“Well . . .”
“You’re not cutting school again?”
“I’m taking tomorrow to figure some things out, but Thursday, I’ll be back, in all of my classes, for good.”
“Are you still mad at Mr. Harper?”
“No. He was right, you know, about how I should gather courage and get on with my life.”
“And Shawna?” she asks softly.
“Ummm. Grams has been talking to me a lot lately about how destructive it is to hold onto anger. But Shawna . . .”
Amber stands waiting for me to complete my sentence, but no more words come to me.
“You know, it really wasn’t all her fault.”
“I know. And she got kicked out of Hamilton High for fighting with me, when really, I’m the one who hit her. She didn’t even hit back.”
“I saw her at the Habitat house yesterday,” Amber says. “She told me she likes it better at Sojourner. Everybody works at their own pace, and there’s no in-groups or out-groups.”
“You saw her?”
“Yeah. We’ve all been working on the landscaping at the Habitat house. Did you think everything stopped when you withdrew from life?”
I’m quiet—thinking about what she’s said.
“I’m sorry. That sounded mean.”
“It’s just been so hard,” I say, trying not to let tears come.
Amber gathers up her stuff and opens the car door.
“Bye, Sister B.,” I say as she gets out of the car.
“Bye,” she says, leaving silent air where I want to hear her call me Sister K.
I get up at six-thirty in the morning, put on jeans, a T-shirt, and a sweatshirt. These used to be my tightest jeans, but now I have to tighten the waist with a belt just to keep them up. It seems like a long time since I’ve wanted to eat anything. I could probably make a lot of money if I wrote The No-Fail Broken Heart Diet.
After I finish my second hot, steaming cup of tea, I put the cup in the dishwasher. I’ve promised Grams I’ll not skip meals anymore, so I get fruit, cheese, trail mix and a bottle of water and stuff it into my backpack. I brush my teeth, then get my journal and creative writing folder, along with my favorite pen and an extra, and add those to my backpack supplies. I leave a note for Grams, telling her not to worry if the school calls about my absence. I’ve taken a day to get myself together. Tomorrow I’ll throw myself back into school.
I’m not certain what the schedule is for the twenty-seven bus, but I know if I wait long enough it will come along. I sit on the bench at the corner of Garfield and Alameda, half-reading Jane Eyre, half people-watching. A youngish, tired looking woman sits beside me. She is carrying a large, cracked, vinyl shoulder bag, and a small paper sack which I take to be her lunch. She sits quietly on the bench, both bags on her lap, staring straight ahead. I notice that her hands are thick-skinned and tough looking. Maybe she cleans houses for a living. Some people have such hard lives—I’m going to try not to feel sorry for myself anymore.
I go back to reading Jane Eyre. She has been deceived by her love, Mr. Rochester, but she forgives him. Also, having finished reading Angela’s Ashes, I know Frank McCourt forgives his drunken father. I think about how Grams is always telling me I’ve got to get past my anger at Marcia. I’m not sure I can be as forgiving as Jane Eyre or Frank McCourt. I’m not even sure I want to be. But I definitely want Amber to forgive me. Maybe everything’s all related, and I have to learn about forgiving in order to be forgiven? The idea makes my head spin.
Finally, the twenty-seven bus pulls up and I and the young woman with the tough hands board it.
It is a slow trip to the foothills, stopping every two blocks to pick people up or let them off. The bus is crowded by city hall—standing room only. Then, after the welfare office, it is nearly empty again. I’m the only one left at the very last stop. As I step down off the bus, the driver, a big, burly woman with a kindly face, asks, “Shouldn’t you be in school today?”
“I’m off track,” I tell her, as if I were on break from a year-round school. It’s not exactly a lie. I’ve been “off track” for over two weeks now.
“Oh,” she says, then closes the pneumatic doors behind me.
I start out on the trail to Clark’s Peak. The friendly fall California sun is warm on my back and I soon peel off my sweatshirt and tie it around my waist. The scent of sage is fresh and strong, mingled in the refreshing pine-filled air. I breathe deeply, purifying my smog-wearied lungs.
At the place where we found Baby Hope I pause to recreate that scene in my mind—the nearly dead baby, gaining breath and color as Grams worked with her. Again I reflect on how uncertain life is. The “what ifs” flood through me.
I put my sweatshirt down on the ground, covering sticky pine needles. I sit cross-legged, yoga style, then get my journal and begin writing.
What if Grams and I hadn’t happened along the trail that day four years ago? Such a simple decision on that fateful morning—should we hike Big Santa Anita Canyon, or should we stay closer to home and hike along the Clark’s Peak trail? We changed countless lives in the choice of Clark’s Peak. Baby Hope’s of course—it gave her a life. And Sarah Mabry’s—it meant she was convicted of attempted murder rather than actual murder.
Finding Hope turned me away from childhood toward adulthood, making me realize the importance of my actions. Maybe some of the doctors and nurses and paramedics who took care of Baby Hope were changed, too. Who knows? Then there’s Hope’s new family—her mom, dad, grandparents, and all the other people Hope will touch in her whole lifetime. What if she grows up to develop a cure for cancer. That could happen. Or, whoa! What if she grows up to be a mass murderer? And then, there would be all the people murdered, and their devastated families and friends. Or, the happy ending, all those people cured of cancer, and their relieved families and friends. All because of that one simple decision to hike this trail.
I go on to other “what ifs.” Like, what if I’d not seen Tyler and Shawna together that night? Would I still be in love and happy, instead of feeling lost and empty? Is it true that what you don’t know can’t hurt you? I don’t think so. If you’re driving, and you don’t know how to use the brakes . . . If I were going along right now, thinking everything was just fine with Tyler, wouldn’t that be like living a lie?
An hour must have passed since I first sat down to write. My back is tired and my butt is numb. Slowly, I get to my feet and stretch. I take a large Fuji apple from my backpack and bite into it. The crisp, sweet flavor catches me off guard, reminding me of the first time I ever tasted a Fuji apple. I remember the careful way Tyler opened his Swiss army knife, and how he cut the apple in slices, working around the core instead of quartering it. We slowly savored the taste and texture, and then, having nothing left but the core, we kissed. Our apple-fresh lips met and we kissed, really kissed, for the first time.
I pick up my backpack and walk the rest of the way to the peak, wanting to forget that kiss, wanting to forget that there will be no more kisses with Tyler.
At the peak I turn and look out over the valley. The sky is pure blue and cloudless, untainted by the usual industrial strength smog. I can see the large brick buildings on the college campus where Tyler and I used to park. To the west is a big stone church with its steeple reaching upward. It is easy to identify the Hamilton High football stadium, where only three short weeks ago I sat with Tyler and our friends. Three weeks ago and a lifetime away.
From where I stand, I can figure out where the Habitat house is. I can’t exactly see it, but I know it is there.
Further south, in the Whittier Hills, a huge Buddhist Temple casts a faint, rosy reflection. Best of all though, the sight that has always thrilled me on the rare occasions of such visibility, is the gleaming ocean, the demarcation between land and water and then, in the shimmering distance, Catalina Island. I drink in the vision. Such days come only once or twice a year, and I am lucky to be here this day, as Grams and I were lucky to have
been here on that day four years ago. Sometimes life presents us with gifts, like this day of such beauty, or the opportunity to rescue the baby on the trail. And then, smack! In the dimmed light of a nursery office, life turns cruel.
I haul back and, with all my strength, throw my apple core out over the cliff. I’m glad to be the only one in the picnic area this morning. I get out my writing materials again and sit on one of the creaky wooden benches. My pen rushes to keep up with my thoughts. First there’s Tyler, then Shawna, Amber, Grams, Marcia, Jack, Mr. Harper, Coach Terry, Blake. Every hurt, real and imagined, balanced by pleasures small and large. Everything I can’t express out loud, the sweet thoughts and the hateful, murderous thoughts. They come without censorship. Anger, love, disappointment, jealousy, guilt, rage, hope, the innermost hidden thoughts and the silliest nonsense, all fly across the paper, page after page. When my hand gets so tired I can’t write another sentence, I tear out a blank piece of notebook paper to use as a kind of placemat, and set my lunch stuff on it.
Slowly peeling the orange, I read back over everything I’ve written this morning. It’s barely legible, I’ve written so fast. That’s fine. I don’t want anyone else to read it anyway.
I’ve written a lot about Amber, and how important her friendship is to me. How wrong it was of me to tell her secret, even to someone I trusted with all my heart. How wrong of me it was, too, to withdraw from everyone around me. Through all of this writing, I think I’ve figured out that just because I’ve lost Tyler, doesn’t mean I have to lose everything else, too.
One of the things that shows up in my writing is the idea of giving people chances. I wrote about how Tyler kept leaving messages for me, asking me to give him a chance. And then how Jack had told me all he wanted from me was a chance. Then yesterday I was begging Amber to give me a chance. The Harp says when we notice recurring themes or events in our dreams, we need to explore below the surface. In our journals, too, if the same subject or theme keeps showing up, unbidden, it’s a sign that our unconscious mind is sending us a message. Is my unconscious mind trying to tell me something about chances?
I mull these things over as I slowly eat away at the chunk of jack cheese sitting next to the peeled orange on my notebook paper. Everyone who loves me, Grams, Amber, Jack, keeps hinting, strongly, that I should listen to Tyler. But no one else can really understand how fragile and shattered I feel at the very core of my being. How can I possibly open myself up to more hurt?
Twelve Cub Scouts, in uniforms, come rushing into the picnic area. Two men, dads I guess, come dragging along behind.
“Carl! Carl! I don’t want to have to tell you again—keep your hands to yourself!”
“Yeah! Carl!” says a big, pudgy kid with a belly befitting a beer drinker.
I can tell already these are scouts working on their bickering badges. I pack up and walk back down the hill. Once out of earshot of the den, I stop and look out again over the valley. The afternoon has brought a slight haze now, shielding Catalina from view. Maybe it’s the beauty of the day. Maybe it’s a light shed by writing. Maybe it’s finally being tired of misery. Whatever. I feel peaceful. Worried and guilty about Amber. Hurt and betrayed by Tyler, all of that is still there, but that’s not all I’ve got now. From a secret place within me, I feel an old strength rising. I’ll work things out with Amber. I’ll get past this thing with Tyler. I’ve decided. And I’ve decided to listen the next time he wants to talk.
Chapter
24
Gather courage. Gather courage. That’s what I keep telling myself as I walk toward the creative writing classroom. Yesterday, it seemed simple. I would just walk in and face everyone. Today, though, I’m not sure I can do it. My heart is pounding and my mouth is all dry. When I get to the door, instead of opening it, I turn to walk away.
“Uh, uh,” Harper says, juggling his thermos in the same hand as the stacks of papers and books he always carries, and gently taking my arm with the other.
“It’ll be okay,” he says, standing at the door, his arms too full to open it.
Megan and Kelsey come up behind us, reach around and open the door.
“Hey, look who’s back,” Kelsey says, all friendly.
“It’s about time,” Megan says.
I can’t look at them.
“Hi,” I say, gazing at the floor.
Harper leads me inside, then goes to his desk and dumps his armload of stuff. I walk to the back of the room, to the far corner, and sit down. Blake comes back to talk to me.
“Hey, come sit with us. Today’s group work.”
I shake my head. He sits down beside me.
“If Muhammad won’t come to the mountain, the mountain will come to Muhammad,” he laughs.
“Blake . . .”
“No. Come on. We need you.”
“Not today,” I say, wishing there were a window I could jump from, anything to get away. But no, we’re in the basement.
“Okay,” Blake says, “but you’re missing a lot.”
He walks back to his seat near the front. Tyler comes in just as the bell rings and flops down in his usual place. I know he didn’t notice me when he came in, but I see Blake whisper to him and then he turns to find me. For the briefest moment our eyes meet, then I look away. But I see enough to notice he looks tired, and thin, and sad.
During quick-write I don’t want to write about anything I’m feeling—nervous, scared, embarrassed being in the same classroom with Tyler, where probably everyone by now knows how he and Shawna have made such a fool of me. I write about the desks, the chairs, the floor, the ceiling, the lights, Mr. Harper’s thermos, only inanimate things. Emotionless things.
Once I glance up to see that Tyler is tasting a seed. Blake looks all confident. It feels like a scene from years ago.
Harper doesn’t call on me to participate. I sit through the whole class, my head down, gazing at the desktop, not hearing what’s going on around me, waiting for the bell.
When I walk out into the hallway, Tyler is waiting for me.
“This is the last time I’m asking,” he says. “Can we talk?”
I nod my head.
“Meet me at the bench after you’re finished with volleyball practice.”
I nod my head again, fighting tears. As he walks away, I notice that he is still wearing our promise ring. What a joke. But I’m not laughing.
Tyler is not at the bench when I get there. I sit down and pretend to be reading Jane Eyre. But all I can think of is Tyler. All I can feel is hurt. All I can do is try not to cry.
After ten minutes I decide he’s not coming. Who cares? Just as I stand to leave, though, he comes running, top speed, around the corner of the main building. I sit back down.
He dumps his backpack on the ground and sits beside me on the bench. He tries to talk and catch his breath at the same time. “Afraid — puff — you’d — puff, puff — be — gone.”
“I thought you weren’t coming,” I say.
“I needed to go home after school — puff — to pick up clean overalls for work.”
Tyler takes a few deep breaths, then continues.
“There was plenty of time. But then Mom insisted on keeping the car to go to the store. So I had to literally run back here.”
Tyler pauses and gives me one of those long, intense looks.
“Listen to me, talking like it’s you and me, in the old way, when there’s so much else.”
He is so familiar to me, the hint of fresh soil in his healthy clean scent, the tiny scar at the edge of his left eyebrow. But his face looks dark and dull—older. Tears gather in his eyes.
“Can I hold you?” he whispers. “I just want to hold you.”
I say nothing. He puts his arms around me and with a firm gentleness pulls me close. I lean into him, clinging to him. We are both sobbing, great convulsive sobs.
“I love you. How could you ever doubt that? I’m lost without you,” he says.
“But if you loved me . . .”
How could you? I think, but I can’t choke out the words. The vision of Tyler with Shawna enters my mind. I pull away and Tyler pulls me back. In spite of the vision, it feels so natural to be in Tyler’s arms . . .
We sit drenching each other with tears, my head on his shoulder, his head on mine. Amber walks past us, slows, then walks on.
“Do you have the car today?” Tyler asks, wiping his face on his shirt sleeve.
I nod.
“Let’s go somewhere a little more private.”
“Okay,” I say, wanting to get away from him and to never leave him, both at the same time.
1 drive to the college campus and park at the same spot where Tyler gave me the promise ring.
“I will always love you, you know, whether you love me or not,” Tyler says, rubbing the ring on his little finger. It looks looser than it did when he put it on earlier this month, when life seemed good.
“How can you say that? You love me and you’re . . . you’re . . . banging Shawna.”
“But I did that because I love you.”
“What kind of crazy thing is that?” I’m so mad, I’m yelling now. “That’s as bad as those creeps who say things like, ‘I had to kill her because I loved her so much.’”
“It is not! Can’t you listen for once?” Tyler is yelling now, too.
“Okay! Okay! I told you we could talk. So say everything in the world you need to say to me because once we’re out of this car, that’s it. I never, ever want to see you again!”
“No! You need me as much as I need you! I could tell by the way we held each other! We love each other and that’s how things are!”
“How can I love you anymore when I keep seeing your bare butt humping Shawna? In my dreams, when I’m awake, I keep SEEING THAT!” I’m screaming, crying, pounding the steering wheel so hard my hand hurts.
Tyler takes my hand and holds it tight.
“Stop, Lauren. Just listen. Breathe deep. Slow deep breaths,” he says. Still, after all this, Tyler can get me calmed down.
“I decided, before I gave you the ring, that I wouldn’t pressure you about sex anymore. That I would let it go—not try to make you break any promises to yourself.”
If You Loved Me Page 19