by Eric Walters
This entry wasn’t going to be so easy to write. Somehow I had to sum it all up, say something to all those people who had been following me along the way. Somehow I had to make sense of it all, and I wasn’t sure I could. But I had to try.
Well, everybody, this is it. This is my last entry for the summer. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, very early, I’m gone. My father is driving me to college. I’m a little bit nervous and a lot excited, and between the two I think I might not be able to sleep very well tonight. Please excuse me if this post is a little bit rambling, because that’s how I’m feeling.
The last ninety days have been filled with so many adventures. They have been scary and unexpected and fun and amusing and improbable and seemingly impossible, but somehow they all happened.
I’ve learned to ride a mechanical bull, walk a runway, eat sushi, snack on sherbet, shoot a gun and dozens of other things. But it’s not about the things I’ve learned to do but the things I’ve learned about me.
I’ve learned that I’m a paintball killer. I’ve learned what it’s like to sit in the back of a police car in more ways than one. I’ve learned that I don’t like heights but I can handle them. I’ve learned that snakes—even really big snakes—can be warm to the touch. I’ve learned that things that seem very scary aren’t that scary once you’re doing them and not scary at all once they’re done. I’ve learned that there are things I never would have dreamed about doing that I’m definitely going to do again. I’ve learned that the impossible can become the possible to become the probable to become the inevitable to become the repeatable.
There was something else I’d learned. I let out a big sigh. It was something so important but also so personal that I didn’t know if I could even write it down. It was hard enough to think some of these things to myself without having to share them with thousands and thousands of people. Wasn’t it enough that I knew? I could always share what I thought with Ella and with my father. I didn’t have to let “friends” who were strangers know, did I?
And then I thought of just one of those friends—Emily, that girl who had shared with me about the death of her mother. I could message her, but what about other people like Emily, whose circumstances I didn’t know because I really didn’t know them? What about all those people who’d gone out of their way to arrange things for me? All those people who’d written caring and supportive things to me? Didn’t I owe them something more?
I’d answered every question simply by asking it. I had to let them all know. They deserved to know.
Eight years ago my mother got sick. I was ten years old, and I didn’t understand anything about that. I just thought she couldn’t be that sick and she’d just get better, because she was my mother. But she didn’t. She got sicker and sicker until finally she died when I was eleven. My mother died and some part of me stopped living as well. I was too scared. I was forced to think about things I didn’t have any answers for, to feel things I couldn’t share with anybody, and there was nobody to talk to or ask. Nobody.
I thought about my father reading this entry. I didn’t want to make him feel bad, like he’d let me down, because of course he’d never let me down. Just like my mother didn’t let me down.
Of course there were people there for me—like my father and my aunt—but I couldn’t talk to them, mainly because I didn’t even know what to say or what I was feeling. It was all just so confusing and so frightening.
I remember standing there at the cemetery and being angry with my mother. How could she go away like that and leave me alone? She’d promised to get better and she hadn’t. Aren’t parents supposed to keep their word? Instead she just went and died. Thinking back to that day fills me with sadness. Not just because my mother died but because she didn’t deserve my thinking like that. It wasn’t her fault. Or my fault either.
On some strange level I had felt like her death was my fault. That somehow I should have been able to save her, or worse, that she left because I wasn’t good enough. I must have been a bad kid, not good enough to deserve a mother. She didn’t abandon me as much as she needed to get away from me.
Then I felt ashamed. Everybody else I knew had a mother and father. Not me. I wasn’t good enough. I remember that first year after it happened, when the whole class made Mother’s Day presents. It still hurts my heart. My teacher had to know my mother had died, but she didn’t say anything. Maybe it was too hard for her. So along with the rest of the class I made a ceramic coffee mug that said World’s Greatest Mother. And I guess she was the world’s greatest mother as far as I knew. I brought the mug home in my backpack and took it up to my room. I don’t think my father ever knew. I guess—he will when he reads this. That mug still sits in the back of my closet in a box. Ungiven forever.
I once read that when a parent dies, the child becomes afraid of dying. I wasn’t afraid of dying. I was afraid of living. I lived in fear. Fear that something would happen to my father. Fear that somehow I wasn’t good enough, that I had to try extra hard to be good. Fear that people would find out I wasn’t good enough. Fear that I was going to fail.
This summer I’ve learned to conquer fear. Not fear of snakes or heights or speed or being embarrassed. I’ve learned not to be afraid of life, not to be afraid of trying, not to be afraid of failing and I guess, not to be afraid of living.
For this I owe all of you who followed and supported and arranged and accompanied me my greatest thanks. And to Ella…well, there are no words, but I know you know.
It’s time to go to bed. Maybe to go to sleep. Tomorrow is a very important different.
DAY 91
“So everything is in your room,” my father said. “Your roommate seems very nice.”
“Very nice.” I was sharing a dorm room with a girl named Becky, and she was friendly and nice. I would have loved for Ella to meet her—I would have loved for Ella to be my roommate instead of her. Poor Becky. It wasn’t her fault, it was just that I was going to miss Ella so much—probably as much or even more than I was going to miss my father and brother.
Becky had just left to go to the bookstore to pick up some books, leaving my father and me alone. Of course, I’d already gotten my books back in June, planning to read them all before the school year started. I’d read some of them between the differents, and then my plans had gone in a whole new, unexpected direction. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t have the time as that I didn’t have the same interest in doing it.
“Do you want me to take you out to lunch before I go?”
“Thanks, but there’s a freshmen’s meeting and meal in the residence at noon,” I explained.
He looked at his watch. “That’s less than an hour from now. That’s not even enough time for a coffee.”
“No, but don’t you have to get back anyway? Doesn’t Oliver have a soccer game at three?”
“I still have a bit of time.”
Our dorm Resident Advisor had told us that the noon meal was partly for explaining the rules, partly to help us to start getting to know each other and mainly to get the “helicopter” parents to stop hovering and leave. I’d heard about helicopter parents, but I’d come to realize I’d been a helicopter daughter, partly because I hadn’t known if my father was strong enough and partly because I’d been so afraid for myself and my brother if something were to happen to him. I’d protected him because I needed to be protected. He was sensitive and kind and nice, but he wasn’t fragile.
My father had put together my new dresser and desk, helped put away my things, checked to make sure I had enough money and everything I needed. He didn’t want to go, and I guess I didn’t want him to leave either. I knew I could handle this different, but still, it was a big different. Away from home, at college, living in residence, away from everybody who had been my friends, away from my father and brother and Ella. Of course Ella and I had been trading texts all day. She was hilarious in texts.
On the top of my des
k, right by my bed, was my precious memory book. I’d looked at it a dozen times over the past four days and been overwhelmed each time by the memories. The joys, the adventures, the seconds of pure terror and the lasting sense of satisfaction were all there in photographs as well as in my soul. Proof that I could do so much more than I’d ever thought I’d be capable of doing. Never again did I need to be afraid of different.
While I put away and arranged my clothes, my father leafed through the book. Of course, he’d been there for some of the adventures and knew about all of them, but he was still overwhelmed seeing the photos all together like that. What Ella had given me was the greatest present possible. Not the book, not even the differents, but what it all meant for me and my future. Did anyone ever have a friend as wonderful as her?
“You had a pretty amazing summer,” my father said as he closed the book.
“The best summer of all time.”
“And now it’s over.” He got to his feet. “I guess this is almost goodbye.”
“Until Thanksgiving, and we’re going to talk all the time with that phone plan you got me.”
My father had surprised me with a new phone and an unlimited text, talk, long-distance and data plan so I could talk to anybody, anywhere, anytime. I could talk to Ella, far away across the country, and him and my brother, who were only a few hours away.
“Call if you need anything at all or if you just want to talk.”
“And call me if you need anything.”
He reached out and took my hand and looked directly into my eyes. “Sophie, we’re going to miss you, but we’re going to do fine without you. I’ve really started to like this whole cooking thing, and Oliver’s been a great help. I have no problem turning on the stove.”
“And no problem turning it off as well, right?”
“And turning it off. We’ll do fine. You know that, right?”
I nodded. I knew he was right. There’d been bumps along the way, but in the end he’d proven that he could do it.
“I’m sorry for making you do more than you should have done at your age,” he said.
“You didn’t make me do anything.”
“I made you feel like you had to take care of me instead of the other way around. I know I expected too much from you.”
“No, you didn’t do—”
He held up his hand to stop me. “Yes, I did. You’ve always been so strong, so capable.” He turned my arm to expose the tattoo and placed one finger against it. “So much like your mother.”
We were both very, very close to tears.
“Come on and walk me down to the car,” he said.
He stepped out of my room and I followed, closing the door and checking to make sure it was locked. The hallway was alive with people, room doors open, people laughing and talking and getting to know other students, and saying goodbye to parents the way we were about to. Wordlessly my father and I went down the two flights of stairs.
Walking out the front door, we could see we weren’t going to be alone in our goodbye here either. Parents and kids stood in little clumps. There were lots of tears being shed.
We stopped in front of our car.
“I was going to promise myself I wouldn’t cry,” my father said. “But I didn’t want to make a promise I couldn’t keep.”
He wiped away the tears with the back of his hand.
“You know how much I love you, Sophie,” he said as he wrapped his arms around me, and I hugged him back.
“And you know how much I love you.”
He squeezed me a little tighter, and then we released each other. Simultaneously we each let out a big sigh and a shudder and then both giggled.
“You know I read your blog entry from last night,” he said.
“I knew you would.”
“That must have been hard to write.”
“I’ve done lots of hard things.”
“And I want to thank you for doing them.”
“Thank me?”
“Yes. I’m going to try to listen to my very smart daughter. It’s time for me to stop being afraid of living too.” He paused. “Do you know how proud of you your mother would have been?”
I nodded my head ever so slightly. We hugged once again and then he climbed into the car, the window slid open, and he started the car.
“If there’s anything you need, anything you want to talk about, you know I’m only a phone call and a drive away,” he said. “I’d jump into the car at three in the morning, throw Oliver in the backseat, and be here if you needed me.”
“I know that.”
“Well, then, it’s time. I’m not going to drive the route we came here by. I’m going to take another way home,” he said. “It’s time for a little different for me too.”
He drove away, slowly at first, waving an arm out the window. I stood and watched until he rounded the corner and was gone. No, of course he wasn’t gone—he was just heading home. I looked down at my arm, at my tattoo. He was still here with me the way my mother was still here. We’d all be okay. I just had to take the first steps toward okay.
I turned to head back to my residence, then stopped. I still had time before the meeting and meal. Despite my urge to retreat to my room, there really wasn’t any need—it was all set up. Instead I’d take a walk around my new world—my different world. I knew there was nothing to worry about, nothing to fear, but still, here I was, alone. I took a deep breath and remembered all the things I needed to remember.
This was the start of an adventure, and I had to embrace that adventure. It was a beautiful day—my first day of college—and a little stroll around the quad seemed to be what was called for. The campus was gigantic. It was home to almost twenty-five thousand students, and it was time for me to get to know a little bit of it.
All around me was the bustling of the beginning. For some it was a rebeginning. They were coming back for a second or third or fourth year. But most who were here this early were just like me, beginning a new different. I could see that in their eyes and their expressions. Some looked confident. They’d already connected with friends or met new friends. Others looked lost—literally—studying campus maps with confused expressions. Others looked downright scared. I wanted to go up and reassure them that it was all going to be all right, maybe even wonderful, that they had nothing to fear, that different was to be embraced and not dreaded. Still, I wondered if I was wearing that same scared look.
“Sophie!”
I turned at the sound of my name. I didn’t see anybody. The call might have been for somebody else named Sophie or—
“Sophie!”
I recognized the voice. It was Luke, waving his arm, running toward me, a big smile on his face. My old boyfriend, the one person on the whole campus that I knew and the one person I didn’t want to run into—at least, not yet, not this soon, not today. I’d hoped it wouldn’t happen for months. Really, on some level I’d hoped it would never happen.
“Soph, it’s so great to see you!” he exclaimed, practically beaming as he stopped beside me. He was slightly out of breath, but his hair looked perfect.
“Yeah, good to see you too,” I mumbled.
“It’s pretty amazing here, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, pretty amazing, at least the little I’ve seen of it.”
“I’ve been here for a few days already. My parents dropped me off on Friday, and I’ve been here all weekend. I could show you around, if you like. I could even take you on a tour right now.”
“Um, I have a freshmen’s meeting in my residence in a few minutes. I better get going.”
“Let me walk you back,” he said.
I couldn’t think of anything I wanted less, but what was I supposed to say? Go away, drop dead, I’d hoped I’d never see you again?
I turned toward my residence, and he fell into step beside me. It seemed so familiar, the way it used to be, excep
t that we used to walk hand in hand. I drew my hand closer to myself, just in case they accidently brushed together or he tried to take it.
“I was hoping we’d run into each other,” Luke said.
“It’s such a huge place that I didn’t think it would happen so quickly—or even at all.”
“I have a confession to make,” he said. “I wasn’t leaving it to chance. I was heading to your residence right now to see if I could find you.”
“How do you even know which residence is mine?”
“I looked it up in the campus directory. I hope you don’t mind.”
He looked slightly guilty but also pleased with himself. Did he think this was going to make me happy? Again, what was I supposed to say to that?
“I’d ask you how your summer was, but I already know,” Luke said. “It was cool following you on Twitter and Instagram and reading your blog.”
I wondered if he’d read my last post.
“I couldn’t believe some of the stuff you did,” he said.
“Well, I did those things, and sometimes I still have trouble believing it was me who did them.”
“Rock climbing, gliding, being a runway model—you did some incredible things!”
“It was a pretty special summer.”
“I’m not sure even I would have been brave enough to do all of them,” he said.
I chuckled slightly. That sounded like Luke—a compliment to me hidden in one for himself.
“How did you even arrange some of those things?”
“I didn’t. It’s all Ella’s doing. It was her and people we connected with on social.”
“Ella never liked me very much, did she?”
“She didn’t like you at all,” I said. “But then again, she’s always been a pretty good judge of people.”