Here Without You

by Jennifer L. Allen

  I unfolded the piece of paper, and frowned at the few short lines of text on the page.

  Anna,

  Sorry I missed you.

  I’m glad you’re home,

  and I hope you find what

  you’re looking for.

  Keep in touch.

  Ryan

  It was the most impersonal five lines I’d ever read. I’d seen Craigslist ads with more emotion than his note. We weren’t anything anymore, though. He didn’t owe me an eloquent message after I’d broken his heart. I deserved much less than even this…but it still hurt. We’d been through so many epic moments together. Ryan was once my everything. He was there on the worst day of my life, and he saved me. He saved me again a few days ago on a random street in a random city and brought me home. He had more feelings inside him than this measly note. At least he left his email address.

  Keep in touch.

  That was what people wrote in the yearbooks of classmates they didn’t intend to speak to after graduation. Did he really want me to keep in touch? Or was he just saying that to be nice? Nothing about his little note shouted at me to keep in touch.

  Reaching over, I opened the drawer of my nightstand—packed full of stuff I’d sift through later—and dropped the note on top. Closing the drawer, I rolled over and sat up.

  This wasn’t the time to overanalyze Ryan’s note. This was the time to bake.

  “Anna!” As if she had been cued, Ronnie’s voice rang up the stairs, right through my closed door.

  “I’m coming!” I yelled back.

  Taking one last look at my nightstand, I got up from my bed and left the room.

  Later.

  I’d overanalyze later.

  In the kitchen, Ronnie was propped up on a chair-back stool at the island. It was rigged with some sort of seatbelt attachment so she wouldn’t fall off. In front of her was a mixing bowl and various ingredients. Mom was shuffling around the kitchen, pulling measuring spoons and cups out of drawers and cabinets.

  “Can you grab me a rubber spatula?” Ronnie asked me as I stepped in the room. Swiping one out of the vase-like utensil holder on the counter by the oven, I tossed it over to her, and she caught it with a grin.

  “Pre-heat the oven to three-fifty,” Mom called out, now hovering over a recipe card. I did as asked, then hopped up on the stool beside Ronnie.

  “What are we making?”

  “White chocolate chip cookies,” Ronnie smirked.

  My favorite.

  ~ 8 ~

  Anna

  “At the end of our last session, I asked you to come up with a list of activities you used to enjoy and some goals. Have you done that?” Dr. Matson was all business this session.

  “I did.”

  “Good,” she said, her white teeth glimmering behind her smile. “Care to share them with me?”

  This was the first step to getting better, trusting Dr. Matson and her processes. Taking a deep breath, I began. “I used to sketch,” I said, addressing the first item.

  “Your parents said you were very good,” she commented, and I nodded.

  It was no secret that I had been a good artist. My work was often featured in showcases at my high school. It wasn’t about conceit, either. As an artist, any kind of artist really, you had to have some level of confidence in your work. How else could you expect the public to?

  “What else do you have?”

  “I used to hike and sometimes jog.” Though the jogging was more Ryan’s thing. He had always been very athletic, and when he decided to join the military, he amped up his exercise.

  “Good.”

  “And reading. That’s the last thing,” I finished, dropping the torn piece of notebook paper onto my lap.

  “These are all good activities, Anna. Have you tried engaging in any of them since the incident?” Dr. Matson didn’t say (or use) the word “shooting” to describe that day; instead, she referred to it as the “event” or “incident,” or something of the like. I wasn’t sure why that was, but I appreciated not hearing it. I think she knew that.

  “Not unless running to the bus stop counts as jogging.”

  She chuckled, making a note on her pad. “I think not. How about your goals?”

  “College,” I answered quickly, wanting to ignore the rest of my list.

  “You wanted to go to Braddock Art Institute before, right?”

  “They have an excellent art program.”

  “It’s probably very competitive.”

  “Yeah, most serious art schools are.”

  “You haven’t drawn in years, and you have to finish high school.”

  “I know,” I said, looking down at the dumb little piece of parchment holding all my hopes and dreams. Hopes and dreams I thought, until just a moment ago, were still within my grasp.

  “I’m not trying to discourage you, Anna. I’m just reminding you that you need to crawl before you walk. Each goal needs to be broken down into smaller goals. Steps, if you will. We’ll get back to art school in just a minute. What else is on your list?”

  I looked at the next three words scribbled on the paper.

  Mom

  Dad

  Ronnie

  “I want to make amends with my family.” It was mostly the truth.

  “Tell me more about what you want to do there.”

  Shifting on the sofa, I sighed. This was harder than I thought it would be. “I want to earn back their trust. I don’t want them to worry about me anymore. I want to…to apologize for making them worry before. For scaring them and for leaving. I was…awful. I didn’t take them into consideration at all…”

  “You’re feeling some guilt?”

  “Yes. I’m feeling a lot of guilt where they’re concerned.”

  “And alleviating that guilt will make you feel better about you?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. I just want to make sure you’re choosing goals that will benefit you in the long run. I don’t want you to focus so much of your energy on other people, and not enough on yourself. If the end result of making amends with your family is a positive one for you, then I support that.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to support my choices no matter what?” I asked, quirking my lip as I remembered something that was said in group therapy at Three Lakes. I might not have participated, but I listened.

  Dr. Matson smirked back. “You’re too smart for your own good. How about I be the therapist and you be the client, hmm?”

  I glance at my lap to hide my smile. “Deal.”

  “Good. What else do you have on your goals list?”

  Eyeing the last item on the list, I hesitated.

  Dr. Matson noticed. “This one seems a bit more difficult for you.”

  “It is difficult,” I admitted.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “The day I was admitted to Three Lakes, I broke up with my boyfriend.”

  “Ryan.”

  “Yeah. We dated for almost four years. He was there…that day,” I didn’t need to tell her what day I was referring to. “He was also with me afterwards. Every day. I was awful to him. Really, truly awful. I broke up with him. Broke his heart.” And subsequently lost my mind.

  “More guilt,” Dr. Matson observed.

  “Yeah,” I said, wiping a tear from my eye. “I broke his heart and, when I bumped into him in Seattle—of all places—he was still so kind to me. I felt like the worst kind of human being. I’m sure he’s moved on, and I don’t expect anything romantic to happen between us, but I need to make amends with Ryan, too. I also need to thank him, for everything he did for me. He probably saved my life the day of the shooting, and he saved me again in Washington.”

  “And if something romantic were to happen? You two have a history.”

  “I’m not ready for that.” I meant the words as much then as I did when I’d said them to Ronnie.

  “That’s very mature thinking.”

  “I need to get better. I’m not really my
own biggest fan right about now, so how can I expect someone else to be? I just really want to feel normal again. Whatever normal is.”

  She smiled. “We’re going to work very hard to get you there.”

  I hoped so.

  Hope.

  It was all I had left.

  ***

  Back at home that night, I laid on my bed, propped up on my elbows, with my sketchpad resting on my bent knees.

  Dr. Matson and I had talked for the rest of our hour about how my activities could help support my goals. She suggested that engaging in my previous happy activities could provide assurance to my family that I was doing better and making an effort to change, which would assist in making amends. Then there was the obvious connection between drawing and college. We sort of left the topic of Ryan alone. He was gone, so it wasn’t like he was something that needed to be addressed immediately. Except that while he wasn’t physically present…he was mentally present.

  I couldn’t get him out of my head.

  I started to scribble lines and circles on the paper, knowing that I just had to put the pencil to the paper to start creating something. It didn’t even matter what it was, I needed to feel the familiar movement of pencil against paper…the light friction of graphite against parchment…the quiet scratching.

  I imagined Ryan’s dark blue eyes, and the way they appeared to shine when he looked at me—but only when he looked at me. The same applied to his smile. He had one smile, where the left side of his perfect lips quirked up slightly higher than the right, that he only gave to me. Memories flowed through my mind of those eyes and that smile, and I recalled never feeling more loved than I had when he looked at me.

  He was once my everything.

  And I was his.

  Shaking my head to clear it, I focused on the paper before me. My eyes widened in surprise at what was on it. I’d sketched him. Ryan. The dark, shiny eyes and crooked smile, perfect nose, and the sharp angles of his face. I’d captured it so well—like a photograph—and I wasn’t even paying attention.

  ~ 9 ~

  Anna

  My mother volunteered at a soup kitchen two days a week. I went with her one Friday, with the promise we’d go Christmas shopping afterwards. It seemed contradictory to me, serving at a soup kitchen, then spending an exorbitant amount of money on frivolous gifts. That, however, didn’t stop me.

  Honestly, I wasn’t interested in the gift shopping part of the day, I just wanted to go to the craft store so I could get some new paper, pencils, and charcoals. Mom and Dad were so thrilled I was expressing an interest in art again, they probably would have bought me the entire store if I’d asked.

  Serving corn and green beans to the guests at the soup kitchen put a smile on my face. I made an effort to make conversation when I could, knowing I was nearly in the same position back in Seattle. There were times I could barely afford the ramen noodles that were a staple of my diet. Working at the soup kitchen made me realize exactly what I had…exactly what I had taken advantage of by taking off.

  I should have sought help a long time ago.

  I should never have left home.

  I should have

  I should

  I

  “You about ready?” Mom asked, startling me. Nodding to her, I quickly rinsed the soap suds off the pot I’d been scrubbing and set it on the drying rack.

  “Thanks, Grace. Nice to meet you, Anna,” the outreach director called from across the room as Mom and I gathered our things. The nice older woman was cleaning the stainless steel counters of the facility’s commercial kitchen.

  “Nice to meet you, as well,” I said as I took my coat and purse from my mother’s outstretched hands.

  “See you on Tuesday, Claire,” Mom said as we left the kitchen. “How did you like helping out today?” she asked once we were outside.

  I fastened the large buttons on my pea coat to ward off the December chill before answering her. “It really made me appreciate what I have.”

  She looked at me with admiration in her eyes, and I had to look away before I teared up. “I’m proud of you, Anna. You haven’t been home a full week yet, but you’ve already made so many improvements.”

  “I’m trying really hard.”

  “I know,” she said, putting her arm around my shoulder and pulling me into her side. “I know you are. I just wanted you to know that we’ve noticed. You’re not the same girl you were when you left here years ago. Maybe one day you can tell me about your time away, but I won’t force you to.”

  “I’d like that,” I whispered. “Someday.”

  “It’s a date.” When we reached the car, she gave me one last squeeze and kissed the side of my head. “Let’s shop!”

  ***

  Mom had the foresight not to choose the Lakeside Mall for our shopping spree, instead we went to the small outlet center on the edge of town. It had fewer stores, but there were still plenty to choose from. An added bonus was that the craft store was in the same plaza.

  While she shopped for gifts in the outlet shops, I meandered the craft store and filled a cart with art supplies. My new supplies inspired and motivated me, and the moment we arrived home, I hurried up to my bedroom and sketched. I spent hours pulling images from my memory bank and drawing them: the spring flowers from my mom’s garden, Ronnie tipping her head back in laughter, and the old treehouse in Ryan’s backyard. I had many fond memories of that treehouse.

  Setting my pad to the side, I peered over at my nightstand, picturing the scrap of paper tucked inside.

  I wanted to talk to Ryan. Was that selfish? He’d moved on with his life, and appeared to be doing well for himself. He looked good and healthy. Would it be so terrible for me to reach out to him? He told me to keep in touch…did he mean it?

  Hopping off my bed, I went to my desk and powered up my old laptop, hoping it still worked. My room had been left untouched, so I imagined it would. I knew laptops didn’t last forever though, and mine had already been a few years old before I left. The log-in screen came up, and I pumped my fist in the air as I took a seat on the wooden desk chair. Success! I typed in my password, Ryan_0905, smiling as I recalled the September day we’d first met. A day that changed my life.

  Opening the internet browser, I pulled up my email account. I clicked to compose a new email, then got up and grabbed the folded piece of paper from its hiding place in my nightstand. Sitting down again, I began.

  To: Ryan Jacobs

  From: Anna Romano

  Subject: Hello

  Dear Ryan,

  I have so much to say to you and I don’t know where to begin, but first, I’d like to send you something, so if you have a mailing address you’d be willing to share, I would appreciate it.

  Now that that’s out of the way, I want to thank you. Thank you for bringing me home. I’ve felt more in the last week than I have in almost five years. I’m in therapy. I’ve only had two sessions so far, but I think I’m making progress already. I feel. I haven’t allowed myself to feel since that day. It hurt too much.

  I also need to apologize to you, Ryan. I was such a mess, and you suffered as a result of that. I’m sorry I closed myself off and ended up hurting you. I can’t say it wasn’t my intention because—sadly—I think it was. I wanted to push you away. I wanted to push my family away, too. I don’t think it was because I didn’t care about you, I think I knew I was all wrong inside. I think I was trying to be noble or something. I know what you’re thinking, it was a pretty shitty way to be noble. I agree with that now. But at the time…I just wasn’t right. I’m still not right. I have a lot to work on, but I am working on it. I want to be better. I don’t want to be scared and upset anymore. I want to be the person you all remember. A version of myself I can be proud of. Mom told me she was proud of me today. I appreciated it so much, but afterwards I kind of wondered how someone could be proud of me when I wasn’t proud of myself. Kind of like how people say you can’t love someone else until you love yourself. I don’t know. It
’s probably just a mom thing, you know? They’re supposed to love you unconditionally and all that. Maybe she sees something in me I don’t see in myself.

  I’m rambling. I’m sorry. Even after all these years, you’re still so easy to talk to. I hope you’re doing well, Ryan. I hope you’re happy. I hope the Navy is as fulfilling as you’d always hoped. I’m so proud of you for achieving your dream. Thank you for being there for me, even when I made it difficult. I’m sorry for so much and want you to know that I appreciate you…more than you’ll ever know.

  Take care,

  Anna

  I pressed “send” without re-reading the message, not wanting to give myself the opportunity to second guess any of my words. I wanted Ryan to see it all…raw and uncut.

  Now I hoped he’d write me back.

  ~ 10 ~

  Ryan

  Letting the searing hot water of the shower spray on my tense shoulders, I thanked my lucky stars I didn’t screw up during the training exercises I’d participated in earlier that day. My mind wasn’t right—it wasn’t clear.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Anna.

  In my line of work, air traffic control, you couldn’t have off days. You couldn’t even have off seconds, and I’d been a mess out there.

  I turned off the water and dried off with a towel, wrapping it around my waist when I finished. Exiting the bathroom, I walked to the kitchen of the off-base apartment I shared with one of my shipmates, Keith Rogers. After grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, I went to my room to check my email. I checked it three times a day, every day, since I left Lakeside, hoping Anna had sent me a message.

  There was never a message and the disappointment I felt…well, it was inappropriate. I shouldn’t have been so damn eager to hear from her. I should have let that chapter of my life close.