by S. M. Soto
Days passed in a blur of sleepless nights and exhaustion, thrusting me deeper into the whirlpool of depression. The nights were torturous, and the days weren’t any better as I walked around in a stupor. I felt like I was drowning, slowly being ripped away as I grasped desperately for the surface hoping to float back to reality.
For the last three years of my life everyone has had to walk on egg shells around me. I didn’t talk, I didn’t laugh, I didn’t even cry for a while. My aunts and uncles worried about me, I lost friends because I stopped being the “fun” Aliza that everyone knew, and instead turned into someone no one recognized. Someone I no longer recognized; a hollow version of myself that represented the death that constantly surrounds me.
So I isolated myself completely. I didn’t care about anything or anyone anymore. I didn’t want to be Aliza Anderson any longer. Her name brings pain and an onslaught of hurtful memories. I’ve avoided all human interactions as often as humanly possible.
With my family gone, nothing else seems to matter. Sharing all my experiences, hanging out with friends, laughing, and crying; I can’t do any of that without the guilt and the pain lingering like a dark shadow in the back of my mind.
What’s the point in all of it if the most important people aren’t here to witness any of it?
The guilt eats away at me every single day of my miserable life. My worst fear is losing all the memories I have of them. I replay a different one each day. Some aren’t always good, but I’d take the bad memories over the good any day, just to feel close to them again.
I think back to all the Christmas mornings we spent in the snow piled outside our house. My dad would build a fire, while my mom slaved in the kitchen to make a festive meal for us. My brother and sister would start the yearly snowball fight with their usual ribbing antics.
“You’re going down, Aliza. I’m feeding you snow for breakfast.” My brother’s voice is still as fresh as the snow we played in. My response was always the same. With a roll of my eyes and a knowing smirk, I’d ball up the ice-cold snow in my hand, until my fingers burned from the ice.
“In your dreams, booger.” I’d retort, aiming straight for his red cheeked face.
Since I was the oldest, I’d wake up early and make the trek from my house to my parent’s—less than a one-mile radius. With Rosie tagging along on my hip, all bundled up, we’d jump right into the fun, making snow angels on our backs and laughing at the antics of our family.
With a pent-up sigh, I close my eyes and take a moment to realize just how much of my time I’ve spent wallowing in my self-pity.
My mom’s sister Jenny never stopped bugging me about getting out, and continuing to live my life.
She would always say, “Aliza, look at what you’re doing to yourself! Do you think your parents would be proud of how you’ve shut down and stopped living your life? They would want you to be happy sweetie. You have to live for them—build a future, do all the things Nathan, Aria and little Rosie won’t be able to do.”
But how do I do that?
How on earth do I live for them if I died the day they did? Every aspect of my life is shattered into pieces that are irreparable. Not even the best glue can put the broken pieces back together—I’m a lost cause.
So instead of moving forward with my life I went out and got a shit job as a distraction. I settled. Partly because my aunt kept nagging me, but also in the hopes that it would occupy my mind long enough to forget the pain. But ultimately, none of it mattered. When the day was over, and I was back home and alone with my thoughts, it all came crashing back to me like a tidal wave. The grief, the pain, the hopelessness and the nightmares. God, the nightmares.
There was no way around it. And I accepted that as my life. Pretending that I was okay worked for me. Going to work every day pretending like everything was fine, then coming home and breaking down only to do it all over again the next day; I never questioned that. Now, I sit here in my bed right back to square one. Its seems like I take a half step forward only to be knocked five feet back and flat on my ass.
My eyes stare up at the ceiling unblinking for what feels like hours, counting the small cracks until I get an idea.
I pick my phone up off the end table, and scroll through my contacts until I find who I’m looking for. I listen on my end of the line as I wait for my call to go through.
“Aliza?” Aunt Jenny picks up on the second ring sounding shocked. “Honey hi! How are you? We haven’t heard from you in a while. We started to worry.” She quickly recovers now, concern clear in her tone.
Aunt Jenny’s always been good at making me feel bad for not calling. So much like my mother. That’s one of the many things I miss most about my mom.
“Hi, Aunt Jenny,” I mumble sheepishly into the phone. I prop myself up against the headboard and listen intently on my end of the line as I await the dreaded wrath of my Aunt Jenny. It’s what I get for not calling as often as I should.
“Wait a minute baby girl let me get your uncle.”
I breathe a sigh of relief when she doesn’t tear into me for not calling sooner. Instead she yells at the top of her lungs in hopes to get my uncle’s attention.
“Peter! Baby! It’s Aliza!” Aunt Jenny’s shouts echo over the phone. I smile with a shake of my head.
“Peter, I don’t care if you’re having a conversation with Jesus H. Christ himself, get over here!” I pull the receiver away from my ear until her shouting ceases.
Still the same Aunt Jen and Uncle Pete. The thought makes me smile.
“So sorry about that honey, you know how your uncle Pete is. He’s in the damn garage again trying to fix something that doesn’t need fixin’. I swear that man would live in there if he could. Thirty-four years later and he’s still a damn pain in my ass. I tell ya,” she grumbles.
“I need a favor, Aunt Jenny,” I say seriously.
“Whatever you need Aliza,” she says without hesitation.
It warms my cold heart.
“Can you watch over the house for a while? I’m leaving soon. I, uh, just need to get away for a bit, you know.”
My aunt is silent on the other line for a beat, almost making me regret this phone call.
“Is everything okay sweetie? We heard about what happened at work.”
The trepidation in her voice causes my heart to constrict; I close my eyes and blow out a deep breath into the phone.
“Heard about that huh?”
“Small town, baby girl. I wouldn’t be surprised if half the people in Berks County know by now,” she scoffs.
I roll my eyes knowing she’s right. In all my twenty-two years here in Bernville, it’s always been the same. Gossip gets around faster than a damn speeding ticket.
When word got around about the death of my family I became the center of Bernville’s daily gossip and rumor mill. And sadly, I’ve been the talk of the town ever since. More than half of the town folk looked at me with pitying eyes and some with the slightest bit of jealously.
The few town folks who have close to nothing, look at me like I made this happen just to get the money, which is sick. No amount of money can make up for the loss of my family. The clearing of my aunt’s throat jostles me out of my thoughts.
“Honey, I know you’re still in a hard place but if you’re in any kind of trouble—”
I quickly cut her off, “I’m fine, Aunt Jenny. I swear. I just really need to do this for myself. Shouldn’t be gone longer than six months; I just need someone to sporadically check on the house. Just to keep everything in check for me while I’m gone. I have the bills covered.”
“Of course, sweetheart. Me and Peter will take care of things for you. And please call us while you’re away. We’d like to know you’re okay, once you settle.”
The last time I spoke to Aunt Jenny was four months ago, and that’s not for her lack of trying.
“Will do, Aunty,” I say guiltily.
“Take care of yourself, Aliza. We love you.” Emotion was thick in
her voice.
“Love you guys, too.” I sigh. “I’ll call soon. Bye.”
“Bye, honey,” she says with so much love, it stings my eyes.
I hang up the phone and start doing research on where I can go. I’ve lived in Pennsylvania my whole life. In one of the smallest towns here, I might add. I’ve never even been out of state. My parents never had a reason to venture out of state so we never traveled much. This town was everything to them—home of our roots and memories.
In Bernville, we get snowed in for what feels like half of the year, so naturally any kind of trips to beaches or lakes are completely out of the question. I’ve always dreamed of living on, or near the beach but I’ll settle for anything at this point. I’m hoping some sunny weather or change in scenery can penetrate this darkness.
I shift my laptop onto my legs and google ‘beach towns in the U.S’. Tons of links pop up on the page and I bite my bottom lip battling with which one to click first. My hand hovers over the mouse, and I can hear my pulse quicken.
Oh, screw it.
Clicking onto the first link I see, I’m granted with a long list of California cities that have beaches.
Well, I have always wanted to be a California girl.
Inhaling a deep breath, I close my eyes and let my finger fall on any name, deciding that wherever it lands, that’s where I’ll be staying. My finger falls on the screen and my heart pounds wildly in my chest. I peek open my eyes and let them adjust to the brightness of the screen coming face to face with three words that will hopefully change my life.
San Diego, California.
I scramble on my laptop to open a new tab, typing in San Diego. I click onto the image results of google, and a wide smile spreads across my face.
Holy shit.
San Diego is surreal. Seriously, I can’t believe people get to live here every damn day. Picture after picture is either of a glittering beach, modern sky scrapers and high-rises over-looking the water, or lush palm trees lining the streets. It’s paradise. And I immediately know without a shadow of a doubt that this is the only place I can see myself in. It’s the exact opposite of Bernville, and that’s where I need to be. Out of the ordinary, and out of my comfort zone.
Chapter Three
Stepping off the plane at the airport was…different. I’ve never traveled anywhere by plane and I surely haven’t traveled anywhere alone—even here in the crowded and bustling airport it feels lonely. An onslaught of memories flood in unannounced. My mind wisps through memories I’ve shared with my family over the years. I can’t help but feel like a piece of me is missing without them here.
In rapid succession, images of my family filter through my brain, replaying memories imprinted on my soul. I close my eyes, recalling Aria and Nathan hurtling childish insults at each other in the back seat while dad turns the stereo higher, blocking out their constant, incessant fighting. Rosie, unbothered by the impending brawl in the backseat, would gurgle and laugh, always clapping her chubby hands in joy. The word mama falling from her lips every few seconds.
That was the longest three-hour ride in my life, but now, after everything that’s happened, it’s also my most fond memory. Our family wasn’t perfect by any means, but we were a family, no matter what trials and tribulations we were going through; we loved each other.
The memory sends a pang to my heart and I press the ball of my palm into my sternum to relieve the ache. I quickly push those depressing thoughts away, unable to be sidetracked with my crying. I refuse to be held down by my grief on my first day of healing. I’d like to think of this trip as my road to redemption in a sense.
The weather in San Diego is perfect—better than I imagined. There’s not a cloud in sight, just the endless clear blue sky. The sun is bright and warm, yet the ocean leaves a cool breeze around you. The weather here will definitely take some getting used to, mainly because Bernville has extreme uncomfortable weather. It’s either really damn hot, or really damn cold.
I take in the flurry of people that are milling around me, going about their days without stopping to appreciate their own beautiful city. I inhale a deep breath and close my eyes. The smell of the ocean air makes a smile tug at the corners of my lips. I think I might like it here.
On the cab ride to my condo I sit back in the seat and watch the lush green palm trees whip past my window, along with the tanned California people out and about.
Using the money in my savings account, I rented a small place in condominiums near the beach in Point Loma, San Diego for six months. Enough time to explore and find myself.
When we pull up to the condos, the first thing I notice is they aren’t the best looking compared to the other beach houses I saw on the drive here. That is most likely the reason this spot was so cheap.
Upon stopping in front of my condo, I gather my luggage and make a mental note to contact Aunt Jenny about having some of my other stuff shipped here. I only brought the bare necessities: clothes, shoes, and personal items I can’t live without.
I’m snapped out of my thoughts when the cab driver shoots me an annoyed look. He rubs his fingers together indicating I haven’t paid. Oh crap.
I grimace and apologize profusely while digging through my purse for cash. I thank him with another apologetic look and an awkward wave. Cab drivers in San Diego don’t mess around when it comes to their money—duly-noted.
I stand on the sidewalk with my luggage in hand taking in the place before me for several long seconds. I eventually force myself to move forward. The condos are not the most lavish looking places but they do give off a homey vibe that sets me at ease. My condo is located on the first level. To the left of my new place are the neighboring condos, and to the right is a row of four quaint houses.
I reach under the mat in front of the door and find the lone key the landlord left for me. Firmly in my grasp I twirl the ring that holds the key between my fingers nervously before putting it into the keyhole listening for the click. I gently push on the door handle and watch as the door swings open to reveal my new home for the next couple of months. Once inside I scan every surface and conclude it’s a lot roomier than I initially thought it would be. For the first time in a long time my lip twitches into a smile without the help of anyone else.
The remainder of the evening is spent checking out the rest of the place and unloading my stuff into the bedroom. The condo is in dire need of cleaning. The landlord left a few pieces of furniture from the previous renters so I lucked out in that department. Overall, the layout is simple. It’s not an extravagant place by any means.
The front door opens into a wide and bare sitting room that was displayed in the ad I saw online. The light from outside pours in through two-identical semi large windows on the opposite wall of the living room/sitting room. Just beyond that is an average sized kitchen with cabinets that are a clear maple color, a small black microwave, and a matching black dishwasher. The refrigerator is the only white appliance in the kitchen; I stare at it for it minute too long wondering who the hell thought it would be a good idea to throw the odd color in the mix. To the right of the kitchen is a small hallway with off white walls and wood floors that matches the kitchen cabinets. On one side of the hall there are two doors: a closet door, and a laundry room next to it.
The walls are all painted an off-white color, and the once white carpet in my room and the living room is no longer white either. It’s obvious this place needs a bit of TLC, but I think that’s the point. This is a chance for me to express myself in a new environment. Decorate in any way I feel I need to—the newfound possibilities are endless.
I search through the cabinets throughout the condo looking for any forgotten cleaning supplies, but come up empty handed. I run my hand through my hair and let out a frustrated breath. Why did I not stop to buy cleaning supplies?
I walk down the hall into my room and search for anything in my luggage that can double as cleaning supplies. I sift through my shirts and pants, tossing out shoes and anything el
se that might be in my way. A loud bang from outside my window causes me to jolt violently. I yelp, and flinch backward flipping my luggage over in the process. Some of the contents from my bag scatter onto the floor and I internally groan. I place my hand over my wildly beating heart, simultaneously pushing myself off the floor.
I hesitantly walk toward the window and peek through the dusty, flimsy blinds, sighing in relief when I find the source of the noise. Outside of the condos, across the way, a group of guys in front of a black pickup truck are tossing a ton of surf boards into the bed. The guys are irritatingly loud as they stand around laughing. It’s almost as if they’re competing to see who can be the loudest.
Assholes. Rubbing the elbow that I landed on, I turn toward the mess that’s now on my floor from my accident. Seriously Aliza, get a handle on your nerves.
Kneeling, I start picking up the small tubes of toiletries one by one and set them on my bed. No use shoving them back in my luggage now. My hand freezes mid-air at the picture frame lying face down on the floor. My heart gives apprehensive thumps at the idea of seeing it. I refuse to go anywhere without it. It’s the last good memory I have of us all.
My family.
I pick it up with shaking hands, running my finger over the precious faces in the photo. They all mean so much to me—just staring at the photograph hurts. That searing pain in my chest returns with a vengeance as I stare at the photo in my hands helplessly. A fat tear splashes onto the glass, and I make no move to wipe it off as it slowly runs down the picture.
An ugly cry wrenches free and I clutch the frame to my chest tightly. My sobs wrack my body with each hiccupping breath I take. Clenching my eyes closed, I crumple onto the carpet with the frame still held tightly in my hands. The only noises around me are my sobs and the lonely silence that I can’t ever seem to escape. I lay on the floor rocking myself, willing the pain to go away. Instead, all I can focus on is the hollow feeling in my chest that hurts far beyond any other pain explainable. It clouds what’s left of my life in a blanket of darkness.