by Susan Soares
She uncrossed and recrossed her legs. “Well, when something extremely intense and shocking happens to a person, they can go into a state of denial about it. It’s a way of coping. They avoid what happened. They find ways around talking about it. They tend to keep everything about their lives that hurt them all to themselves.” She appeared to be blinking excessively.
“I don’t think I’m doing that.”
“Marissa, it’s important to try to be aware of your actions. This is something I think we should focus on for you. You need to take small steps each day to help you overcome this barrier you’ve surrounded yourself with. The only way to finally free yourself of the pain you’re feeling is to experience it. From that, you’ll be able to heal.”
She leaned in closer to me, and the concern in her eyes was more than I could bear. I grabbed my purse and thanked her for the session. As the girl at the front desk called out for me to make my next appointment, I kept walking. That was my last therapy session.
****
It was almost five o’clock when I got home. I knew I should eat something before I went back to the hospital, but my stomach felt like a punching bag that a prizefighter had been practicing on all day. In an effort to not starve myself, I opened the refrigerator, scanning for something that I might be able to keep down. Eggs, milk, grapes, carrots, and assorted condiments were all I had to choose from. Mondays were the day Gram usually went grocery shopping. Dissatisfied, I closed the fridge door and grabbed a box of multi-grain crackers from the cabinet. Like a ragdoll, my body plopped down on one of the kitchen chairs, and I began eating my meal. Crackers. The ticking of the kitchen clock was starting to make me batty. Click, click, click. It was like Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart — constant, and it got louder and louder. Like with each tick of that clock, my grandmother was closer to death, and I was closer to being all alone. I’d be completely alone without her. Frantic, I sprung from the chair and dashed to my room. I grabbed my workout clothes from the top of my laundry basket. So what if they weren’t clean? In that moment, I didn’t care. I just needed to run. Run. Away.
There was still plenty of daylight, and the heat from earlier had died down and left a perfect sixty-five degrees to run in. I checked my watch that told me my pace, heart rate, and mileage, and it said my heart rate was at one-seventy, which was much higher than my normal one-forty range. Elation coursed through me, I was running an eight-minute mile; the fastest I had run before was a nine-point-five. I could feel a pain in my right shin, and I didn’t care. All I wanted to do was run. There was nothing here to stop me. No family, no friends, no boyfriends, no teachers, no coaches, no diseases, nothing. Just me and my body. That was about to give out if I kept up this speed, which was now down to a seven-point-five pace.
The scent of the lilacs raised my heart rate even higher. My legs and my heart needed a break. With little thought, I ran up the front steps of Mr. Brockwell’s house and pounded on the door.
I was bent in half trying to catch my breath when he opened the door. “Marissa? Marissa, are you all right?”
Tears were falling off my face and hitting the ground below. “Gram’s in the hospital!” I spat out, and then I felt my body disintegrate as Mr. Brockwell stood me upright and wrapped his arms around me.
The back of my hand was streaked with black mascara marks from where I had rubbed my tears away. I was sitting at Mr. Brockwell’s kitchen table. His house smelled like a weird mix of patchouli and lemon-scented furniture polish. He set a cup of tea down in front of me and took the chair to my left.
I took a sip of the warm, rich, tea, and the heat infused my body. Mr. Brockwell’s eyes were on me, but I kept my gaze on the table.
“So, when are you going to see her again?” he asked.
“Tonight.” I wrapped my hands around the mug.
“Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” His tone was soothing. I remembered it well.
Unease crept through my body, I shouldn’t be here. “Yes. I’ll be fine.” I couldn’t escape the parade of nerves that were starting to work their way through me. “I should go.” Abruptly, I stood up and headed for the door.
“Marissa, wait,” Mr. Brockwell called after me.
I stood stiffly in his doorway. “Let me drive you to the hospital,” he said. “I’d feel a lot better knowing that you’re safe. I just don’t think you should be behind the wheel of a car right now.” He laid his hand on my shoulder, and I felt the hot sting of tears again.
I didn’t want to accept defeat. I didn’t want to need his ride. I didn’t want to need his comfort. But I did. At that moment, he could understand.
“Okay, I guess,” I croaked out.
“Good.”
I kept my back to him. “I’ll just run home and change then.”
“Are you sure? I can drive you. It’s no problem.” Again his tone was relaxing like lavender oil.
“No,” I sniffled. “I’d rather just run.” And run and run and run.
“All right then. I’ll pick you up in, say, thirty minutes? Is that enough time?”
I turned slightly toward him now. “Yeah, that’s fine. And Mr. Brockwell…” His name broke in my throat. I wanted to thank him. I wanted to collapse into the warmth of his hugs. I wanted to purge everything I’d been holding back from everyone and everything onto him. But as I opened my mouth to speak again, only a slight squeaking sound emerged.
“I understand,” he whispered. “I’ll see you in half an hour.”
I nodded, and then began the ten-minute run home. I ran it in eight.
Chapter Seventeen
A horrible feeling of déjà vu swept over me as Mr. Brockwell and I walked into the hospital. I tried to push the sensation out of me as we rode the elevator up to the fourth floor. The doctor I had spoken to earlier was standing at one of the nurse’s stations near my grandmother’s room.
He spotted me walking toward him. “Good, you’re here.” He snapped a patient chart shut and faced me.
“What do you mean?” My throat was instantly dry.
“You got my phone call?”
I felt like he was talking in code. Then I realized I didn’t even grab my phone or my purse, only my house keys. “What phone call?” My voice was tight and high.
“It doesn’t matter. You’re here now.” He waved a hand for me to follow and walked toward my grandmother’s room.
Please don’t let her be on her deathbed. I felt my palms and forehead begin to sweat. My head was in a haze as we entered her room. With Mr. Brockwell close behind me, I was bracing myself for the worst. But when her bed came into view, I locked eyes with her.
“Grandma?” My voice was barely audible.
“Marissa, come give me a hug,” she whispered. I crossed to her and buried my head in her chest. My tears were soaking her hospital gown. “There, there, Marissa. Everything’s going to be all right.” She held me close.
I peeled myself off her, suddenly worried I was hurting her. “Are you okay?” I asked.
“She’s stable,” the doctor said. “She’ll need to be monitored for a while. We need to take her for an MRI to see the complete effects the stroke had on her.”
I still didn’t like his tone. It sounded like he was ordering breakfast or something.
“Hank? Is that you hiding over there?” Gram said.
“Beverly,” he began. “This isn’t quite how I wanted to run into you again.” He crossed the floor and gave her a gentle hug.
“It’s not how I wanted to bump into you either.” My grandmother’s tone was attempting to be jovial, but she was straining at it. She could only hold her smile for a second before whatever pain she was feeling washed itself over her face again.
“Mr. Brockwell drove me. He didn’t want me to get in an accident or whatever,” I babbled.
“Thank you, Hank,” Gram said.
“No problem, Beverly.” They exchanged a passive look, like they each knew the other was thinking about only one thing: my mom.
> ****
The memorial service for my mom was small. It was at our house. Gram had bought some deli plates from the local market. I couldn’t get over how surreal the whole thing was. People were in my house, all dressed in their best funeral attire, eating cold cuts and looking at pictures of my mom from the photo albums Gram had set out. It was like the house was a museum or something. People told stories about the time my mom did this and the time my mom did that. Through some of her old college friends, I learned that my mom staged a walk-out for no apparent reason, and she spent the night in jail because of it.
Marc walked around giving everyone what I liked to call his “death” eyes. He stared them all down as if trying to let them know with just his eyes they weren’t welcome, and he wanted them gone. Gram hustled and bustled like a gracious hostess. She made sure people’s drinks were filled and that they had enough to eat. I had begged her several times to let me go to my room, but she said it was impolite. The point of a memorial service, she explained, was so the mourners could be close to the person who passed and their family for a while. But I was mourning too, and I just wanted to go to my room, turn on some music, and cry myself to sleep.
I bumped into Mr. Brockwell — to me, he was Hank back then — in the kitchen. He was taking some meatballs out of a slow cooker and placing them on a roll.
“When did the meatballs get here?” I asked while grabbing a can of diet soda.
“Your grandmother didn’t think the cold cuts were sufficient. I didn’t fight her when I saw the meatballs.” He gave me a wry little grin. “So, how are you holding up?”
He set his plate down and faced me. His eyes were warm and empathetic.
When you’re already upset about something and someone asks, “How are you doing” or “Are you all right?” it suddenly makes you burst into uncontrollable tears. I knew if I tried to speak, my voice would crack and the floodgates from my eyes would start, so I just shrugged.
“If you need to duck out of here for a while, I’ll cover for you.” He glanced around to make sure my grandmother wasn’t within earshot.
“Thanks,” I said. A beam of sunlight suddenly burst through the kitchen window. It landed on my face, warming me. “Hank,” I closed my eyes and embraced the sun. “Do you think my mom’s here?” Keeping my eyes closed, I felt the stray tears cascade down my cheeks.
Hank’s hand found my shoulder. “Marissa, I think wherever you are is where your mother is.”
I stood stiffly as he hugged me. I knew if I gave into the embrace too much that I’d collapse. So I just stood there, rigid, and let my tears soak into the front of his white button-down shirt.
Marc and I stood in a line at the front door, along with my grandmother, to say goodbye to all the mourners as they left our little house. I shook hands and gave limp hugs and distant head nods to everyone as they shuffled out. Yes, get out, out, out, out of our house.
Gram let out an exhausted groan just before plopping herself on the big recliner once everyone had left. “I’m glad that’s over with.”
“Me too,” I said.
“I’m going to my room.” Marc hastily retreated upstairs.
Hank began clearing some of the cups and plates off the coffee table. “Oh, Hank, you don’t have to do that,” Gram said.
He was about to respond but something caught his eye. It was one of the photo albums Gram had set out, opened to a page that had a picture of my mother standing on a balcony that overlooked an ocean. The sun was setting, and it cast a warm golden glow over her face. She looked so happy and peaceful. “She was so beautiful.” Hank’s voice broke a little.
Gram got up from her seat and walked toward Mr. Brockwell. They looked at each other momentarily before embracing.
“Thank you, Hank.”
“No problem, Beverly.”
I went to my room, put on some music, and cried myself to sleep.
****
Mr. Brockwell was quiet as he drove me back home from the hospital. I guess he could tell I wasn’t in the mood to chitchat. We had left the hospital once Gram fell asleep. The nurse said we could stay past visiting hours, but I knew Gram would want me to go home and try to get a good night’s rest in my own bed. I still wasn’t sure if I was going to school the next day or not. I wasn’t sure of anything. Gram’s color had improved, but the doctor — the guy I didn’t like — reminded me again as we were leaving that she was under close observation and that the MRI test would give a better idea of where she was. The only place I wanted her to be was back home.
My eyelids were heavy and fluttering as Mr. Brockwell pulled into my driveway. “Are you sure you’re all right being here alone?” he asked.
I unbuckled my seatbelt. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Brockwell.” I grabbed the door handle.
“Why don’t I give you a ride into school tomorrow?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I stammered.
“Marissa, please, it’s no trouble. You don’t have your car and the school is on my way to work.”
I thought about jogging to school, but then thought better of it. “Well, okay,” I said.
“Marissa, I’m just a phone call away. Okay?”
I had to get out of that car before the waterworks started again. “Thanks,” I choked out before dashing from the car.
As I walked past the hedges to the front door, a gasp escaped me. It took all I could to fight against a scream as I saw a figure sitting on my front steps. The bulb in the outside light was dim and needed to be replaced so all I could see was a shadow of a man.
“Marissa, it’s me.” Brandon stepped toward me.
My heart felt like it was beating outside of my body. “Brandon! You scared the life out of me.” I placed my hand on my chest as if that would help calm my pulse down.
“I’m sorry.” He stood before me now, smelling like musk and fabric softener. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I mean if I can get my heart rate back to normal, but yeah, I’m okay.” My body was tingling, but I could feel some calmness returning.
“No,” he said. “I mean, is everything all right? I’ve been texting and calling you. I was worried something was wrong.”
My phone. I had forgotten to take my phone with me! “Oh no, I’m, I’m…” What to say, what to say? “I don’t have my phone with me.” My voice was shaking, along with my hands.
“Oh man, I was freaking out there a bit.” He wrapped his arms around me, and I wanted to melt into the warmth of his chest like a toasted marshmallow between chocolate and graham crackers. “Sorry, if I’m being lame. It’s just, I don’t know, accidents happen, and I just… was worried.” He kissed the top of my head.
I knew from what he said that he was thinking about Bobby. About Bobby’s accident. It was like after my mom died, every time anyone got sick I immediately thought they had cancer. No matter if they just had a cold, I thought it was cancer. And when Brandon couldn’t reach me, it made him think I may have been in an accident. I felt my heart break just a little bit more.
“Anyway.” He stepped back and grabbed something from the steps. He held out a small box to me. “I have a little surprise for you.” Even through the dim light I could see his grin shining.
I felt little acrobats doing flips in my stomach as I opened up the small white box. “Brandon…” I had trouble breathing as I stared down at the bracelet. Its beautiful dark-blue glass stone flanked by two small white chunks of sea glass sat perfectly in the box atop a piece of purple tissue paper. “Brandon,” I said again, my heart feeling a toxic mix of joy and sorrow.
“I saw how much you liked it when we were at the beach.” He ran his hand gently through my hair.
“When did you drive all the way back to the beach?” I kept staring at the bracelet.
“Marissa, you’re funny. I didn’t drive back. I got it that day. When I sent you to get a table for us to eat lunch.” He took the bracelet from the box and began fastening it around my wrist.
“Brandon,” I said aga
in. But before I could continue, his lips were on mine. The kiss was electric, and my brain became foggy. His face was still inches from mine after our lips parted. “I have to tell you something.”
Chapter Eighteen
He wrapped his hands around my waist and pulled me closer to him. “What do you want to tell me?” His voice was soft and deep.
The warmth of him so close to me made me want to start crying again. I was so sick of crying. It’d felt like I had been crying for years, not always outwardly but internally, like a leaky faucet that only I could hear dripping inside me. The sorrow. My body had been filled with a deep, buried pain that I never fully let out.
I thought about the survival mode I had put myself in. The way I had to stay in a state of disbelief just so I didn’t have to accept my mom’s death. My thoughts were always focused on the moment, not on what had happened, so I felt like it was okay to not think about my mom as being… dead. In a way I would pretend in my mind that she was just away on a business trip — although she never traveled for her job — and that someday, somehow, she’d come back. Maybe she’d bring Marc back with her. It sounded crazy but I know it worked because the handful of times I let myself fall into the reality of it all, when I’d totally focus on the fact that I didn’t have my mother anymore, that’s when I’d lose it. I’d turn into a heaping pile of moans and tears on the floor. In those moments, I felt like I’d never be able to pull myself out of the darkness. Like the grief was going to cause me to implode, and I’d disintegrate into its clutches. I didn’t want to feel that place, so I continued on, living instead in a surreal state.
But there I was, with Brandon’s soft hazel eyes looking down at me, wondering what in the world was I was thinking. “I just…” Hot darts poked me behind my eyes. The words of psychotherapist Janet Lillyhood rang in my ears: “The only way to finally free yourself of the pain you’re feeling is to experience it. From that, you’ll be able to heal.” Oh, forget you, I thought to myself. To Brandon I said, “I just don’t know how to thank you. That’s all.” I looked up at him and let his warm, easy smile wash over me.