t the ones to take everything.

  I was. From Kim.

  I’m the one who drove us out there. I’m the one who made her feel like she had to hide what she actually wanted and now will never get.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” my mom says, reaching for me.

  “Can I be alone, Mom?” I manage to croak out as I move away from her.

  She opens her mouth to say something, but then hesitates and finally leaves. Her footsteps fade as she climbs the stairs, and the door above closes with a click.

  I struggle across my room to a shelf in the corner, gold trophies and sparkling medals sitting next to a framed photograph, one of the only ones they didn’t take. The two of us at the homecoming game, her pom-poms in the air, my number painted on her cheek, my arms wrapped around her waist.

  Twenty minutes later my football career would be over. Two weeks later I was officially just Kyle Lafferty, the guy doing game write-ups for the school newspaper on the player who replaced him.

  All I wanted for months was to go back to that moment. Back to before. Now, though, I’d live through that injury a hundred times over if I could just have Kim back.

  BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.

  I jump, and one of my crutches clatters to the floor. Frowning, I turn toward the source of the sound and find my alarm clock beeping loudly on my bedside table.

  Limping across the room, I see the red numbers begin to flash over and over again, glaring and in time with the noise.

  My hand freezes on the button, a memory washing over me. Mom out of town, Kim waking up beside me, her face scrunched up and sleepy.

  “Who even uses an actual alarm clock anymore?” she grumbled, pulling the sheets up over her blond hair and wiggling closer to me while I shut it off, the morning run I was supposed to go on with Sam instantly forgotten as she curled into my arms.

  I accidentally hit the wrong button, though, and fifteen minutes later the alarm was blaring again, loud and obnoxious. Kimberly bolted awake, completely upright, and launched the thing across the room. I remember how hard we laughed, the morning sun slowly rising outside my window, casting a warm glow onto her face.

  I’d never seen anything so beautiful. I can almost see her—

  BEEP, BEEP, BEEEEP.

  I bend down and rip the plug from the outlet. The beeping stops abruptly, and Kimberly’s face fades like a dream after waking. My chest tightens and I struggle to pull off my sweatshirt, my arms getting twisted as I fight it. I tug and tug, until the fabric finally gives way, a gasp escaping from my lips as I pull it off at last and toss it onto the back of my desk chair.

  I look around the room at all of the corners that Kim used to fill, and realize that I didn’t prepare for this part. I’ve been so focused on getting home. On the fact I was missing her funeral. On being strong enough to leave the hospital my girlfriend died in.

  I never thought about after.

  * * *

  A week later I pull open the front door, the morning light shining too brightly on the wooden porch stairs. Nothing has really changed since I got home. The front path is still lined with the sweet-smelling flowers my mom planted, the driveway still filled with cracks, the white picket fence still desperate for a paint job.

  Everything is the same. It’s me that’s different.

  I adjust the crutches under my arms and push forward, hobbling down the street to complete my daily doctor-prescribed lap around the block. She said it could help clear my head, help get me back out into the world. Help my brain to heal. Unfortunately, it’s a world that doesn’t have a place for me anymore.

  Before I know it, one block turns into two. And then three.

  Soon I’ve crutched all the way into town, the streets around me strangely empty for a warm summer day. I’m exhausted. I reach into my pocket but realize I left behind my cell phone, which is probably for the best. It’s only filled with ignored calls from Sam. Voice mails of him pleading for me to talk to him, to say something, to let him know I’m okay.

  I’m not, though. So what am I supposed to say?

  I stare at the window displays of the shops along Main Street. Striped T-shirts and propped-up books and bouquets of flowers. Every time I crane my neck to look inside, I feel myself searching. Looking for something. But it’s something I know I’ll never find on a dusty shelf or hidden in a corner. I have no idea why I’ve even walked here.

  I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead and find myself in front of Ed’s Ice Cream, the vintage red-and-white sign swinging on its squeaky metal hooks in the faint summer breeze. Weakly, I collapse into one of the black metal outdoor chairs, my body exhausted from even this short walk, one of my crutches chafing the hell out of my armpits.

  I stare longingly at the front door, the cool, air-conditioned room on the other side of the glass feeling so close but too far for my broken body to manage right this minute. I don’t think I could take another step now if I tried.

  Headline: WASHED-UP VARSITY FOOTBALL STAR BARELY MANAGES A MILE WALK.

  The skin under my arm burns where a painful blister is starting to form, hot and irritated.

  Just great. As if a head injury and a fucked leg weren’t enough.

  After a few minutes of scalding myself on the black metal chair, I pull myself back up and head inside. The bells on the door jingle noisily above me as I’m hit with a blast of cool AC, well worth the extra strain.

>   I order two scoops of chocolate on a cone and sit down automatically in the seat by the window. The ice cream melts in my mouth as I stare at the empty seat across from me. Sam, Kim, and I were usually always together, but going to Ed’s for ice cream was something just for the two of us. On warm fall days after practice, or on a random half day of school, I’d make up some excuse to walk into town, surprising her with a cup of mint chip. She’d always snap a picture before her first bite and post it on Instagram.

  I realize now that it feels like a real long time since we were last here. I wonder what I would see if I pulled up her Insta. When was the last mint chip?

  I can’t remember coming after my injury. Not even once. And I don’t have a single good reason for it.

  I stare at the empty chair across from me and feel a pang of guilt, her words from that night making me wince.

  I pull my eyes away and my breath hitches when I catch sight of the girl working the counter. She’s leaning over the giant freezer to get a customer a scoop of butter pecan, her blond hair in a messy bun. A painful sensation claws at my head, like the icy burn of brain freeze.

  Kimberly.

  I hold my breath, expecting to see those high cheekbones, that megawatt smile that makes everything feel right in the world, her blue eyes rolling as she asks me what the hell I’m staring at.

  She raises her head to smile at the customer and… it’s not her. Of course it’s not her.

  I quickly get up from my chair, tucking the crutches under my arms. The girl’s brown eyes watch me from behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses as I move to the door as quickly as I can.

  “Have a great day!” she calls to me, bright and friendly. I manage a small smile, but the corners of my mouth strain from the effort. Even the simplest human interaction feels harder than running laps during practice. The reality of Kim being gone is a series of everyday heartbreaks. Moments and reminders that chip slowly away at me until there’s nothing left.

  I need a distraction.

  I push back outside and restlessly head down the street.

  I can’t go home right now. To my room with the empty spot where her picture used to be. To my couch where we’d stay up late on Friday night, watching scary movies until the sun came up. To the cabinet, still stocked with two unopened bags of the Lay’s barbecue chips she loves.

  The gold doors of the historic movie theater on the corner of the block swing open as an older man shuffles inside. The vintage marquee’s thick black letters call to me.

  I crutch over to the ticket booth and buy a ticket to the next showing, not bothering to even ask what it is. It doesn’t matter.

  There are a dozen or so people in the theater, scattered all around, trying to beat the midday summer heat, but no one I recognize. I catch sight of a young couple giggling in the very back, their hands interlaced, and make it a point to sit as far away from them as possible.

  Just a minute later, the lights dim and I stare blankly at the screen, watching the characters float in and out of their scenes while my mind does the exact opposite. It stays stubbornly on the throbbing pain in my leg, the sore skin under my arm, the fact that Kimberly isn’t sitting next to me trying to guess the plot and ruin it.

  A belly laugh from the guy in the middle of my row snaps me out of my attempt to stretch my leg, and I realize what an enormous waste of time this is.

  What an enormous waste of time everything is.

  Grabbing my crutches, I shift my weight out of the squeaking red chair and toss the practically full tub of popcorn in the trash on my way out.

  * * *

  By the time I get home, every part of my body is on fire, my T-shirt completely drenched with sweat.

  I stand on the front porch, my hand on the doorknob, lungs heaving as I steady myself before I push inside.

  From the entryway, I glance into the living room to see my mom getting up from the couch, concern tugging at the corners of her mouth and the crease in her brow. “I’ve been so worried about you—”

  “I’m fine.” I cut her off, meaning for my voice to sound certain, but it comes out all wrong, harsh and whiny.

  The wooden floors creak as she comes over to me and holds up my cell phone. The screen lights up to show me a series of missed calls and texts. “You left without your phone. I had no way to call you, to find you if something happened.”

  I grab it from her and try to move past her to the door leading down to the basement, but as I sidestep, I come face-to-face with a picture on the wall. It’s the two of us from the summer after my dad died, her arms wrapped around me as I give a toothless smile to the camera. Only this time I see something behind her smile. Something I now recognize. Loss.

  I take a step back and give her a hug, smelling that familiar perfume she always wears.

  When her arms wrap around me, the same arms that held me close that summer, I blink furiously to keep it together.

  I pull away and hurry to my room, my breathing coming in uneven gasps, images from the ice cream shop and the movie theater and the moment before the crash all blurring together as the room tilts and I crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head.

  Everything is the same except in the only way that matters.

  But the world can keep going on if it wants to.

  I won’t.

  5

  “Kyle. Wake up.”

  It’s Kimberly’s voice. A shooting pain cuts across my forehead and sweat clings to my arms and back and legs. I reach quickly for the lamp and snap the light on. I scan the room to see a shadow disappear up the steps.

  Frantically, I throw back the covers and limp as quickly as I can up the stairs to fling open the door. “Kimberly!” I call after her. “Kim.”

  I look around, but only silence answers me, the darkness echoing loudly in my ears.

  I heard her. Felt the weight of her hand on my arm. She was here. I’m sure of it.

  Just as sure as I am that that doesn’t make any sense.

  I hobble down the hall, gripping the wall for support as I stumble into the living room and flick on the light to reveal…

  Nothing.

  The couch is empty. No one’s here.

  Like an idiot, I try the front door, twisting the knob right and left, but the lock is firmly in place. It’s only then that I remember Kim never had a key.

  I let out a shaky exhale and rest my head against the worn wood, my temples pounding from the sudden jolt out of bed, the adrenaline draining into defeat. I will my breathing to slow down, but when I turn to head back to bed, that hard-fought breath rushes out of me on a loud whoosh.

  Kimberly.

  She’s sitting on the couch, a fuzzy white blanket draped around her shoulders. She pulls the blanket a little tighter, its blue butterfly pattern moving as if the little insects were alive. Kimberly. Right here in front of me.

  It can’t be real. I know it can’t. I know that it can only mean my head is definitely more messed up than the doctors thought.

  But I need it to be real.

  I rush toward her so quickly that I trip on the rug in the entryway. I reach out to grab the wall before I topple over.

  By the time I right myself, she’s gone, leaving only couch cushions, bare and unoccupied.

  I make my way to the chair, never taking my eyes from the sofa. I sit down and stare at that empty spot for the rest of the night, waiting for her to come back, my fingers curled around the armrests. Every time I start to drift off, the fact that I actually saw her jolts me awake, like a full can of Red Bull.

  I don’t even realize the sun has risen until I hear my mom’s footsteps coming down the stairs.

  “Good morning, then,” she says.

  I blink and look up to see her in a pair of black pants and a dress shirt, her hair neatly brushed. I force myself to stand, my bad leg aching from sitting in the chair all night, tense and unmoving.

  She leans against the banister and raises her eyebrows at me.

  “Wanna explain?”


  “I, uh,” I start to say, stretching to buy myself some time to think of an excuse. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  I can tell she doesn’t buy it, but I slide past her, hobble to the basement door, and duck inside before she can pry any further.

  Leaning back against the closed door, I let out a long exhale. For the first time since Kim’s death, I have something to focus on.

  I have to see her again.

  * * *

  For the next three nights after my mom climbs the stairs up to bed, I sit vigil in the living room chair, alert to every flicker of light or creak in the house. But no Kim. No white fuzzy blanket or blue butterflies.

  I’m practically holding my eyes open by the time my mom’s alarm goes off each morning, and I have to slink back downstairs before I get slammed by a sunrise edition of twenty questions.

  By the fourth night my head is killing me and it’s proving harder and harder to stay awake. I squint at the empty couch cushion, trying to fight the exhaustion. Kim did always like to keep me waiting. It’s the only thing I hang on to. The only thing that keeps me going.

  The clock in the entryway is barely ticking past midnight, so I prop my bad leg up on the coffee table in an attempt to get slightly more comfortable.

  I doze off for what feels like a fraction of a second, and when I open my eyes, the vacant spot is filled once again.

  By my mom.

  “Wanna explain now?” she asks as she crosses her arms over her patterned navy-blue pajama shirt.

  I know it shouldn’t, but her question pisses me off.

  Do I want to explain that I think I’m seeing the ghost of my dead girlfriend? Not really. I already start to feel a little ridiculous just thinking about vocalizing it.

  I swallow hard on that bit of insanity and shake my head. Before she can pry any further, I get up and limp down the hall toward the basement.

  “Kyle.” Her feet gently pad after me, but I close the door just as she gets there. I’m not in the mood to be questioned about something I sure as hell can’t even begin to explain to myself. I only know what I saw. At least I think I do.