Living With Regret

by Lisa De Jong

  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.

  June 24, 2013

  TODAY’S NOT GOING TO be easy, but I’m the only one who knows that, because I haven’t let anyone else in on my plan for tonight. There are some things that just have to be done, no matter how much they’re going to hurt.

  “Are you going to be okay if I go into town for a couple hours?” Mom asks as she breezes through the living room. The woman has never worked a day in her life, but she never stops. If she’s not cleaning or cooking, she’s running into town. This errand. That meeting. This event. It never stops.

  “I’ll be fine,” I answer, looking up from my book.

  This morning she actually sat next to me for an hour trying to make plans for the rest of my summer. Inside I was screaming because, with the giant storm cloud hanging over my head, it’s hard to plan any sort of future, especially if it involves fun.

  “Your father has a trial today so he won’t be home until late, but I’ll fix us dinner when I get home. Is there anything you’re hungry for?”

  Clearing my throat, I look up at her anxiously. “Actually, Sam’s going to pick me up after work and get me out of the house for a couple hours.”

  She stops picking up, or whatever she was doing, and glances over at me. “It’s way too soon for you to be going out. You’re supposed to be resting.”

  “Jesus, Mom, I’m not going out to the freaking bar.”

  Her lips part as she turns and focuses her attention out the window. I’ve never been a big drinker, but now that one night will forever define me. She’s probably sat around wondering how many other times I’ve drank. How many times did I put the lives of others at risk? Honestly, that was the first time, and that’s what’s making it so hard to believe.

  “There’s somewhere I need to go,” I whisper, waiting for her to turn back around.

  When she does, her eyes are full of unshed tears. “I can take you. I have to decorate the church for the fundraiser this weekend, but that can wait.”

  Her defeated appearance softens me, at least enough to ease up on the battle—put my weapons away. “I’m sorry, Mom. I need to do this with Sam. It’s hard to explain, but it’s something I need.” My soul needs.

  “Okay.” She nods, crossing her arms over her chest. “If you start to feel sick or weak, I want you to come home right away.”

  “He promised to have me home by eight.”

  Without another word, she disappears out the screen door with her purse in hand. It’s always been my opinion that some people go to church because they believe, and others go to keep up appearances. For my mom, I think it’s about social standing and companionship. It’s an expectation fueled by her selfish need to be the best at everything. It’s about belonging and being my dad’s perfect wife. I, myself, have always gone because it was an expectation. I heard the sermons, but I didn’t really listen. I was a believer who didn’t understand exactly what it was she was supposed to believe in.

  My family only prays when we have people over for dinner. My eyes have scanned past the Bible on the bookshelf many times, but I’ve never picked it up. We’ve never been forced to believe that a life exists after this one.

  I’ve seen things through a different pair of glasses the last few weeks. I want Cory to be in a better place than this. It’s the only thing that puts my mind at ease, keeping my guilt from boiling over. Belief is my salvation … my hope that there might some day be forgiveness, that maybe one day I’ll get to join him where he’s at.

  My heart rate picks up the minute I hear Sam's old Camaro pull into my drive. That thing has always been like an alarm bell, alerting everyone in town to where he is or where he’s heading. Today, it's just a sign that I'm one step closer to the goodbye I've waited weeks for.

  I hear his heavy boots on the front porch right before he knocks on the screen door. “Come in!” I yell, smoothing down my long pink and cream printed skirt, which I paired with a matching pink tank. For this, I feel I should look nice, as if Cory might actually be able to see me … maybe he can.

  Sam steps in with his hand braced against the door to keep it from slamming. He looks like he always does in faded blue jeans and a tight white T-shirt. It's simple, but he wears it well on his fit build. As soon as his eyes find me, the hint of a smile appears at the corner of his lips. “Suddenly, I feel underdressed, but you look nice. Are you going to tell me where I'm taking you?”

  “The cemetery,” I whisper, watching the easy-going expression fall from his face.

  He nods, shoving his hands in his front pockets. He knows; that’s what’s so easy about being around Sam. He just gets me.

  “Do you need some help getting out to the car?”

  “Just an arm. My balance isn’t quite right yet.”

  When he comes to stand in front of me, I
grip the hand he offers and move to my feet with a small shoebox tucked under my arm. “Tell me if I'm going too fast.”

  We weave our way through the living room furniture and out the front door. I feel feather light with most of my weight being held by him. That's how our friendship's always been. He’s always been strong when I’ve been weak. Sometimes I wonder if he has a tin coating around his heart, or if he just hides things well.

  “Does your mom know where you're going?” he asks as we walk across the porch.

  “She knows I'm with you. That's all she needs to know.”

  “I'm sure that put her mind at ease,” he teases, helping me down the three front steps.

  “Things aren't like they used to be when we were kids. I don't need anyone's permission.”

  He opens the passenger door, slowly lowering me in. “I guess not.”

  When he pulls my seatbelt across my lap, I grip his forearm, stopping him. “I can do that.”

  “I know,” he says, pulling his arm back.

  Sam’s a protector, a doer. He takes what he wants because it’s the only way he’s going to get it. His father was always hard-nosed, not the nurturing type we all crave as kids. He didn’t come home to fresh cookies after school or wake up to pancakes in the morning. He started working in his father’s shop about the same time he entered elementary school, while other kids were busy watching cartoons and playing video games. I think that’s what makes him different. His father made him fly before he even knew he had wings. I think Sam’s tried to show me how to do the same a few times, but I’m not a quick study.

  After my door clicks shut, I rest my forehead against the window and take in the smell of the old Camaro. I’ve only been in it one other time, and besides the loud roar of the engine, the distinctive smell is all I remember. It reminds me of my grandpa, a mixture of brut and peppermint. It doesn’t sound all that great, but it’s the most soothing smell in the world. It makes me wish Grandpa was still here to make this all better.

  “Are you sure you’re up for this?” he asks as he climbs into his seat and revs the engine.