From the Wreckage

by Melissa Collins

  “He’s a friend. And a co-worker,” I snap. “I’m not even going to entertain your questions with answers. You’re being an asshole. Just like you were the last time something like this happened.”

  Throwing his hands up in the air, he yells in anger. “Of course this has happened before. And of course I don’t fucking remember it. So did you fuck him the last time, too?”

  Everything I’ve been able to keep in check these last few weeks breaks through. “What if I did? What would you care? You don’t even remember who I am? So now I’m not supposed to have friends?”

  As if I’d slapped him across the face, David stands there. The only movement is that of his chest rising and falling with his shaky breaths. His non-reaction spurs me on even further. “You know, not once in the two weeks since you’ve been here have you ever said thank you. I wanted you to live here so I could make sure you were okay, and maybe hopefully remind you of who I was. But it’s not working for me anymore. I can’t do this. I do nothing wrong at all. I have a conversation with a friend and you give me the silent treatment, like a child.”

  “You think this has been easy on me?” His voice, loud and booming, knocks me back and shuts me up. “I came here because I wasn’t allowed to be on my own. You offered your home to me knowing what was wrong with me and now you’re going to hold that against me?” His fists clench at his side so tightly his knuckles turn white. “Do you know what it’s like to know you’re supposed to love someone, but you can’t remember who they fucking are?”

  Tears sting my eyes, spilling down my cheeks. I’ve thought about how difficult things must be on him every single day, but I’ve never said anything for fear of upsetting him, for making him feel less than adequate.

  Leaving me to my tears, he storms out of the kitchen and down to what’s become his room in an apartment I’d hoped would only ever have an our room.

  Cursing myself for being some kind of hopeful asshole, I wish I had never opened my mouth to invite him here. I should have let him and his parents sort it out. He could have gone to his therapy sessions on his own, met up with Ian a few times, figured his new life out on his own. But instead, I let my love for him complicate things. My need to keep our past alive has gotten in the way of his future. And seeing him so broken and angry, so pissed off and furious because of my own selfishness, I can’t help but hate myself.

  I won’t deny I still love him, but maybe I love who he used to be too much to make room for who he is now.

  And the very harsh reality that he no longer has the same feelings for me as he used to is crashing all around me.

  With my heart in my stomach, I walk to his room, feeling as if I’m walking into the center of a black hole. Lightly tapping on the door opens it, and I catch a glimpse of him sitting on the edge of his bed. With his elbows resting on his thighs, he’s cupping his head in hands. His shoulders sag, weighed down by the heaviness of everything threatening to consume him.

  “Maybe you should move out,” I suggest, walking into the room.

  He turns his head to me, tears shining in his dark brown eyes. “I’ll be out by the time you get home tomorrow.”

  Nodding, I turn and walk out, before my heart crashes to the floor, breaking in half at my feet.

  “You look like shit,” Tim notices as I walk into the classroom the next morning.

  “Yeah, I know,” I agree, not even bothering to check my appearance. As I was getting dressed, my eyes were too puffy to even see what clothes I was picking out. For all I know, I could have left the house wearing a brown shoe and a black one. Luckily that didn’t happen. My pants, however, are the furthest thing from freshly pressed. And I’m pretty sure I unrolled my shirt from a ball in the bottom of the closet before pulling it over my head.

  Attire was not my main priority this morning.

  Breathing was.

  And it turns out that’s a rather difficult task when your heart stops functioning.

  He’s going to be gone when I get home. And I don’t know when I’ll see him again. Or even if I will ever again.

  “Wanna talk about it?” Tim asks, walking over to my desk where I’m currently sorting through some papers I was supposed to have graded already.

  “No,” I snap, immediately regretful of my tone. “Sorry. It’s just . . .” Cue the damn tears. They haven’t stopped since I curled up in a ball last night. I have a feeling they’re not going to stop any time soon. Centering myself with a few deep breaths, I choke out, “David and I broke up. At least, well, you can’t really break up with someone you’re not even with. But he’s moving out. We had a fight and I said it would be best for him to leave. And he agreed.”

  “Oh, Grace,” Tim soothes, pity filling his eyes. “I’m sorry.” Squatting in front of me as I hold my head in my hands, he runs his hand over my upper arm. “But maybe it’s better this way.”

  His suggestion makes my stomach roil. Not because he’s happy for my pain, or because he’s looking for some kind of in into my life. Because neither of those things are true.

  No, the reason his words sting more than a scalding burn is because he just might be right.

  Meandering through the rest of my day in a fog of numbness, I manage to survive until three o’clock. The moment I’d been dreading since I woke up this morning is rearing its ugly head.

  Sure, I could call Jade and head into the city for the weekend. I’m sure a few bottles of wine would help me forget.

  But then I’d wake up again. And the pillows on my bed would still smell like David. He would still be in my house, not in body but in spirit.

  And no matter where he is physically, he will always be a part of me.

  So, deciding to face my heartache head-on, I drive home, knowing full well no one will be waiting there for me when I get there.

  But what is waiting for me shocks me to my core.

  Grace,

  I’ve started this letter a hundred times, but I still can’t find the right words. I wish I could go back in time and stop everything that happened from happening. I wish I could remember who we were and all the reasons I loved you. But I can’t do those things.

  Seems like the only thing I can do is screw things up. You’re right. In the time I was here, I never once said thank you. But I didn’t say it not because I didn’t feel it. Because I did. I felt thankful and so much more. I may not remember everything about our past, but I remember every moment of living with you. Of waking up to the sound of you getting ready for work, feeling like a little puppy waiting for you to return. Helping you cook what used to be my favorite meals will always be cherished memories for me.

  I never told you this, but there were nights I’d lie in bed damn near willing my memory to return, to make the time we spent together come back to life.

  But it never happened and I am so damned sorry for that.

  Maybe in another life it could have worked out. Maybe in one where I wasn’t such a lost cause, I could love you the way you deserve to be loved.

  Please know I’ll miss you more than I can ever put to words.

  X—David

  “You ready,” Dad calls out from the living room. When I walk out there, he’s holding my bags, standing by the door. “You sure you want to do this? Nothing’s ever so bad you can’t fix it with flowers and chocolate.”

  “Not gonna happen, Dad,” I dismiss his attempt at help. “Let’s get out of here before Grace gets home. I don’t want to upset her any more than I already have.”

  Dropping the note and her spare key on the side table by the door, I swallow down the lump in my throat before turning to walk away for good.

  Because no matter how much I tell myself otherwise, I know I’m no good for her. All I’ll ever do is remind her of what should have been.

  Cluing into my quiet, Dad doesn’t say anything else the rest of the ride to my apartment. Thirty minutes later when we pull into the lot, tension fills the cabin of the car. Shifting the car into park, he says, “Are you sure you don�
��t want to stay with your mother and me? We got a spiffy new kitchen and everything,” he jokes.

  “Thanks, Dad. But really, I need to be home.” At least that’s the lie I’ll keep telling myself until some of the pain subsides.

  “What about driving? You can’t take yourself anywhere,” he adds, rubbing salt in the wound.

  “Thanks for the reminder, but really, I’ll be okay. I can order takeout and have groceries delivered. The stairs will take me a few minutes, but I can manage.” I unfasten my seatbelt and open the door. “I’ve got this, Dad. Thanks again for the ride and I’ll call you if I need anything.” Grabbing my bags from the back seat, I face my door, feeling as if there’s nothing but an abyss waiting for me on the other side.

  It turns out, stairs, even in a walkable cast, are a pain in the fucking ass. Luckily, I won’t have to deal with them again until my next physical therapy appointment on Monday. Staring at the empty apartment before me, I laugh at myself and my sad existence. It’s just me and this empty space for the weekend. I’ve only stopped here a few times in the last three weeks, either with my parents or with Grace. But this is the first time I’ve been inside. They’ve always been the ones to run upstairs and grab the things I’ve needed.

  Some things look familiar. Some don’t.

  The fridge is empty, but clean and the pantry is bare. I’ll definitely need to figure that out, though I’m sure Mom will be here tomorrow with bags full of food for me.

  My stomach twists in knots as I walk through my apartment. Even though I should feel at home, I feel like a foreigner invading someone else’s homeland. Nothing is familiar. Nothing is mine. A blurred haziness descends upon me as I make progress through the living room. There are a few pictures hanging on the walls, some on side tables and shelves. The one of me and Ian from what I assume is our academy graduation strikes a familiar chord. There are some of me and my parents, and again, those fall into place. Not the events, but at least the faces. The feeling of belonging and being loved.

  It’s a surreal sensation, walking through your own home, not recognizing everything in front of you.

  Figuring a hot shower will help me clear my head, I walk down to the bathroom. When I pull back the curtain, my chest tightens at what’s before me.

  On the shelf, next to my body wash are items that I assume belonged to Grace once. Flipping open the top, I inhale the sweet vanilla scent of her shampoo and I’m immediately transported back to her apartment. When she’d sit next to me on the couch, or walk past me in a breeze, her scent was everywhere. I longed to be able to bury my nose in her hair, pull her into my arms and nuzzle against her neck. But that would have been cruel. To make her think I remembered her when I couldn’t.

  Pushing down those feelings, I gather her things from the shower put them on the ledge of the sink. After wrapping up my cast, I shower quickly. Turning the water to near-scalding, I welcome the physical pain. That’s something I can manage. Right now, the mental shit is just too much to handle.

  In an almost robot-like state, I shut off the water, step out from behind the curtain, wrap a towel around my waist, and unwrap my cast. When I step into my room, I take a deep breath. The hot water strengthened my resolve a little.

  I’m alive.

  And whether I remember my old life or not, I’m here today.

  Except when I open a dresser drawer, instead of seeing my own clothes, I find Grace’s. Pulling out a T-shirt, I hold it up to my nose, smelling her sweet scent. No matter how goddamn hard I try to move on, she’s here with me, reminding me of who she used to be to me.

  “No,” I assure myself, strengthening my convictions once again. She can and should do so much better than me.

  After finding my clothes, I slide on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Digging into my closet, I find an empty box. With each item of Grace’s that I drop into the box, my heart empties a little more. After twenty minutes of scouring my apartment, I have a box filled with the things she left here, but the effect she had on my life stays with me. I can’t put those in the box.

  Her song will stay with me forever, lulling me to sleep each and every night.

  Sitting on the edge of my bed, staring down into the box, the realization hits me like a Mac truck. I might not remember her from before the accident, but every time I close my eyes, I see Grace. Thoughts of her from the last three weeks, from when she sang to me while I was in my coma, from rebuilding my new life with her as a main part of it, all come into a blurry focus.

  Fragmented thoughts scatter my brain. Could loving Grace now be enough to make up for not remembering how I loved her before? Doesn’t she deserve more than that? Do I?

  Looking over at the clock on my nightstand, I think about her and what she’s doing right now. I know her schedule. I know her life. Whether I remember who she used to be, I know her now.

  She’s on her way home from work and in about ten minutes, she’ll be walking through her door, only to be greeted by an empty apartment, just like me.

  That’s when the self-loathing kicks in. I’ve done nothing but feed her breadcrumbs of hope in the last three weeks. Relying on her for help. Needing her to take care of me. Allowing her to love me when I wasn’t sure if I could ever repay it.

  Flopping back on the pillow, I fold my hands behind my head. As I stare blankly at the ceiling, I try to calm my frantic brain, but it’s just not working. Grace is everywhere. She’s in my head and heart.

  She’s in my memories and my past. It’s just a matter of unlocking them.

  But right now, the very cold reality is that all I have left of her is in a box at the side of my bed. Needing some distance from her things, in the empty hope that it will distance me from her, I move the box to the top of the stairs. When I open the front closet, I see her hoodie in there. Cursing it, I tear it from the hanger.

  I can’t escape her.

  I don’t want to.

  But I should.

  She’s better for it.

  Rage fills my gut.

  I can’t figure any of this shit out. The only thing I can grab a firm hold of is how broken I am.

  Determined to box up everything she left behind, I turn my apartment upside down. Collecting everything that once belonged to her—books, movies, clothes, stupid little love notes taped to the inside of my study materials—I move through my apartment in a blind rampage. Things crash to the floor all around me and I simply don’t care. My sole focus is to erase everything about Grace from my life.

  When I’m through in the living room, I give the bedroom another pass. Emptying every single drawer, I make sure nothing of hers remains. Clothes flutter to floor, like thoughts of Grace, whispering in the wind.

  But when I open the drawer on my nightstand, my world stops spinning.

  A black, velvet box sits in the shallow wooden drawer. Too afraid to open it, but too curious not to, I hold it in my hands, turning it over time and time again.

  Only the sound of someone walking up my stairs pulls me from my frenzy.

  Moving with as much speed as I can, I hobble into the living room only to see Grace. Her face is tear-stained, her eyes puffy and swollen. Holding a crumpled letter in her hand, she stalks toward me.

  “The way I deserved to be loved?” Anger permeates her words, her voice wobbling, bordering on out of control. Shaking the letter in my face, I recognize the words as my own. “You’re sorry?” Venom mingles through her words as she mocks mine. “In another life? What about this one?”

  Frozen on the spot, I can’t find anything to say. She mistakes my silence for not caring. Stepping right into my face, she pounds her clenched fists against my chest. “I love you.” The paper crinkles in her hands. “I loved you then and I love you now. Don’t you see that?” Sobs wrack her body and the pounding subsides. She can barely catch her breath, but she talks through her breathless crying. “It’s always been you. From that moment you saved me all those years ago, you’re the only person I held in my heart.” With her energy spen
t, she relents on hitting me, letting her arms fall to the side. “You left your key,” she murmurs, resting her head against my chest.

  Trying not to touch her is like trying not to breath. Reaching up, I stroke my hands through her hair, it’s deep red color calling to me to smooth it out of her face. “Shh,” I calm her. But all we both hear is the sound of a black velvet box dropping to the floor.

  It pops open, displaying what I knew in my gut it would reveal. “What is that?” Shock washes over her, twisting her face into a painful sort of agony. “No,” she begs, covering her eyes. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know what could’ve been.” Stepping back from me, she back peddles only to meet the wall behind her. Repeating, “no” over and over again, the sobs return. She slides down the wall, cupping her hand over her mouth. Curled into a ball, she cries into her hands, broken and shattered and it’s all my fault.

  With the closed box in my hand, I move to sit next to her. Flinching away from my touch, she cries even more. “No,” she repeats again. “I can’t. It’s too much to take in.”

  And it is.

  Call it a sense of morbid curiosity, but I need to see what’s inside. Cracking open the box once again, a shimmer of light shines in my eye. I’d love to say that in that moment, when the sparkle of diamond nearly blinds me, that all of my memories return, every flash and flare of color coming back to life as if the answer simply lay within this small black, velvet box.

  That’s not at all what happens.

  I close the box, letting my head hang in my hands,

  Grace and I sit beside each other, slumped against the wall.

  Pieces of something significant scatter around me, but like a child trying to capture lightning bugs on a summer night, the light eludes me. My mind reaches for the thoughts, like hands outstretched ready to catch the green-tailed bug, but it collapses before anything real comes to fruition.