Discovering Delilah

by Melissa Foster

“Well, I need to think, so get in the fucking shower.” He stands and lopes into the kitchen.

  I sigh loudly enough for him to know he’s annoying me and head back into the bedroom. I shower and brush my hair, put Delilah’s shirt back on with a pair of my shorts, then join Brandon on the couch again.

  He nods at a mug of coffee and a plate of burnt toast he’s set on the coffee table.

  “Never said I could cook. Eat.” He nods to the toast and pats the seat beside him.

  “Thank you for the coffee.” My tone is not very thankful, but I know he’ll forgive me. I’m exhausted after not sleeping and worried about what’s going down between me and Delilah.

  “And the toast.”

  “That’s still up in the air.”

  We both smile, and I feel a little better.

  “What’s your plan?” he asks.

  I shrug.

  He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “You’re not me. You’re not a fucked-up guy. You’re a smart girl who loves Delilah. Another smart girl. So…spill.”

  “How can I spill when I have no idea how to get through to her? I’ve apologized. She won’t talk to me.”

  “She’s in Connecticut dealing with her parents’ shit.”

  “I know. Wyatt called me.”

  “She had a nervous breakdown on the way down there.”

  “What?” My heart stops.

  “I followed her on my motorcycle. She doesn’t know I did, but I was worried about her driving with how upset she was. She pulled off the highway and screamed and cried. I parked way down the road and walked close enough so I could watch her but she couldn’t see me.”

  “Brandon, I have to go to her.” I stand, and he pulls me back down and shakes his head.

  “No. It wasn’t a put-me-in-the-loony-bin type of breakdown. She stopped at the sight of her parents’ accident. She’s working through shit.”

  “What did she do?” The fear in my voice catches both of our attention, and he sets his hand on mine. “How do you know she’s okay?”

  “I followed her all the way to Connecticut. She got there okay. I called her as she walked inside her house just to be sure everything was copacetic inside the house. Made up some bullshit about needing to know where shit was at the beach house. She bought it. I talked to her for almost ten minutes. She’s okay, probably not fine, but she arrived safely.”

  “Is that why you look like crap?”

  He shrugs, closes his eyes, and rests his head back on the couch. “So, are you going to tell me what your plan is, because whatever you did, if it’s fixable, I’d say you have a day or two to figure out how to fix it before she comes back.”

  “I have to see Sandy.”

  Brandon lifts his head, and his tired eyes spring open. “Why the hell do you have to do that?”

  “Closure. She’s still in her apartment by the university. Want to come along for old times’ sake?”

  “Can I sleep first?” He closes his eyes again and kicks his feet up on the coffee table.

  I can’t believe he drove to Connecticut to make sure Delilah was safe, but then again, this is the Brandon I know. The Brandon who led me to her in the first place.

  “Yeah, but you’ll be more comfortable lying on the couch or in my bed than with your legs on the table.”

  His breathing is already shallow.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ~Delilah~

  SOME PEOPLE DON’T believe in ghosts. I never have, but I feel my parents looking down on me so often, I’m not sure what to think. And this morning, as I was thinking about how I chickened out and didn’t call Wyatt when I arrived last night, texting him instead, I started to wonder. I didn’t answer his call, which came through seconds after I sent the text, and I didn’t answer the next four calls from him either. I thought I’d feel my parents around then, for ignoring my brother’s call, but I didn’t. Then Brandon called and caught me off guard when I was carrying my stuff into the house, so I talked to him. I was glad to have the company as I walked through the empty house. I hadn’t thought about how strange it would feel to be in the house after being gone for so long. I’m still not sure if I believe in ghosts or not, but I wonder if objects can feel like ghosts, because that’s how the house felt last night. Like the ghost of the house I used to live in. From the moment I walked in, it felt different, colder, not like the house I’d grown up in.

  Between texts from Cassidy and Tristan, telling me they were here for me, and Janessa’s text wondering where in the hell I was, I didn’t really have time to be too unsettled by the changes in the house. I didn’t respond to Cassidy or Tristan, but I did reply to Janessa, because after the way she lost her sister, I worried that she’d think I committed suicide or something. So I sent a quick reassuring text. In CT dealing with house stuff. Jesse’s text, which came in later than the others, gave me pause. I hate to worry him almost as much as I hate worrying Wyatt and Ash, but I can’t keep leaning on everyone else.

  They love me too much.

  They want to protect me from everything, but everything’s already upon me, and they are standing in my way.

  I need to do this on my own, and I’m not even sure what this is, but I’ll figure it out.

  The hardest part of last night was not getting in touch with Ashley. I was worried that if I let her back in, even that one tiny bit, I’d cave and give up on taking care of the things that I fear might strangle me forever. I can’t give up. If I’m ever going to be whole in our relationship, I need to deal with this stuff.

  I still don’t know if I believe in ghosts or not, but while I was lying on the couch thinking about being loved too much and wanting to love Ashley without being mired down by guilt and insecurities, I swear I smelled my mom’s perfume. It was as if she’d walked right past me. I’m not crazy, and I didn’t see an apparition or speak to her from beyond the grave or anything like that. I just smelled her perfume. I’m sure it was probably just from thinking about her so much last night, but the most surprising thing was that it didn’t scare me. Instead I was comforted by her familiar scent, and the tears that followed weren’t tears of anger or guilt. They were tears of longing to see her and feeling like she was right there with me at a time when I needed her most.

  I don’t know how I was brave enough to sleep here last night, but I figure that’s a sign that I’m doing something right. When Wyatt and I left here at the beginning of the summer, I practically ran out. I sensed my parents in every room, and every memory snowed me under. And now, in the light of day, I see more clearly why the house felt so different last night. There are cardboard boxes stacked against every wall. Our personal effects that were scattered about and made our house a home have been boxed and labeled by Aunt Lara. I noticed the boxes last night, of course, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was too upset to put the pieces together.

  I walk around the room with my fingers trailing over the boxes and read the labels. Candles, knickknacks, vases, books, photos.

  Photos. My heart beats a little faster. I stare at the box and start to believe maybe ghosts do exist and they come in the form of photos. I’m not sure I can handle looking into my parents’ eyes.

  I look around the living room, noticing the faded rectangles on the walls where our family photos once hung. Spaces that would be painted over, the nail holes filled in. Spaces where our smiling faces used to make silent statements about the people who lived in this house. Photographs that reflected a happy family living in a warm and loving home: Me and Wyatt with our faces pressed together when we were seven. My father holding me on his shoulders and Wyatt in his arms when we were three. My mother gazing up at my father on their honeymoon with Niagara Falls raging behind them.

  I sink down to my knees and run my trembling fingers over the tape that’s sealed those statements in tight and pluck at the edge until it comes loose. I press my hand flat against the sticky ridge, pausing as I debate my vulnerability again. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, knowing I need to see the
m. If I want to have a future I need to be able to face my past. I have a good past. A loving past. I have a childhood filled with good holiday memories and family vacations. I have a past littered with moments of laughter and positive affirmations from my parents. It was a happy past, one probably many people would long for, but within that happy past sat a scared girl.

  I must have been around thirteen or fourteen when I realized I was drawn to girls. And it wasn’t until I was about fifteen that I began to worry and take my desires seriously. If only I’d had the courage to talk to my parents, to look them in the eyes and face their disappointment when there would still have been a tomorrow to deal with it.

  My hands are shaky as I pull the tape up and open my eyes. When the tape reaches the end of the box, the flaps spring up, then nearly close again, sobering me to what I’m about to see.

  I scoot away from the box on my knees. I’m not ready. Not yet, because there are pictures in that box of me when I was a teenager, when I was scared and hiding who I was. I don’t want to see that girl. That’s the past I wish I could deny. I wish never happened.

  I push to my feet and walk to the stairs, put one foot on the lowest riser and look over my shoulder at the box. I wish Wyatt were here. He’d take my hand and lead me upstairs, or outside, and he’d tell me everything was okay.

  He’d make the pain go away.

  Until it returns.

  It always returns.

  I stare at the box, and anger simmers in my stomach. I don’t want Wyatt to help me or to fix this. It’s so easy to fall back, so easy to let him lead. I walk over to the box and sink to my knees again, thinking of Ashley. She doesn’t need a girlfriend who needs someone else to help her through a hard time. She needs an adult, a partner. I want to be that person.

  The flaps open easily, and relief washes through me when the first thing I see are crumpled-up pieces of newspaper. I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding and realize my veil of courage isn’t as strong as I’d thought. I press my hand over my racing heart and take a number of deep breaths while deciding whether I’m sure I need to do this. I hear Wyatt’s voice telling me I don’t have to. I see Ashley’s warm brown eyes, feel her hand on mine. I don’t need to hear her voice, her eyes tell me that she’s with me no matter what I decide.

  I decide to follow my heart.

  Ash has faith in me.

  She loves me.

  The newspaper comes out easily, and I set it on the floor. Beneath the crumpled papers are the actual photos, individually packaged in Bubble Wrap. Leave it to Aunt Lara to do a perfect packing job. I remove the first wrapped photo and know from the size and shape that it’s the one of me and my father. My stomach lurches, and I set it aside. My courage is still finding its feet after its mini vacation.

  The next photo is longer, wider.

  Me and Wyatt.

  I peel off a single piece of clear tape holding the Bubble Wrap in place, and strip away the wrapping, revealing our young, smiling faces. Even as a boy Wyatt wore his hair long, and in the picture it hangs tousled over his eyes, brushing his shoulders. A single tear slides down my cheek. We didn’t know then what life had in store for us. I stare into my youthful eyes and try to remember my thoughts—any thoughts—from back then, but I come up blank. I don’t remember when the picture was taken, although I remember it being ever-present on our wall. As I stare at our wide, carefree smiles, sadness washes through me. I’m sad for these two children who will lose their parents too early. I’m sad for the parents who hope to see them grow old and never will. As I gaze into my brother’s mischievous green eyes, guilt presses in on me. Wyatt’s never left me to deal with stuff on my own. He always puts me before himself, and in this moment I realize that even if I don’t want him to be here for me now, I know he does, and I’ve taken the choice away from him. He loves me too much, but who am I to decide that? And who am I to hurt him for loving me?

  I reach for my phone and send him a quick text.

  Sorry I have been out of touch. I’m here and I’m okay. I love you. Please understand that I need to do this by myself.

  No sooner do I set the phone down than it vibrates with his response.

  Okay, but I should give you hell for making me worry. Promise me that if you need me, you’ll call. If it’s too hard, I’ll come get you. Okay?

  More tears fall down my cheeks.

  Promise. ILY.

  I don’t put the phone down this time, and I smile when it vibrates seconds later with his response. ILY2.

  Setting my phone down, I know I can handle this. Courage has climbed back on board. I know it will be hard. Who am I kidding? It’s going to suck. But as I wrap the picture of us and set it aside, I feel confident.

  I take out a few more of the wrapped photos, identifying each one by size and shape, until I come to the last, a very small package. I look at the walls and can’t see any telltale signs of what this sized photo might be.

  The tape comes right off, and I unwrap the frame a little quicker this time. It’s a photograph of our family and Cassidy in Harborside. I recognize the pier and the boardwalk in the background. Wyatt and Cassidy are sitting side by side on the beach, and I’m sitting on a blanket between my parents. My father is looking at me, and my mom is looking at him. I wonder who took this picture, and I wonder what my father’s thinking. If he were here, he’d remember. He remembered everything he ever said as if it were etched in his mind. It strikes me that I can’t remember the sound of his voice, and I’m momentarily paralyzed.

  I close my eyes and try to pull his voice from the depths of my memory, but like an afternoon wind, it slips through my head. Come on, Dad. I close my eyes tighter and clench my teeth, remembering what he said to us every night at dinner when we were kids. How are my little leaders?

  “Come on, Dad!” I say through gritted teeth.

  It’s no use. His voice doesn’t come.

  I wipe my tears and set the photo aside. My mother’s laugh sails into my mind. It’s high-pitched, and breathy at the end. I look around the empty room, and of course I’m alone. I fight the urge to bolt. I know my subconscious is trying to weaken me, and I’m determined not to run back to Harborside.

  I head for the stairs and decide to box up my room instead. Maybe something up there will stir the memory of my father’s voice.

  My room feels cold and stale. It doesn’t smell like my room anymore. It doesn’t smell like anything but emptiness. I open the windows to air it out. Aunt Lara left boxes on the floor beside my bed, labeled, with a roll of tape beside them. Books, pictures, school stuff, shoes, clothes, notebooks, sketch pads…

  Sketch pads.

  I open my desk drawer and take out a pad and a pencil, then sit on my bed. Even though I’ve just seen a picture of my father, his image doesn’t come easily. I wonder if one day I won’t be able to remember his face at all. That thought makes me try harder to recall his image. I used to be able to sketch my parents from memory. I did it a hundred times over the years.

  My pencil begins to move along the rigid paper as if it has a memory of its own. Shading comes easily as I sketch his rounded cheekbones and angular nose. I shade his wide, full mouth and strong, square jaw, which Wyatt inherited. His features aren’t present in my mind, but a while later, with a slight breeze whispering across my skin, the image of my father’s face comes into focus.

  And the affection in his eyes stills my heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ~Ashley~

  “YOU SURE YOU want to do this? I mean, most people just block their exes’ numbers and move on.” Brandon’s reclining in the passenger seat of my car. His feet are propped up on the dash.

  “I know they do, but I need to tell her face-to-face. She left me insecure and untrusting, and I hate her for that.”

  “Whoa. Am I going to see a bitch fight?” Brandon rights his seat and runs his hand through his hair.

  “No, you weirdo.” I park the car at Sandy’s apartment complex. I know she st
ill lives here because in one of her texts she said that when she broke up with her boyfriend, she kept the apartment. Not that I asked. “You coming up or staying here?”

  “I’m coming up, because you may not want a bitch fight, but bitches be crazy, so…”

  “God, Brandon. That’s offensive.”

  He cocks a brow and climbs from the car. “I’m protecting you.”

  “Whatever. You’re probably hoping we end up tearing each other’s clothes off.” We walk across the parking lot and into the building.

  “If you weren’t dating Delilah, I’d totally be into that, but I don’t want you to hurt her.”

  Like most of Brandon’s friends, I’m usually exposed to his crass side, but every now and then he comes out with something like that and surprises me.

  “Thank you, Brandon.”

  He shrugs. “Whatever. Don’t get all sappy on me.”

  When we reach her apartment, I draw in a deep breath. Brandon steps aside and waves his hand, as if he’s Vanna White showing me a prize. I roll my eyes, then knock on the door. It’s almost as loud as my heart hammering against my chest.

  A skinny brunette answers the door wearing a pair of tight shorts and a tank top. She eyes us cautiously. “Yes?”

  I didn’t think this through very well. I wonder if she’s Sandy’s girlfriend and Sandy’s texts to me meant she was willing to cheat on her, too. My stomach gets queasy.

  “Um…Is Sandy here?”

  “Sure. Hold on.” She partially closes the door. “San? There’s people here for you.”

  Sandy opens the door, and it takes a second for my face to register. Her dark hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun. She’s wearing a shirt that says Nike across her chest and a pair of jeans. Her blue eyes open wide and a genuine smile stretches across her lips.

  “Ashley.” She opens her arms, and I take a step back, holding out my hand to keep her a good distance away.

  I’m surprised by my visceral reaction to seeing her. She’s the same pretty girl with the same perfect smile and amazing body, but I see past that to the devious girl who hurt me, and I realize that I don’t give a shit if that other girl is her girlfriend or not. If she is, I feel sorry for her.