Life After Light

by E. S. Maria

  Then he tells us about his experience of losing someone. A drunk driver killed his own daughter as she was crossing the street. She was on the way to the beach with her friends, and they were just at the crossing waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green. Most of her friends couldn’t be bothered waiting, so they made it across by running from one end to the other when the traffic got lighter. But she was always cautious, and she decided to wait until it was her turn to cross. She had the right of way, crossing when the green light appeared. But drunk drivers can’t differentiate right from wrong, and apparently this one had a blood alcohol level of 0.140, a damn high level, considering it was just around midday. He speeds through the red light and crosses the intersection, running her over and killing her instantly.

  He didn’t even stop.

  It was a case of hit and run.

  She died at a very young age of thirteen.

  The police eventually captured the driver through traffic and CCTV cameras, but the driver’s arrest and subsequent conviction didn’t change anything. His daughter was dead, and she’s never coming back.

  But what truly shocked me the most was that he forgave the driver.

  Yes, what that irresponsible driver did, caused the life of Gary’s daughter, but according to him, it became easier for him to deal with the loss by being at peace with the cause. Holding onto her daughter with anger won’t bring her back. But through forgiveness, Gary and his wife were able to finally let go of the crippling pain from losing her. They held on to the happy memories instead. They celebrated the life she lived, knowing that this is what would give their daughter peace as well … seeing her parents happy and living their lives once again.

  I don’t know how many times Gary had told his story, but he’s either crazy or he truly wants to help others survive their loss, because I’m sure it’s never easy reliving the whole experience over and over again, just to be able to show the rest of the support group that if he can move forward, so can we.

  I chew hard on my lower lip. I know how hard it was to forgive the person who caused his daughter’s death. But it seems like as soon as they did, it helped him and his wife move on with their lives.

  But what if the person who suffered the loss was the main reason why that person died in the first place? If I forgive myself, will I find my own peace as well?

  Will that be what Paul wants?

  There was no clapping after Gary had finished retelling his story, but only murmurs of positive reinforcements from the rest of the group.

  “So, does anyone want to start?” Gary asks the group.

  There’s a slight pause amongst the group. But then I find myself raising my hand, “Um, I’d like to start.”

  “Wow. That was … thank you ... for sharing,” Nicki says as soon as the session is finished, placing her hand over mine, which is currently gripping her arm for guidance.

  Wow, indeed. I can’t believe I spoke up. I can’t believe I opened my mouth and my voice came out, forming words with clarity that even I think is quite surprising. I never expected to cry, but I did. But then again, I never expected to speak up anyway, but I did. It’s just that for some reason, knowing that I’m in a group that share similar stories of grief, loss, and remorse made me more comfortable to speak up.

  I opened up and told the group my story. Not everything, but just the core, the parts that kept repeating in my head. People listened, and they made reverberations of sympathy, and they spoke words of support and encouragement. But God, I’ve never been thankful that I’m blind until then. Hearing them sympathise and relate is one thing, but seeing their reactions to my experience would be harder for me to handle. It’s human nature to judge people in our own little ways. It’s just who we are no matter how much we protest against it.

  But opening up felt liberating.

  I can’t believe I did it.

  “I thought I better speak up before I start overthinking it and chickening out,” I answer, shrugging.

  “Well, I’m glad you did. Maybe if you came here before you were ready, your first session might not have gone so well.”

  “Maybe,” I shrug, answering softly.

  I didn’t even think about that.

  “Let me walk you out. Maybe your brother’s already here.”

  “Okay. Oh, hey, thanks for being there. It’s nice, you know, having someone familiar with me,” I tell her, feeling a little embarrassed. I never had to thank anyone for being there for me. I could always count on my old friends to be there for me always.

  Until I drove them away, that is.

  I hope it’s not too late though. I hope that in time, they’re still willing to be my friends.

  But this leads me to wonder why the hell Nicki didn’t leave with the rest? “Hey, um, hope you don’t mind me asking, but how come you stayed here? Why aren’t you pursuing a degree somewhere?”

  “Well … my dad used to run a business … I’m not sure if you’ve heard it … Colt’s Corner?”

  “Oh my God, Colt’s is your father’s? Of course he is, duh! I love that café! I used to go there a lot.”

  “Yeah? That’s good to know. Well, even when I was younger, I used to help Dad out, and he taught me how to run the place. But I was usually at the back, in the kitchen, you know, because I love to cook.”

  I smile, now remembering how tiny and skinny she was. Who would’ve known she loved cooking from her physique?

  “Anyway,” she continues, “when he died, my mum considered selling the café. She didn’t really get involved with the business because she was running the household, so she thought selling was for the best. But I refused, like full-on refused. I told her I could run it. Dad showed me how, and it would be like doing it with my eyes closed … oh sorry, I mean—”

  I laugh out aloud. Seriously, she’s cute. “It’s okay, please continue.”

  “Mum said she’d give me three months to run it. She helped with the money matters, but it was mostly up to me. Three months became four, and now we’re getting closer to six months, and the café is still going strong. The locals make it easy for me to run the café because they keep coming back. I think it’s mostly out of pity. But I’ll take pity if it means revenue, you know?”

  “Wow, so you’ve totally foregone your tertiary studies to work?”

  “For now, yes. Eventually, I’ll hire someone to manage when I’m away to study, but I’m happy with my decision to take the reins.”

  I turn to her, smiling admiringly, “Well, good on you.”

  “Thanks. Oh, I can see a car driving up. It might be Brodie coming up the road. Nice car, by the way. Would you like me to wait with you?”

  “He must be driving Dad’s car. But it’s cool. You don’t have to wait. Thanks for letting us know about this group. It was … today was an eye-opener.” She sucks in her breath, and that’s when I realise the unintended pun.

  “Ah, I stepped into that one, didn’t I?” I smile, shaking my head.

  “You sure did,” she giggles. “I’m gonna help with the cleaning up inside. Maybe you can come over to Colt’s when you get a chance.”

  “Well, I suppose I can fit it in my super busy social schedule,” I answer dryly.

  She giggles again, “Your sense of humour still kicks ass, just like in school. Well … I gotta go now. Hey, um, do you mind if I gave you a hug?”

  Her request surprises me, but I smile and raise my free arm as in invitation.

  She hugs me first. “You were so brave in there. And your strength was inspiring. You’ll get through this. I know you can. And when that time comes, you will move on.”

  I kept my composure when I finally spoke up about my grief on Paul’s death, but what Nicki said, hit me in the kindest, yet most painful way.

  My life went from being perfect to shattering into unfixable pieces, just like that. Paul lost his life because of me. How the hell can I possible move on from that?

  And yet this person believes that I can.

 
This really nice girl from my former high school believes it.

  Even my family believes it. They keep telling me so, even if I refuse to listen.

  Maybe I really need to start believing it.

  I wipe my tears as quickly as I can before we pull away. After a quick sniff, I manage a small laugh before saying, “Thanks. I hope so too.”

  “I know so, Hannah. Oh, and by the way, there’s a bench right behind us if you want to sit down.”

  “Thanks, but Brodie will be here shortly, so I’ll just stand,” we loosen our hold on each other before saying our goodbyes.

  I’m standing alone for a few seconds before I sense someone approaching.

  “Brodie? Thanks for coming before the session ends like I asked you to … dipshit!” I tell him with all the sarcasm I can muster. Then I raise my hand so he can take it in his, but as soon as his hand touches mine, the strong jolt of electricity I feel is all it takes for me to figure out he’s not my dipshit brother.

  Atticus.

  “No! What the fuck?” I shake his hand off of mine.

  “It’s Atticus, Han. You don’t have to panic.”

  “Oh, really? No way!” I retort sarcastically, “Where the fuck is Brodie?”

  “You knew it was me? You … you still feel it too?”

  Oh shit. He can’t know he still affects me like this.

  “I can smell your stink from here.”

  “Hannah.”

  “What the fuck, are you doing here?” I bark out, but he cups his hand over my forearm, and the feel of his fingers on my bare skin is too much.

  So I pull away, trying to distance myself. But with the bench behind me, I have nowhere else to go.

  His touch should feel like betrayal and lies. It shouldn’t make my skin tingle like this. And my heart should most definitely not beat like this.

  “I asked you a question, Atticus. What are you doing here? Where’s Brodie?” I ask roughly through gritted teeth.

  “Your mum accidentally had a big slip down the stairs at your place. Brodie was home, so he took her to the hospital.”

  My hands cover my mouth, “Oh my God!”

  “Don’t worry. Brodie said she’s fine. He just wants to make sure she didn’t damage her knee. Your dad had some court thing, so he couldn’t pick you up. Brodie didn’t know anyone else who can take you, so,” he sighs, “here I am. I’m sure he considered how bad this would seem.”

  “Well, I’m not getting inside the car with you,” I cross my arms, and I stand firmly on the ground.

  “I promised your brother that I would drive you home safely.”

  That makes me laugh, and I make sure it sounds bitter. “And since when do you ever hold on to your promises?”

  “Look, okay, I won’t touch you if you don’t want to, no matter how ridiculous you are being, right now, but can you please just take my arm so I can take you to my car and drive you straight home? You can say whatever you want inside the car, but I am still taking you home,” he exhales loudly, and I can just picture him raking his dark blonde hair back in frustration. And he’s speaking in a lowered voice, making his voice sound both raspy and gravelly.

  I wish he didn’t sound like this, because as much as I’m overcome with anger right now, on the inside I’m turning to mush.

  Damn him and that sexy voice of his.

  “I heard loud voices … is everything oka―oh. Oh, shit. Atticus Foster,” Nicki’s voice changes from concern to pleasantly surprised.

  Of course. He’s a freakin’ heartthrob.

  He was getting this kind of reaction from girls even before he made it big.

  I need to be out of here, and away from him, fast.

  “Can I ride with you, Nicki? Please say you can take me home?” I ask desperately.

  “Uh, well, sure. I just need to finish up. I can leave in ten minutes?”

  “Okay,” I nod back, “sounds good.”

  “No. Sorry, Nicki. No offence, but her brother asked me to pick her up and to take her home, so that’s exactly what I’m doing.” I jump out of my skin when I feel his hand on the small of my back. It almost takes my breath away.

  So I swipe his arm off.

  “Leave me the hell alone!” my voice gets louder, and I forget that there might be other people around us.

  “Alright, that’s it. I’m sorry you have to see this, Nicki.”

  And without warning, he wraps his arm around my thighs, bending me over his shoulder, before hoisting me off of my feet.

  He’s lifted me! He’s bloody carrying me up on his shoulder!

  He starts walking, and I hear Nicki speak words of protest, but Atticus refuses to stop.

  “Let me go, Atticus!” I scream, pounding my fists on his back.

  “I will. As soon as we’re at the car,” he answers calmly, like carrying me over his shoulder, fireman-style, is a usual occurrence.

  I hear the bleep of a car’s alarm being switched off, followed by the car unlocking. Then, surprisingly true to his word, he stops, and he lets me stand on my feet.

  But he’s still holding me around my waist.

  I don’t like that I like it.

  Maybe I need to do something about it.

  I place my hands on his chest, uncertain fingers curved against his pectorals. I wish I didn’t notice that even through the material of his thin, cotton T-shirt, his chest feels harder and more defined. His breathing catches, going shallow as my hands slide up to his neck. And as much as I want to deny the feeling, it thrills me inwardly to know I can still affect him like this. Then my hands rest on his jaw, and his breathing gets heavier, his chest heaving deeply. I ignore the way his stubbled jaw makes me feel on the inside, trying to push off the memory of how sexy that looks on him.

  “Hannah,” he whispers, his warm breath tickling my wrists.

  And in one quick move, I slap him.

  I slap him as hard as someone like me could, thankful my hand actually hits its target.

  “Fuck,” he mutters. “Okay … okay, I deserved that.”

  “You deserve a lot worse,” I spit back.

  I hear him open the car door, and his hand finds its way on the small of my back once again. “Get in,” he says curtly, the hand on my back gently nudging me in.

  “Get your hands off me, and I will.”

  “Fine. There!” His hand is off me in a heartbeat, but my stupid body seems to cry out in protest at the loss of his touch.

  I hastily get inside his car, noticing the lack of roof. Then I notice the all-leather, bench-style seats. I reach for the dash, feeling its smooth, streamlined fittings.

  Is this what I think it is?

  I cannot believe it.

  “Did you get yourself a sixty-seven Mustang convertible?” I ask in awe, turning to Atticus as soon as I hear him stepping inside.

  “You just felt the car and you figured out the exact model?” he asks as he starts the engine and pulls out of the car spot.

  I laugh out, “Are you kidding me? This was your dream car. Whenever you had a chance, you told us why you wanted this car. You even had photos of this car model in your bedroom …” I pause, unable to continue, as I feel the rush of blood on my cheeks.

  “Yeah,” he says softly, cutting through the awkward pause, “as soon as I got my first decent royalty cheque, I decided to make this car my first purchase.”

  “What colour is it? Red? Black? You always seemed to like those colours.”

  “This was red when I bought it, but I had it custom-painted to blue.”

  “Why would you do that? You told me before that if you were able to buy this model Mustang, it would either be red or black. Why’d you change your mind?”

  “Have I told you how beautiful you look, sitting inside my dream car? It’s as just how I’ve always pictured it in my head … just like how we talked about back then.”

  Wow, did I just hear what I think he said? I’m completely unprepared for the butterflies fluttering in my stomach because of it.


  But he’s just distracting me.

  He’s so damn good at that.

  “You didn’t answer my question. Why’d you change the colour of this car to blue? Not that I care or anything. I’m just curious.”

  “I’m entitled to change my mind.”

  “True. Hey, you changed your mind about us, so this would’ve been a walk in the park for you,” I answer bitterly.

  “Wow …” Atticus whispers after a slight pause. I know that felt like I stabbed him right in the guts with that one. But my heart and my mind sometimes don’t agree with each other. And right now, my heart is winning, and it’s angry and feeling quite stabby.

  He doesn’t say anything further, so I speak up instead, “What do you want from me, Atticus? I moved on. You knew I moved on. But then you came back and saw how happy I was, and it pissed you off. So you pursued me again, and almost broke off my relationship with Paul. Then guess the fuck what? You left again! So I’m asking you. What do you want from me, Atticus? ”

  “I’ve only ever wanted you, Hannah. Only you.” He tried to hold my hand, but I swiftly move my hand away.

  “I can’t believe I fell for your lies the second time around. Paul actually loved me. He wanted a future with me. He didn’t get scared, and he didn’t run off when things got a little complicated.”

  “Damn it, Han,” he whispers, his voice sounds choked up, “if you only knew …”

  “Knew what, Tic? Knew how naïve I was to fall for you? Trust me, I know now. I found out the hard way, remember?”

  Atticus lets out a frustrated growl, “I changed the colour of this car to blue because I wanted it to match the colour of your eyes! There, I answered your question, okay?”

  A knot starts to form in my throat, “Wait, what? That’s ridiculous. You’re lying!”

  “Am I? Because when I saw this car after it was repainted, I knew I made the right choice. I used to get lost in your eyes, Hannah. Your dark hair and blue eyes haunted my thoughts every single day. Even to this day, nothing’s changed. Your eyes are just as beautiful as—”

  “Stop it! Just stop,” I shout out, raising my hands up to emphasise my point, “Everything has changed, Atticus! And you left me. You. Left. Me. Twice. So you don’t get to say any of those things to me anymore.”