Living With Regret (8 page)

“Hey, Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you cried after your dad died. I was really worried about you, especially when you wouldn’t return my calls.” I called three times a day for over a week before he texted me a simple
I’m fine.
I got the point—he didn’t want anything to do with me. Or that’s what I thought.

I learned a long time ago he doesn’t like to get close to people. In a way, he prefers the solitude, because it was what he grew up with. His dad was busy in his shop or drinking, and he never knew his mom. I think I’m the only one he’s ever connected with on a deeper level, and I have no idea why he picked me. But in a way, I left him too.

The sound that’s all so familiar to me rings through the air, and my parents walk in, each with a cup of coffee in their hands. “Are you okay?” Mom asks, quickening her steps to the bed.

“Yeah, we were just talking.”

Dad scowls, focusing his chronic negativity in Sam’s direction. “Maybe, now’s a good time for him to leave.”

I open my mouth to argue, but Sam beats me to it. “I have to get back to work anyway.” Looking up, a burst of panic shoots through me. He’s the one thing that’s keeping me some version of sane. His sympathetic eyes connect with mine, and some of my anxiety fades when he winks. Him leaving will be better for both of us.

I nod, keeping my attention on him as long as I can. When his hand is pressed against the door, he turns and signals to me that he’ll call later. It’s something to look forward to. That’s going to be the key to getting through this.

I HAVEN’T SEEN MY
house in weeks, but as we pull into the driveway, everything looks the same as I remember. I only wish I could see the last day I spent with Cory as clearly. I’d tried so hard every day I laid in that hospital room, but I haven’t been able to come up with anything. It’s the most frustrating feeling in the whole world.

When the car comes to a stop in front of the porch, Dad quickly jumps out and opens my door. When we walked out of the police station, I expected him to say he had to return to work, but he surprised me by offering to drive me home in his car.

“Grab onto my arm,” he says, bending so he’s within my reach. I’ve gotten better on my feet, but I still need assistance because my balance isn’t where it needs to be. The doctor says with a few more weeks of physical therapy appointments, I should be good to go.

We take a few small steps together until my toes touch the stairs that lead to the front door. “Do you think you can handle these, or should I carry you?”

“I can walk,” I reply, lifting my right foot to the top of the first step. It’s not as easy as I thought it would be, but I’m stubborn. Besides, there’s only three.

The whole process takes forever, and by the time we finally reach the door, my body is exhausted. It’s definitely going to take some time before I can get back to normal activities.

As Dad closes the door behind us, I take in the two-story entryway and expansive living room. It’s pristine, highlighted by a wooden spiral staircase. Everything in here is exactly how I remembered it. Beautiful. Classic. Extravagant. If only everything in life could stay like this.

“Your mother was going to make up a space for you in the family room so you don’t have to go up the steps. Is there anything you want from your bedroom?”

“No! I mean … I don’t want to sleep down here. I need my own space.” It comes out harsher than I intended, but I need time to think, and I’m not going to be able to get that down here with everyone around me.

“Fine, Rachel, but when we’re not home, I want you downstairs in case anything happens,” he says, rubbing his fingers along his forehead.

“Which is all day every day,” I say under my breath.

“What?”

“Nothing. Can you take me up to my room? Please.”

Just as he’s about to help me to my room, Mom walks through the front door with a bag of groceries in her hand. “I didn’t think you guys would beat me here.”

“Things went pretty quickly at the police station. She has a good lawyer,” Dad says, smiling almost as if I’m not even here. He met his goal for the day. It doesn’t matter how shitty I feel … making it out of the police station was the least of my worries.

Mom pats his shoulder and heads for the kitchen, yelling back at us as she goes. “Did you show her where she’s sleeping?”

“She wants to sleep in her room. I’m going to help her up now.”

“Okay, I’m standing right here! Quit talking about me like I’m not in the room!” I yell, feeling weeks of frustration coming to the surface.

Dad looks down at me, brows furrowed. He’s probably wondering where his sweet, obedient daughter went. He needs to get used to this version of me because the old one’s never coming back. “Let’s get you upstairs so you can get some rest.”

The process doesn’t seem as bad this time, even though it’s more steps, because I’m driven to have some alone time. Neither of us says a word, and by the time we reach the top, Mom’s right behind us with a bottle of water and a plate of her homemade chocolate chip cookies. There used to be a time when I’d devour them on sight, but I could care less right now. This is an emotional mess that carbs can’t fix.

When I’m standing safely at the threshold to my room, Mom hurries inside to put my snack on the table next to my bed while Dad excuses himself to return to work.

“I’ll be home for supper,” he announces as he walks down the hall. I kind of doubt it since he rarely is. Today’s not going to be any different.

The first thing that catches my eye when I look into my room is the bulletin board above my desk. It symbolizes years of memories … years of Cory. There’s a picture from our first date, our first dance, our first Christmas, and all the ones after. Everything on that board made me happy at one point. Everything on that board symbolizes, in full color, what I no longer have.

“Are you okay?” Mom asks when I don’t move from the spot in the doorway.

“No,” I say honestly, feeling warm tears slide down my cheeks.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, just help me to my bed. Please.” I choke back my emotion when I notice the picture on my nightstand. It was the day of our high school graduation. We were both so happy, with no idea of what was to come one year later. We’d both had our graduation parties the night before, so after the ceremony was over, we headed to the parties of a few of our friends. I’d felt like all arrows were pointing my life in the right direction, especially when he took me out to the lake after the last party and we talked, well into the morning hours, about the future. And now I realize, too many lives are cut too short. There’s no notice, but if you live every day like it matters, like what you do or say really means something, there should never be regret.

When we met with the police earlier, they mentioned they wouldn’t be filing charges unless new information forced them to do so. I don’t think it matters where I am at this point. It’s not going to change the sadness that’s drowning my soul.

He’s been gone for thirty-seven days, but every one seems just as bad as the last. They don’t get easier. I don’t think about him any less. The worst day of my life is on constant replay.

Mom holds my arm until I’m comfortably seated on the bed.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I just need to be alone.”

“Okay,” she says softly, pulling the pink blanket my grandma knitted from the end of the bed. She covers my bare feet, knowing I’m usually cold whenever the air conditioner is turned on.

When she walks out of the room, I stare up at the ceiling, needing a break from the images of him. But there’s no break; the images live in me, day in and day out. I fight them, not because I don’t want to remember, but because they punish me. My guilt has become a demon, tormenting me whether I’m awake or asleep.

Contrition.

Remorse.

Shame.

I want to repent, but I can’t see through the fog long enough to even begin that process. I’ve wondered if things would be different if I could remember the details of that night, but I know it wouldn’t change a thing. It’d still be my fault. Nothing’s going to change that.

Drawing on the little bit of strength I still have inside of me, I glance at the photo by my bed again. Cory was always smiling in our pictures. The sun was bright on graduation day, letting the brown speckle show in his blue eyes. His light brown hair curled in the humid air, but that was when I liked him most. Clear eyes. Curls. Dimples. That’s when he felt like he was mine. I can tell by the way I’m looking at him in the picture, I was thinking the same thing then … he was the axis to my world.

Now, I just feel like I’ve been stranded on an island, and the worst part is I was the one steering the ship that got me here. I just want to go back to my old life … to
our
old life. It wasn’t perfect—nothing’s ever perfect—but it was better than this.

My phone vibrates in my purse, bringing me back to reality. Looking at the name on the screen brings me some relief, like listening to the soft, calming melody of a song.

“Hey,” I say, swiping my sleeve against my cheek.

“Hey, are you home?” his voice is soft, like he’s trying hard not to wake someone. It’s how he’s talked to me since the first day he came to the hospital.

“Yeah.”

In a way, being home is worse than being at the hospital. Sure, the scenery is better, and the bed is more comfortable, but having Sam here isn’t really an option. The hospital room felt more like mine than this room ever will.

“What are you doing?”

“Crying.”

I wear my feelings on my sleeve in vibrant color. People who hide them expend too much energy that could be spent solving their problems and living in the goodness that life offers. I’ve never questioned that until now. What if the problem isn’t fixable? What if this is all that’s left of my life?

A minute or so goes by before he replies. I’m sure he’s listening to my soft whimpers, trying to find the right thing to say. Sam doesn’t run from conflict, but he doesn’t technically embrace it either.

“Do you want me to come over?” he finally asks, even quieter than before.

Do I want him to? God, yes. He’s the only person who’d be able to wipe these tears from my eyes with more than his sleeve. Waking up in the hospital and learning what happened to Cory was like a rainstorm, and Sam’s been my rainbow. If you’d asked me weeks ago if I’d ever be friends with him again—like this—I would have seen no chance, but life has a way of bringing people back to us when we need them most.

If I were anywhere but this house, I’d invite him over in a heartbeat. He gives me an escape from the prison my mind has locked me in.

“I’m tired, but can you pick me up tomorrow. After you get off work?”

“Aren’t you supposed to stay in bed?”

“Please. There’s somewhere I need to go, and you’re the only person who I trust to take me there.”

He sighs. “Rachel—”

“Please,” I whisper. “The doctor said to limit my activities, and if that’s the only thing I do tomorrow, I’ll be okay. It’s not far.”

“Six-thirty, but Rachel, I’m going to make sure you’re home by eight.”

There’s something I’ve wanted to do since I found out what happened to Cory. Something I
need
to do.

“Thank you,” I say, feeling relieved.

“Get some sleep.”

“Night.”

I’m about to hang up when the smooth baritone of his voice stops me. “If you get lonely tonight, look up at the sky. The Big Dipper was still there the last time I looked.”

“I almost forgot about that.”

“I didn’t.” The only thing I hear is the sound of his breathing as I glance in the direction of the window. I hadn’t thought about the stars since we were kids.

“Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I hear the smile in his voice.

“Goodnight, Sam.”

When I finally hang up, there’s the hint of a smile on my lips. As kids, we hated when we had to separate and go back to our lonely, quiet homes. Sam came up with this idea that we’d look up at the night sky and find the Big Dipper. He said if we both did it, it was almost like we were together, even when we weren’t. I haven’t done it since elementary school, but the fact that he remembers brings warmth to my chest that’s been missing for a while.

Rising from my bed, I brace my hand against the wall as I take small steps toward the window. The Big Dipper isn’t the most exciting of constellations, but it was easily identifiable for us. It’s just seven stars, but they shine so brightly, standing out in the endless night sky. Looking up, I spot them easily and lower myself to my knees to fight the weakness in my legs.

With my chin resting atop my hands on the windowsill, I close my eyes and go back to better times, but memories that once brought a smile to my face only make my tears fall once again. I guess this is what it’s like living with regret.