Where All Things Will Grow

by N. K. Smith

  “B-better. She’s still sad b-but I think she’s happy for me.”

  He nodded and I knew he was ready to change topics. I was able to predict the shifts better now.

  “Your hands look good.”

  I nodded.

  “Have you felt like biting them?”

  I shook my head. It was one accomplishment I was proud of. Now when I was frustrated or upset, I played music, and if there wasn’t an instrument around, I composed songs in my head. When that didn’t work, I focused on something else. I still had to sit on my hands from time to time, but it didn’t happen a lot. I chewed lightly on the inside of my cheek sometimes, too, but that was far less destructive.

  “Do you think you’ll have issues functioning in a large city?”

  “I-it’s only as b-big as I m-make it,” I answered quietly. I’d thought a lot about this. I would probably have issues when I first got there, but I could stay in one area until I felt comfortable and then explore more of the city. Stephen could only take off two weeks to help me acclimate and then I would be on my own. No one would be there to hold my hand, but I was determined to make them all proud of me.

  I knew that I could do it. I could be successful and live life without hiding under tables or behind people. I could be independent. Once I could prove it to everyone, including myself, I would be able to be with Sophie again.

  My hopes were that after a year, she’d move to New York to be with me and we could take care of each other again. This time we would be strong for each other and for ourselves.

  The move was months away, but I already missed her.

  “What are some of your fears?”

  I thought about it.

  “Failing. Being w-w-wicked. Ssssomeone hurting me. Ssssomeone hurting Sophie when I c-can’t be with her. N-not being gggood enough for J-J-JJJJuilliard. N-n-not lllliiiking mmmmy n-n-n-new therapist. D-disappointing everyone.”

  He gave me a knowing smile. “So same old, same old?” he asked in a lighthearted tone.

  “Y-yeah,” I said making my voice mirror his tone, “b-but I’m w-working on it.”

  She walked very carefully down the stairs and my chest tightened, but it wasn’t panic that seized me. It was overwhelming emotion.

  I loved Sophie Young.

  She looked so unsure of herself and nervous.

  “You lllllook so p-pretty,” I said as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

  She let go of the banister and looked at her feet. “These are okay?”

  I smiled as she wiggled a foot, impressed with her newfound balance. What I was told were ballet flats actually looked good and I knew that they were practical. Sophie would have broken her neck or some other vital part of herself had she worn anything else.

  I couldn’t stop looking at her. She blushed.

  “They’ll all look at me,” she whispered.

  “That’s b-b-because you’re b-beautiful.”

  Her blush deepened.

  “Jane’s meeting us there?” I nodded. Trent came back for this night, even though I could tell he didn’t really want to. It made Jane happy and excited that he was home. I was told they were going out the next day for matching tattoos or piercings or both.

  Sophie’s father told us to have fun and although I could tell he wanted to make a big deal of it, he didn’t.

  She was nervous, and her rapid breathing reminded me of my own when I was anxious. She wasn’t alone in her nervousness. I was on edge, too, wondering if we had made a mistake, or since it was my idea, if I had made a mistake for the both of us.

  She had come so far. Her speech was clear and crisp, even though she still fought to think of the correct words. Her limp had become less noticeable since she’d been able to regain use of her leg and arm. She looked happy.

  She let me touch her face and only once in a while would she flinch.

  Sophie was chewing on her bottom lip the way she did when she was agitated, but she looked so lovely in her green dress. I never thought I’d see her in a dress, but she’d changed a lot since I first met her. Some of the changes were involuntary – more of a side effect of her unfortunate medical issues, but a lot of it was just Sophie. Her hard work had resulted in the amazing being in front of me. We laughed and cried together. She rarely swore anymore and while there were times we became physically close and made out like teenagers did, she never pushed for sex like she used to. When she was craving something to soothe the ache of addiction, she spoke to people about it. Not me, but to friends in her support group. Sophie was choosing new things. She was turning away from Gollum and choosing to be my Eówyn.

  We hovered by the entrance, watching other people go in. I felt butterflies in my stomach, but I reminded myself I would be in one of the largest cities in the world in a few short months. I couldn’t let my nerves stop me.

  I thought that maybe I wouldn’t be able to convince her to go in. That perhaps her aversion was too strong and that we’d end up going home. I needed to get her to relax, so I took her hand and walked away from the entry.

  “You kn-know, I’ve b-been thinking.” I paused and she waited for me to continue. “If you w-w-were any character ffffrom a b-b-book, I think you’re Éowyn.”

  Once we were in a deserted hallway, I stopped and looked at her when she asked, “Why?”

  “B-b-because you’re not Gollum.”

  Sophie sighed. “That’s good to know.”

  “B-because once y-you w-wanted th-things you c-couldn’t hhhhave, but n-now, you’re at p-peace w-with who you are. A b-beautiful w-warrior. You d-do the r-right things for the r-r-right reasons.” She was quiet and I grew nervous again. “A-a-and if I’m FFFFaramir, you’re Éowyn.” I leaned down, bringing my mouth close to her ear. “They m-mmmet in the HHHouse of HHHealing, you know.”

  “And we’ll move across the river and have a garden where all things will grow?”

  Happiness flooded me as she remembered the passage of The Return of the King. “Y-yes. W-with joy.”

  She moved closer to me, her head pressed against my chest. “You’re trying to distract me from what’s in the gym.”

  I smiled and pressed my lips to the top of her head. “Hhhhas it w-worked?”

  “A little.”

  “I’ll hhhhhave t-to w-w-work hhhharder then.”

  She was already in my arms, but I moved her hands around my waist and held her close to me. She was back to being my girlfriend, and I knew she would always be mine, just like my heart would always be hers.

  Slowly, I began to lead her in a soft sway, a quiet dance that seemed to offset the annoying thumping music that came from the gym. In no time, I would be off to New York and she would stay here with her father, but I couldn’t focus on that. I had to focus on what was happening now.

  Right now I had her in my arms and we were dancing without music.

  Even though I hadn’t told anyone, I’d been practicing and this moment felt right.

  I took a deep breath.

  I began to sing and felt elated when I heard her breath catch at Otis Redding’s familiar words. I kept our sway steady and actually enjoyed the subtle tension in my body. I sang the song we’d danced to so long ago, back when we knew very little of each other. Back then I was scared that she would reject me and she was frightened of letting me in. When I thought back to the cold fall when I’d first met her, there was nothing but peace in my heart.

  Journeys through life were bumpy for most people. Some people sailed through life, never really experiencing the extreme highs and lows of it all, but others, like Sophie and myself, were conscious of every dip and turn in the crashing sea of life. Each one brought us more self-awareness, which only increased our bond. There was so much left in our journey that it would be impossible to predict all of it, but I knew that we’d conquered
some of the worst things imaginable, both individually and together, so there was nothing we couldn’t handle. The old wounds, while still present, were healing and I could feel the weight of the world lifting. All of the little battles we’d fought added up to a lasting victory.

  We finished dancing as I completed the song, both of us delighting in the smoothness of my voice. We walked back to the entrance of the gym. Simultaneously we both took a deep breath and prepared for what was to come.

  Together, we took the first step into the gym and exhaled as one, her hand in mine.

  After school, I return to the apartment I share with Sophie, and help her cook. The kitchen is a bit messy. She didn’t have class today, so she started dinner early. There is flour on the floor. Her food is just as good as it was before the stroke, but it takes her a little longer to create it. Like with everything, she makes little lists and sometimes she stops a task before it’s finished to begin something else, but it always works out just fine.

  Tonight we’re making a stew which is perfect for the fall evening. The windows are open and despite the sounds of the city coming up from the streets below, it’s peaceful in our little home. Sophie starts grabbing apples from the crisper and I realize she needs to be redirected.

  “Llllook at your llllist,” is all I say.

  I watch her out of the corner of my eye as I finish chopping the carrots. She straightens and takes the piece of paper from the counter and reads it. “Right.”

  She takes the apples and sets them in the strainer in the sink, but goes back to turn on the stove. She’s back on track. It usually doesn’t take much to get her there.

  We’ve talked a little about what she wants to do for school and for a career but she still hasn’t decided. Everyone agrees that taking a few introductory courses at NYU is a good place to start. She did well on her SATs, and despite the brain damage, she’s shown that she has the capacity to learn complex concepts and did very well last year at the community college. It’s the memory issues that trip her up. I think she’d like to do something creative, like cook or photography work, but it’s good for her to continue honing her academic skills and retraining her mind.

  She’s taking three classes a semester, but so far, she’s kept up with the course work.

  A year without her in New York was tough, but it helped me become stronger. I can help her now in a way I couldn’t before. I still have so many issues to deal with, but being around people is easier now. I can lead her through the city without getting lost and I know that even without other people around to help hold me up, I can deal with the things that make me anxious.

  That’s a big accomplishment because for most of my life, I always had someone helping me... saving me. My mom, Joseph, Stephen, Jane, Sophie.

  I don’t need saving anymore and neither does she. Our time together in Damascus didn’t heal us, but it did put us on the path to healing. At the time, neither one of us realized it.

  “Hhhow w-was your m-m-meeting?” She goes to meetings on Monday afternoons while I’m at school.

  I want to remind her to take her blood sugar, but I force myself to wait. It’s on her list and I try not to remind her to do things unless I absolutely have to. It’s important for her to be independent, but I won’t let her fail.

  “Cathy wasn’t there again.”

  “Cathy” is a woman who she thinks went back to using drugs. It bothers Sophie that the lady’s been missing meetings, so she’s been spending more time with her sponsor. She feels like if other people go back to it so easily that she will, too.

  “I-I-I’m sssssure she’s o-okay.”

  Sophie doesn’t say anything. She washes her hands and then takes her blood sugar. I’m relieved that she does. The rest of the meal is created in our comfortable silence. When it’s ready, we sit down in the middle of our living room and eat. We always eat on the floor. It helps that it’s hardwood, so even if something spills, it won’t stain.

  “You lllook p-pretty tonight,” I say. She looks pretty every night, but I like to say things like this to make her face brighten.

  It works and she smiles. “Do you like the food?”

  “Yes.” I figure it’s time to remind her about tomorrow. “I hhhave a c-c-concert t-tomorrow n-night.”

  She nods but I can’t tell whether she means that she already remembered or if she was just acknowledging it. “I-I-I hhhhave t-to p-p-p-play.”

  My nerves are showing and she notices. She picks up my hand, her fingers massaging the palm and then sliding down to squeeze each finger in turn. “You’re going to be great. Will you play that song I like?”

  The fact that she thinks I’ll do a good job makes me happy, but it doesn’t lessen the anxiety I feel. I know I’ll do well. I am acutely aware of the talent everyone tells me I have. I know that I can play any instrument well enough to garner applause, but being in front of people hasn’t gotten much easier in a year. When I’m on stage, I have to keep my thoughts on calming things like Sophie’s smile or Jane’s laugh. I think about my mother calling me “Elli-bear” and about the pride in Stephen’s eyes when I showed him the letter of acceptance from Juilliard.

  I can’t think about all of the people who paid money to listen to me. I can’t think of their eyes focused on me. When I play a concert as part of an orchestra, it’s easier, but tomorrow night it is individuals playing. I only have a half an hour stage time, but it’s still nerve-wracking.

  “I’m p-playing Chopin.”

  Her fingers are starting to relax the tension that always seems to begin in my hands. I love that she knows how to do this. When I was alone, I had no one’s touch to help rid me of the tightness and stress. We would talk on the phone or online and it would help just hearing her voice or reading her words, but her fingers on my skin or in my hair have always been like an instant sedative.

  “I like Chopin.”

  We talk in such simple words now. There are times when our conversations are incredibly in-depth and we both have to use a lot of words to get our points across but most times we know what each other is saying with only a few words. I like that.

  We clean up from dinner and spend the evening reading and listening to music like usual. Tonight we read something new. Sometimes we read independently, but reading aloud helps my speech and her comprehension, so we read to each other as much as possible.

  After reading, we get ready for bed. It’s one of my favorite events of the day. Climbing into bed with her is always so wonderful. I love feeling her warm body next to mine. She sleeps naked, but I always wear my pajama bottoms. It’s hard not to be self-conscious, even though I know in my heart and mind that she loves me the way I am.

  In bed with my shirt off, she runs her hands down my back and it still takes a moment to relax, but her touch is always worth it. I like running my hand down her side. The dip between her breast and hip is beautiful.

  Sometimes we have sex, but only when it feels natural to both of us. Neither one of us forces the issue even though I think we’d both like to have more sex than we do. Tonight I’m anxious about the concert tomorrow, so we just hold each other.

  She falls asleep before I do and I watch her breathe as the light of the moon shines in from the window. An ambulance races past, sirens blaring, but she doesn’t wake. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to sleep at all, so I just keep thinking about how much I love her. Her voice echoes in my mind. She keeps telling me over and over that she loves me, too.

  I focus on it until I feel like my body is relaxed enough to sleep. I press closer to her and smile to myself when she snuggles back into me. She’s good to me and good for me. I’m pretty sure she feels the same way about me.

  We help each other. We’re both on medication. We both go to therapy at least once a week and we both have groups we meet with in order to help us maintain stability and deal with our pasts, bu
t we have each other to help us continue on the path of healing.

  It would be easy to stop going to the meetings and sessions. It would be easy to not take our pills when we’re down, but we don’t let each other do that.

  So even as I fall asleep next to her, I know I’ll wake in only a few hours and the anxiety of the day will press down on me. I’ll worry and I might even shake with nervous fear, but I know she’ll be here to remind me that I’m strong; that I can do it. I know when Sophie wakes, she’ll know what’s wrong and, as always, she’ll know exactly what to say and do to make it right again.

  Elliott sits facing away from me as I trace the patterns of raised flesh on his back. He no longer flinches when I touch them, but he won’t let me do it for long. His knees are drawn up to his chest and his arms are wrapped around his legs.

  He’s staring out the window.

  Sitting up, I press my naked flesh to his back, rest my chin on his shoulder and whisper, “What’s wrong?”

  I can feel him breathing and I enjoy it. I wrap my arms around him as he shakes his head. I already know he won’t answer because nothing’s really wrong.

  I try to remember what is special about today. I kiss his shoulder and then move away, pulling on his blue t-shirt on my way to the wall. My schedule is there. It’s November something. It’s a Tuesday.

  Tuesdays we both have places to go. I study the words on the sheet of paper and remember that I have class. I look at his schedule, the one that reminds me where he’ll be at all times, and see that he has class, too.

  He’ll walk me to school and then go to his own. When I’m finished, I’ll wait for him to come get me. We’ll drink coffee on the way home.

  But there’s something else about today that I should be remembering.

  I look back at him and find that he’s still looking out the window.

  “We have something to do tonight?” I ask, vaguely remembering a conversation from last night as we ate dinner on the floor of the apartment.

  Elliott finally turns around and gives me one of his most tentative smiles. “C-c-concert.”