“Not at all,” he agrees right as he lifts the pillow and whacks the side of my body. Laughing mischievously, he says, “I think I got this slumber party thing all figured out now. Thanks for your help.” He smiles at me.
“You’re incorrigible, you know that?” I scold, while shaking my head. “Incorrigible!” I repeat.
Flopping down onto the bed, I look up at the ceiling, wondering what exists beyond it, what exists beyond what we can see.
“You look pretty deep in thought. Care to share?” Bruce asks.
“Do you believe in an afterlife?”
“I suppose I do,” he reflects. “But, to be truthful, I don’t know. I want to believe, but whether that’s the same as actually believing, I can’t say. What about you?” he presses.
“I think I do. I want to think that somewhere out there, Rogan is waiting for me, that someday I’ll see him again, be with him again. I don’t know if that’s just wishful thinking. I mean, the logical part of my brain is saying ‘Don’t be stupid, of course there’s nothing more out there!’ But the illogical part is saying there has to be more to all of this. There has to be a reason.”
“I think that as human beings we’re born curious. It’s that curiosity that has led to inventions, medicines, and new ways of doing things. It’s also that curiosity that drives us to find the answers we can’t possibly get answered. What I think is that our curiosity is the ‘more’ to the universe. Without it, we would have no drive to continue searching. We would have no sense of purpose. We need to feel useful, important, and in searching, asking, questioning all the things we think we know today, we open the door to the new questions of tomorrow.
“So whether there’s something beyond this, I don’t know, but if there is, I hope I’m on the right side of that door when I find it,” he says thoughtfully.
“Yeah,” I say, contemplating life and the reasoning behind the events that keep this world spinning.
“You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?” he pries.
“I don’t know. My mind is a mess right now. Today or I guess, yesterday, took a lot out of me. It has me thinking a lot, and I don’t like it. I don’t feel like me. I don’t feel like how I know I should feel.
“I don’t remember what happened after the press conference, and I don’t care that I don’t. It seems like I’m always spacing out, crying, or just plain passing out anymore. I feel like I’m on a precipice between being the me I know, and the me I am. I used to be normal and now I’m . . . I guess that’s the problem. I don’t know what I am,” I declare dejectedly.
The bed concaves to my right, making a spot for Bruce to lie beside me. “You aren’t who you were, but none of us are. We’re always changing with every new experience we encounter, with every new person we meet. That’s just a given. It’s true that in your case things change more often and in more serious of ways, but that doesn’t change the method we all live by.
“Sometimes life just sucks. But sometimes, it doesn’t. It’s the hope of those good times that gets us through the bad times. At least that’s how it is for me, but I’m no philosopher, so don’t take my word for it.
“You’re going to make it through this. You’ll be fine. I know it.”
“I’m kinda tired. You mind if I try and get some sleep?” I ask, my eyes getting harder and harder to keep open.
“Of course not. Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up,” he says as he tucks me in before settling himself back onto the desk chair.
“Thank you for everything, Bruce,” I mumble sleepily.
Snuggling up to the pillow, still warm from his lying on it, I turn onto my stomach, falling asleep instantly.
It wasn’t easy getting out of bed this morning, but after some heavy cajoling by mom, I did eventually concede defeat. I could have slept through this. I could have handled skipping today, heading right to tomorrow. I couldn’t really have missed this, but thinking it was an option is helping me cope.
Mrs. Morgan pulls at my arm as I’m walking into the packed church. The service is supposed to be starting in ten minutes, but people are still arriving. I knew there would be a lot of people, but this is crazy. There must be hundreds of people between those in the church, those still arriving, and those who are congregating outside the large red doors of the cathedral style church.
Rogan’s mom is a huge believer in God and Jesus and the like, active in all things church related, completely opposite to how Rogan was. Though she never pushed religion on him, I think she was disappointed in his lack of faith. He and I were the same in that regard; we believe in what we can see, but always hope to be surprised by what we can’t. We have faith; it’s just in facts, not myths. His mom never grasped that idea.
“I’ve been waiting out here for you to arrive,” she says to me, her hand still holding tight to my arm. “I’d like you to sit with me. Would you mind?” she asks, her words muffled by the handkerchief covering her mouth.
I know that technique all too well. It’s what I do to keep my breathing steady and even when I feel a panic attack coming on. Breathing through fabric or into a paper bag helps calm my chest muscles, slowing my rapid heartbeats, and if successful, keeping me from face planting in front of hundreds of people.
“Of course I will,” I answer immediately, pulling her into a hug.
We hold tight to one another, hugging and rocking from foot to foot until mom reminds me that the service is about to start so we should probably get inside. She doesn’t know that Mrs. M wants me to sit with her. I’m hoping there will be room for mom, too.
“Can my mom sit with us, too?” I ask her after pulling back from our embrace.
“Of course. Well, I guess we should go in.” She chokes on her words.
“I suppose so,” I repeat, neither of us moving.
Mom coaxes me from behind, and I tug on Mrs. M’s hand as we make our way to the front of the church. I have to lean on the end of a pew to keep from fainting. A deep mahogany colored coffin sits directly in front of me. I can’t look away. He’s in there. The casket is closed so I can’t see him, but just knowing he’s within feet from me is too much.
Closing my eyes, I remind myself to breathe. I promised I would only take shallow breaths, and I intend on keeping that promise. Slow, shallow breaths are all I allow myself, which is enough to slow my erratic heart.
Taking my place between Mrs. M and mom, both moms put their hands on my shaky knees. Their touch doesn’t stop the shaking, but it’s comforting.
The minister walks to the podium, carrying his bible. The church silences instantly. I don’t know what he’s saying. I can’t focus on anything other than the fact that Rogan is so close. I need to see him.
I need to see him!
Standing in the middle of the minister’s sermon, I feel mom’s hand pulling at me to sit back down, but I can’t. I have to do this.
“Honey? No! Don’t do this! Sit back down.”
Looking briefly between her and a grief-stricken Mrs. Morgan, I pull free from her hold. “I’m sorry,” I say as I run to Rogan.
Collapsing onto the coffin, I scream for him to come back to me. “Please come back! I love you! Please come back to me! I miss you so much. I can’t do this without you! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you! Baby, please! Please!” I beg through choking sobs.
“Damn you for taking him from me!” I yell at the cross hanging on the wall in front of me. “How could you let this happen? Where were you when he needed you? If you really exist, then bring him back to me! Bring him back! Bring him back!” I continue to shout.
“Honey, come on, this isn’t helping anything,” mom says, while pulling at my waist to get me to move from Rogan’s coffin. “He’s gone. There’s nothing we can do now but accept that. Please come sit back down.”
“No!” I scream at her, pushing my arm into her chest to get her to back off. “Just no! No to all of this! He can’t be dead!” I shout as I run down the aisle.
The
sun blinds me as I stand on the steps of the church. People are holding each other, crying over the loss, acting broken. They aren’t broken. Why are they acting as if they are? What’s wrong with these people? Did they even know him? Did they know he lied about what his favorite color was? That he actually liked yellow, but felt it wasn’t manly enough so he said he liked green. Do they know that he only liked the purple Skittles? Do they know his favorite number was seven, that he hated the number four for no real reason? Do they know he wanted to be a science teacher, that he loved anything science-related? Do they know he would watch The Ellen show with me in the afternoons even though he said it was a “chick” show? Do they know he was sweet, kind, beautiful, and perfect?
The answer is no! They don’t know any of that because they don’t know him!
Frantically turning from one side to another, I contemplate what to do, where to go, when an SUV pulls in front of me. “Thought you mind need a ride,” Bruce says, leaning over the center console, looking at me through an open passenger side window.
Without speaking, I jump into the front seat, slamming the door after me. “Go!” I command, as if he’s the getaway ride to my criminal behavior.
With what I just did, I should be considered a criminal. I ruined Rogan’s funeral, embarrassed mom, most likely upset Mrs. M and made a complete ass of myself. What choice did I have, though? This is all a sham, a colossal joke at Rogan’s expense. He would have hated all of that. He wouldn’t have wanted everyone sitting around like sniveling fools. That wasn’t who he was. He would have wanted people to laugh, to joke, to act normal, not fake like everyone acts when they attend a funeral.
“Anywhere special you want to go?” Bruce interrupts my inner rant.
“As far from here as possible,” I respond coldly.
“You got it.”
The thing I love about Bruce is that he doesn’t get emotional. He doesn’t let my bad moods put him in a bad mood. If anything, he manages to pull me free from mine. He doesn’t take my tantrums personally and doesn’t stop me from having them. He’s a lot like Rogan in that way, letting me work things out on my own.
“Why are you here?” I ask in a voice much colder than I intend.
“Honestly? Your mom called and asked if I could come. She said you might need a friend.”
“And that’s you?” I pose the question.
“I guess you should tell me,” he answers, confused. “Am I not a friend?”
“My mom said I needed a friend, so she called you! She had to call you because there’s no one else! How pathetic is that that I have no friends anymore? That the only person I talk to is you and I know that isn’t going to change after the way I just tore apart Rogan’s funeral. No one is going to believe I’m not crazy now. I just fucked myself out of any sort of normalcy. I’ll never have someone to talk to besides you. I’ll never have someone in my life who will want to love me! This is my life now!” I scream, fisting and un-fisting my hands out of pure frustration.
Pulling into a gravel parking lot, I notice a small pond in the distance as Bruce puts the SUV into park. It’s quiet, peaceful here, wherever here is. It’s a beautiful sound, the sound of nothing but nature.
Bruce wants to say something, I can tell by his expression and the way he slammed the SUV into park, but I don’t want to hear anything he’s going to say.
Freeing myself from the car, I run toward the pond, stepping out of my shoes as I go, tying my hair up into a lose bun, unbuttoning my shirt, stripping down to the cami I’m wearing underneath, stepping out of my dress pants just as I near the water. I know I’m being indecent, swimming in a public place in only a cami and my panties, but I couldn’t care less; I never want to be in those clothes again.
I dive into the murky water. This is what I need. Swimming clears my head. It makes everything bad disappear. As long as I’m in the water life doesn’t exist beyond the strokes I make, the waves I create, the sounds of the water splashing over my body. As long as I stay in the water, I’m a normal, teenage girl with normal teenage girl problems.
I don’t know how long I’ve been in the water; I just know I feel better than I have in eons. Looking to the shore, I see Bruce staring intently at me from across the pond. Why he stayed this whole time I’ll never understand. I should feel bad about wasting his time, but I don’t. He wasn’t bound to me. I never told him he had to stay. For whatever reason, he chose to.
Near the shoreline, I walk out of the water toward where Bruce sits.
“I didn’t know you swam,” he points out.
“Yep, I’ve always loved being in the water. For as long as I can remember I’ve been swimming,” I explain.
“You’re good at it.”
“Thanks,” I say, appreciatively taking the small towel he hands me. “You always keep towels with you?” I question.
“Usually,” he responds with a smile. “I keep a spare one for when I go to the gym.”
I try to smell the towel discreetly as I wipe my face and wring my half down hair, hoping I won’t discover this is a dirty, smelly gym towel.
“It’s clean. God, do you really think I would give you a dirty, sweaty towel?”
I guess I wasn’t that discreet after all. “With you, there’s no telling.” I arch a brow at him, showing my skepticism.
“Give me some credit, will you?” he responds with a scowl.
“Fine, fine,” I concede. “You’re a pretty decent guy, and I won’t pick on you anymore, okay?”
“I won’t know what to do with you if you treat me any other way, though,” he points out, seeming distant, different somehow from the Bruce I know.
“Are you okay?” I ask worriedly.
“Yeah, why?” he answers emotionlessly.
“You seem off. What’s going on?”
“Does it really matter?” he retorts.
“What the hell? Of course it matters. Talk to me.”
“I’m just so sick of this shit. It never ends. Every day is the same as the day before. It’s monotonous. It’s going to drive me mad,” he confesses.
“What is? What are you talking about?” I plead for answers.
“Jess,” he starts, reaching for my hand. “I’ve been here for you the best that I could be, but I’m at a loss as to what to do from here on out. It’s so hard to know what to say to you, what I think you can bear to hear. I want to be honest with you one hundred percent of the time, but that’s not how things can be right now. I guess I’m just a little worn out. I’m sorry I snapped like that; it won’t happen again,” he promises, while nervously strumming his thumb along the top of my knuckles.
“I’m not a weakling, ya know. I think I can handle the truth, especially after everything that’s happened. If there’s something you want to tell me, tell me,” I state matter-of-factly. I hate that he’s shielding me from, from whatever is eating at him. Why won’t he just tell me?
“I think you’ve been through enough for one day. How ‘bout we talk later? I should probably get you home anyway; your mom is going to be worried.” Getting to his feet, he dusts off his pants of the gravel he’s been sitting on. He extends his hand to me to help me up.
I guess this conversation is over, for now anyway. I’m not letting this go for long. Something is eating at him and I want to know what it is.
I put my pants back on, pick up my shirt, and slip into my shoes, following a silent Bruce to his SUV as if nothing happened, but something did happen. I just don’t know what it was.
Chapter Seventeen
Three Years Ago . . .
The car ride home is anything but comfortably silent. Bruce is noticeably distant, lost in a deep place I wish I understood. When my thoughts aren’t running rampant themselves I find myself openly gawking at him as if he’s a spectacle. I suppose he is to me right now, an enigma of sorts; not my typical Bruce.
“It’s pretty creepy the way you keep staring at me. Think you could cut it out?” he asks teasingly, sounding like himself.
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“I could, but now that I know it’s bothering you I think I won’t,” I say cheekily.
“You’re such a pain in the ass, you know that?”
“I do, and you know you wouldn’t want me any other way. I’m awesome and you know it.”
“You’re too much,” he says as a smile spreads across his face that looked so sad moments ago. That’s so much better. I don’t like sad Bruce.
“I think I’m just enough,” I correct him.
Shaking his head, he continues focusing on his driving and the road ahead. We don’t speak anymore, but the silence now is okay, not weighted and depressing like before. This is the type of companionable silence I’m used to where it concerns him.
“Jess? Jess, wake up, we’re home.”
My eyes feel heavy. I blink repeatedly, attempting to see straight out of both eyes, not just the one I have open now that’s trying to make out where I am. I look to my left. Bruce is turned in his seat looking worriedly at me. In front of me is the garage to my house. Looking at the dashboard, it’s 5:32 in the evening. It’s after five already? How is that possible? Was it so late when we left the park we were at? I can’t remember what time that was.
“How long have I been asleep?” I ask, confused.
“Only twenty minutes or so; when we got close to your house I took a detour the long way around town so you could sleep a little longer. You looked so peaceful I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Oh,” I reply not knowing what else to say.
“Let me help you get inside.”
“Bruce, I got this,” I snap, pulling at his arm in an attempt to keep him in the SUV. My effort fails miserably
“I’m helping you in and that’s that,” he says sharply. The driver side door slams shut and he’s at my door in a few short strides.
“I don’t know why you insist on helping me in. I’m perfectly capable. Ugh! You treat me like a child!” I whine. I know it’s childish, going against my own argument, but I hate feeling so pathetic.
“Listen,” he snaps. By the look on his face, his voice came out harsher than he meant.
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