by J. L. Rizzo
It was an accident. It wasn’t intentional. He was a kid. He isn’t malicious. He’s actually a thoughtful, generous person. He did more for me on one day a year than I was capable of doing myself the other 364 days.
Who am I to condemn him? It seems like he’s punished himself enough over the past seven years. I’m not someone who will ruin his life because of an accident that happened years ago.
It was tragic. It was unfortunate. And it changed my life forever.
But it was still an accident.
The one thing I forced myself to do over the last year was to direct my anger at the circumstances, not the victims. Crew was also a victim. He doesn’t need my wrath. He needs my forgiveness.
In the silence, I’ve learned forgiveness.
Forgiveness is the strength of heroes.
I am my own hero.
While walking to my car, I turn for one final glance at my father’s grave, then I notice it.
There’s a manila envelope on the back of my father’s stone that I hadn’t noticed before. I immediately know who it’s from.
What baffles me is when Crew could have put it here because I’m usually at my father’s grave in the late evening, shortly before the actual moment of the accident. Since the marker wasn’t clean when I arrived early this evening, it means that it’s been here all day. Or even before today. It means that Crew has already been here, and he probably won’t be coming back.
Which disappoints me because I have so many questions for him. When was he planning to tell me about the accident? When he gained enough trust? When he captured my heart so completely that I’d forgive him immediately? Why didn’t he make himself known the night of the accident? Why didn’t he approach me on the one-year anniversary? What was he planning to do with all the photographs?
It was during this past year that I realize that I don’t know Crew very well at all. I don’t know where he grew up exactly. I don’t know his favorite movie. I don’t know what sports he played as a kid. I don’t know what food he likes. I don’t know how old he was when he first kissed a girl. I don’t even know his middle name.
I only know that he loved me enough to make me believe in myself. I became the best version of myself after having met him and spent a few hours a year with him.
And I loved him for that.
I loved him for helping me see beyond the spotlight to what lies beneath in my heart. I loved him for understanding the pain of loss that I struggled with every day. I loved him for sharing his story with me. I loved him for making me feel like a nobody whenever everyone else I met made me feel like I was different somehow. Just because I could play the piano.
Summer Perry.
The envelope is heavy and rigid, containing photos I’m sure.
I’ll never get the answers I want by standing here holding the damn thing. So I do the only thing I can think of to start answering my questions.
I open the envelope.
27.
Summer
Crew’s letter might gut me, but I need answers.
Summer,
Losing a beloved parent too soon is one of the worst pains imaginable. At 10 years old, I felt shocked, scared, sad, angry, and lost all at the same time. I was only ten years old, which is way too young for a child to deal with such formidable feelings. Many times, I didn’t even know how to feel, so I just felt overwhelmed, kind of numb. It was a lot to handle.
Even though losing my mother was the worst part of it all, lots of things changed at the same time. My father had to suddenly take care of two young boys in his own authoritative way, minus the love and smiles we were used to. Sebastian became a liability, pushing his limits to touch the edge of death.
Friends changed. They didn’t always know how to talk to me, so most of them kept their distance. I learned quickly who were my “real” friends, the ones who stayed in my life during the dark moments. The relatives stopped bringing all the food that cluttered our counters, and the phones stopped ringing. Soon it was just me — alone, scared, and missing my mother so damn much that I felt hollow inside.
For a while, Sebby was the only person I’d reach for. No one else knew how much it crushed me to lose my mother, except him. At first, we talked about her, looked at pictures, watched videos. Sometimes that helped keep the darkness away. But sometimes the darkness was too all-consuming, and I’d have to fight for my next breath. Sebby wasn’t as strong as me, and he often gave in to the darkness. I distanced myself from him as I watched the terrible path he continued down. I think that’s why I took care of him for so long, though. I felt like I abandoned him when he needed me the most. But I became the person he turned to for help. So I had to keep myself together to be strong for him.
But then I had no one to reach for when I was in need.
Sometimes it was hard to be friends with him. It was hard to be friends with lots of people. They meant well, but they often didn’t say things that were helpful. Usually I just needed someone to listen and be there at the end of my reach, not someone who was ignorant and tried to fix me. So when they offered advice, it just made everything worse. Then I’d feel bad for feeling bad. I’d feel like I should be moving on faster than I was, that I needed to get over the grief before I was ready to let her go. I felt better either on my own or in the company of those ignorant of my situation, which is probably why I liked traveling so much. No one knew to ask me about my parents. Which, at times, I felt grateful for.
As I got older, I learned that to have good friends, I needed to be a good friend. I kept in touch with some childhood friends that stuck with me after my mother died. I also made some new ones who began to change my life. We were there for one another, supported each other, hung out together. We were basically like brothers, and it felt really good to belong again. Being friends with those guys filled a void that had been growing for years. While they never truly understood my loss, I was thankful for them. For a long while, time was on my side. Time was my teacher, my guardian. Time helped me see through the darkness.
Until…February 2nd happened.
And no one had a fucking clue what I became all about.
Hatred. Anger. Resentment. Fear. All wrapped up into a screwed up package of self-loathing and desperation. That night, I learned how dark life can truly become. And I opened the door to invite the death that I thought I deserved. But for some reason, I was spared, and I became so damn resentful of God for choosing me to live.
I knew what I took away from you. The fatherly talks, the laughter, the joy, the hugs. I stole it from you, in more ways than one. But even worse, I knew what I introduced into your life. All the bad feelings, the tears, the dull future that I had designed for one of the world’s brightest stars. I took away the man that would one day walk you down the aisle. I took away your children’s Grandfather. I took away your chance to talk to him about how he felt on his own wedding day or on the day you were born. I stole everything you cherished. And I couldn’t forgive myself for any of it.
I was in a very bad place when we spoke for the first time, Summer. I hate like hell that I was, considering that I’ve been waiting to talk to you since I was five years old. But that night, you trusted me with your secrets. You told me things you probably never said out loud to anyone. Which, in turn, made me want to trust you with mine. I felt like we were reaching out for one another, Summer, like we were each other’s compass through the void. In each other, we found empathy or belongingness or, at the very least, a sympathetic ear. You understood the feelings I had, and I didn’t have to explain a single word of it because you felt them just as deeply.
And you know what, Summer? It felt so damn amazing to know that there was someone that I could help because I experienced this grief. Not just for a late night drunken rescue but to help mend your sad heart. To be able to make you smile, even laugh…to see a spark of joy in your eye, even for a moment — it awakened a place deep in my soul that had been dead for nine years. I couldn’t give it up. I wanted more, so
much more. I craved your conversation, your laughter, your sadness; I craved you. And I couldn’t wait until the next year so that I could see you again.
It felt good to be with you, even if it was just for a day. For one day, someone else understood my pain in ways that no one else even tried to comprehend. For one day, I was simply a man who made a girl smile. For a day, I wasn’t the screwed up mess that I labeled myself to be. And I never wanted that day to end.
I also didn’t know how I could make it continue, knowing what I did to you. You always deserved to know the truth. But I never knew the best time to tell you. When you were sad? That would’ve made you sadder. When you were happy? That would’ve killed the smile. When we first met? You never would have given me a chance with your heart. When you trusted me? Then I would betray you. I always wanted you to know, Summer. But the child inside of me was too confused and too scared to tell the truth.
I’m not telling you all of this to convince you to forgive me. Even with time, God knows I have never forgiven myself; how could I possibly expect you to? But I think that over the past few years, we’ve both felt deep feelings for one another. I have fallen completely in love with you so many times. I never want you to think that I lied about any of that. In fact, I’ve only told you one lie — about my responsibility for the accident. Everything else you saw or felt from me was the sincerest truth.
Last year, all of my dreams came true. After 14 years of waiting to speak to you and five years of seeing you for only one day, you finally came home with me, to my house, because you wanted to. Time was precious. You didn’t leave and get on a plane and fly away from me for another year. You let me hold you, feel your hands, touch your skin, kiss your lips. I woke up to you, to the sound of your breathe, the smell of your hair. It was heaven. You let me open my heart to you, and I felt you open your heart to me. I gave my soul to you that day. Then when we went to New York, you let me comfort you. I got to hear you play your heart’s songs. I kissed you all through the night. Our entire time together, the whole 36 hours, was magical and surreal and everything I wanted it to be. I never wanted it to end. I wanted it to go on forever…for as long as we both shall live.
But with my dreams coming true came my nightmares. You discovered more about me in the minutes that you saw the pictures and read the letter than I wanted you to see at that moment. You learned that I had lied to you. You realized what a despicable human being I really am. And you recognized your hatred for someone who could hurt you in the worst possible way. In that night, I wanted time to end it all.
When you walked away from me in that jail cell, you left with my heart in your hands and my soul on your heels. I’ve spent this entire last year trying to figure out how to piece myself back together without you in it. Because honestly, it’s probably better that I’m not in your life. I’ve never wanted to cause you more pain than I already have. I wanted to make you happy, make you feel safe, make you feel loved.
And I’m failing.
Time is winning. Time is the master.
With time, you’re forgetting me. You’re moving on. I hope to God that you’re happy. because honestly, I’ve only wanted to see you happy. And I’d do anything to see that happen for you, even if it means that I’m not in your life.
I’m telling you this because I want you to know that everything between us was real. Last year, you experienced a world of shock — between me, your mother, and your bandmate. I’m sure it was difficult to recover from, and I’m sure you had doubts about who and what to believe. I never wanted you to doubt yourself or your strength. You’ve always been stronger than you realize.
Believe me, Summer. The feelings I showed you were as real as they could ever be. I’m telling you this so that, at the very least, you can walk away from this with as little damage as possible…and maybe even give you something good to remember from our times together. You made me want to be a good man, a man worthy of being with you. You showed me the Good and the Love and the Trust that I had been missing most of my life.
In being with you, I became good. And I’ll love you forever for that.
It took me 14 years to fall in love with you, Summer. And it took only a few words to destroy it all.
I’m sorry. I’m just so sorry.
I won’t be coming to the cemetery anymore, Summer. I won’t intrude on you and the time with your father. But I will be at the diner with a plate of banana waffles waiting for you, every year.
I love you more than time can ever give us.
Crew
I have no idea how I’ll be able to look through the photo book Crew included with his letter because the tears are blurring everything I see.
Crew was broken. I can’t let him continue thinking that I hate him. That I’ll never forgive him. That I never fell in love with him.
I need to give him the closure that he just gave me. So I’ll go to the diner.
But first, I need to open the book.
I love that it’s an old school photo book, where the pictures slide in an out of the plastic slots. I’d expect nothing less from such a brilliant artist whose talent runs deep. His photos are stunning, as I expected them to be. Each photo looks as though his heart took the picture — they’re full of life, depth, and mood. The lighting captures the feeling of the photo so genuinely that I can’t help but be moved by them. Some are in color; some are black and white. There are pictures of him as a boy that I assume his mother took. He had a sparkle in his brilliant green eyes. His smile is infectious. There are some photos of him a little older, maybe as an early teenager. But the sparkle is gone. Crew looks like he’s being pushed down by the weight of his sadness, like his spirit has been crushed. His chin tilts down, his eyes look bleak, and his smile has been replaced by a melancholic pout. My heart swells for this poor boy who missed his mother.
A few pictures of me are next. Many are taken before I knew Crew existed, like when I was sitting under the tree in high school reading a book. There is a photo of me when I was very little, about 7 years old. I was at the park with my parents swinging on the swings. I remember being there — it was for a neighbor’s birthday party. I’m stunned to realize that Crew was there, too. He has known me for a long time.
There are photos of me sitting in front of my father’s headstone — brushing it, staring at it, sobbing for it. He captured me completely — some photos are gloomy and grief stricken, as I wipe at the tears on my face. Others exude a silent hopelessness, as I sit in silence waiting for my fate to change. The girl in the photos is so lost; I want to wrap her in a blanket and tell her that everything will be ok.
Next are some of the photos he took when he asked me to be his muse. I’m looking at the camera, and I’m actually smiling. I see the tiniest spark of joy begin to flicker. The hint of a smile crosses my face. And I lose my breath for a moment, grateful that Crew not only knew what I needed but provided it for me.
Hope.
Hope that my fate hadn’t been sealed in stone. That I wouldn’t live all my days under the dark cloud. That there are other people who know, who understand, and who want to help.
I never needed family and phone calls and casseroles to help me grieve my father. I sure as hell didn’t need the spotlight plastering the news everywhere. Time was never on my side. It just tick-tocked me into a dark depression so deep that I couldn’t even see that I was there.
I needed things to be different. I needed things to change. But first, I had to change.
Crew helped me change. He made me feel like I could start my whole life over and take back control. He helped me realize that I didn’t have to continue to be “Summer Perry, the Pianist.” He helped me just be “Summer Perry, the Girl.” And I’ll love him forever for that.
“Summer Perry, the Girl” started to figure things out. And Crew needs to know.
Walking toward the diner, I spot Crew on the bench — our bench, where my life started to change. He’s like a statue, looking straight forward, sitting upright on the
bench with his bag between his feet. His hair is longer again, and I still like the man-bun. He has also got stubble growing on his face, like he forgot to shave for a couple of weeks.
For a moment, I contemplate not sitting down; I don’t want to disturb him. But there’s too much to say. As I walk up, I see only his eyes move to my feet for a second, then they resume staring forward. I sit down about three feet away from Crew. He doesn’t look at me or even acknowledge me in any way. It’s like he’s waiting for an absolution. It feels absolutely wonderful to sit and share the silence with him. I like that he’s not forcing conversation. I like that he’s as comfortable as I am listening to the nothingness. I like that he’s still, in his own way, making me feel like a nobody.
But things need to be said.
After about five minutes, I decide to break the silence and pave the way for some healing conversation.
“Autumn,” I say, without looking at him or even moving my body at all. Crew’s only response is a deep inhale. “That was supposed to be my name. Autumn.” I turn my head to look at the spot in front of his shoes. “But I was an early baby, a preemie. So my parents decided that naming a daughter ‘Autumn’ who was born in July might be too confusing. So they changed my name…to Summer.”
Looking straight again, I continue to re-introduce myself to Crew as if we’re strangers. As if he doesn’t know me. As if I’m a nobody.
“My favorite movie is The Matrix. I hate shopping, I love the beach, and recently I’ve discovered that I love banana waffles with blueberry syrup.” I hear a faint chuckle when I say that. “Oh, I also like to play the piano.” Crew doesn’t say or move at all while I’m talking.