Again: A Young Adult Romance

by Rashmita Bhattacharjee

  My eyes start to sting as my heart beats. Now comes the most difficult part of the whole ordeal. There is a lump in my throat but I’ve to fight it. I’ve managed to come this far. I don’t want to go back again. I want to make it through.

  I feel Devon’s hand clutching mine, and I find strength in his eyes.

  “The summer before senior year, I happened to discover that Dad has been keeping a journal. I got curious. I wanted to know if he had written about me. I wanted to know what he thought of me. So, I started to flip through the pages. It was all about Mom. I came to the last entry that was written a week before I found his journal. And…the entry goes like this ‘I wish we’d chosen to give up on Eleanor, you’d have been with me now.’”

  I pause. It’s the first time that I’ve said these words out loud to someone after having read them over and over again in the journal all those months ago. But the words never changed, my life did.

  “News flash. My father has always regretted my birth, which is probably why he has kept his distance…he never played soccer with me,” I chuckle sadly, using my sleeves to rub off every tear that springs to my eyes. “I ceased to find meaning in my life. My father didn’t see me as his daughter but an unwanted burden, a curse. I was the reason Mom died. She chose to give birth to me than save herself. And the thought that Dad had wished they had given up on me to save Mom broke me to pieces. So after he left for another business trip abroad, and after having read his journal, I started having nightmares about him never coming back, about him abandoning me. I still do have those nightmares. I’m still terrified that one day Dad will call me only to tell me that he’s never coming back.”

  Devon puts an arm around my shoulder, and I lean on him. “That’s why you tried to get yourself arrested and then expelled from school thinking that will make him come back sooner.”

  “Yes,” I admit in a fragile voice. “Then one night, I saw you and I felt an attraction I couldn’t deny to myself,” I admit. “But I kept pushing you away because of the belief that I didn’t deserve to feel happy because I wasn’t even meant to be in this world.”

  “There is no need to have supervillains fuck up our lives when guilt is there to do the honors.” Devon snorts.

  I straighten up at once hearing that remark and give him a startled look.

  “What?” he asks.

  “It’s just that I expected you to tell me that I don’t have to feel guilty about my mom’s death like people usually do.”

  “I cannot change the way you feel, Eleanor,” he shrugs. “So, the least I can do is to not tell you how you should and shouldn’t feel. There are no wrong or right feelings anyway. You feel what you feel. End of story.”

  “I’m glad you said that, Devon,” I smile through moist eyes. “You’re right. I can’t change the way my father feels about me. Even if I wish the past to be different, it won’t become different. So the least I can do is to just accept everything the way it is. If my mom chose to give birth to me, she might also want me to move on, right?”

  “She would,” Devon nods. After a brief pause, he added quietly, “Does talking make you feel any better?”

  “It does feel a little better.”

  That wasn’t a lie. I feel the weight in my heart slightly lessen. And it doesn’t feel like a selfish thing to do like I thought it would. Maybe it’s a good sign. Maybe there’s hope after all.

  “I was fifteen.”

  I look up at Devon hearing his quiet, low voice. He’s staring ahead at the river again with vacant eyes. Behind his stony demeanor lay countless layers of anguish that tears him apart every day. It’s clear he doesn’t want to let it all out. But I’m glad that he’s giving it a try.

  “I was fifteen when I found out about my father’s secret marriage to Cheryl and that he also had a four-year-old kid with her. My father was my hero until then. I felt betrayed by the one man I thought I could always trust no matter what: my father.” He chuckles bitterly. I extend a hand to him.

  “I didn’t wanna believe that Jackson was really his son. Cheryl was a gold digger, and gold diggers can be liars too. Funny that my father couldn’t see through her. So I got their DNA tested. Turned out Jackson and my father were a match. It angered me. I wanted to hate the kid but I-I just couldn’t. I was drawn to him instead. A few months after Dad moved out, my mom got into prescription pills and the next thing I knew she…she started abusing it,” his voice cracks. The look on his face breaks my heart into countless pieces.

  “She went in and out of rehab a couple of times. It did help ‘cause she had started doing really good. I thought I finally had my mom back but one night I-I discover the stash that she’d been hiding from me. I get frustrated and . . . and flip out o-on her.” He gulps, struggling to keep steady. “I tell her that she . . . she doesn’t care enough about herself or me to try harder. I tell her she doesn’t love me at all. I call her selfish and a liar before leaving the house. The next morning, I get back only to find out that . . . that I’d lost h-her. She had an overdose...”

  Tears spill out of Devon’s eyes, and he breaks down. He looks away and tries to muffle his cries but is unable to. I hug him tight, feeling dreadful.

  “I-I wish I hadn’t left her all alone. I wish I had stayed b-back that n-night,” he stutters, guilt clogging his throat. “I could have prevented her death. I could have helped her out of the mess. She’d have been alive and healthy now. But all I-I have with me is this last memory of me telling her that I-I hated her before walking out on her. All I’m left with is…is the haunting image of her lifeless body. No matter how much I tried, she w-wouldn’t wake up.”

  Devon is shivering in severe pain and agony. I hold on to him, unable to fight my own tears. The fact that he had been living in so much guilt and misery all this time, makes it hard for me to breathe. I wish I could replace his suffering with peace and happiness but guess life doesn’t approve of such bargains.

  And so we just sit there locked in silence I don’t know for how long. His quiet sobs dwindle as the minutes crawl by. I don’t know what to say to him. Whatever I say is just gonna sound shallow to me. Because I can’t imagine what he has gone through. I don’t have it in me to imagine myself in his shoes. The pain is inhumane.

  ***

  “What happened when you went to visit your mom back on your birthday?” I ask cautiously as I extend a mug of hot coffee to him after we head inside the trailer.

  “I thought,” Devon responds in a low voice, “I finally had the courage to talk to her. To tell her that I miss her. To tell her that I’m sorry. But I came back without being able to speak a damn word. It was so hard, knowing that she wouldn’t respond this time no matter what I said. I would be the only one to do the talking, and the words would be lost somewhere in the air. I never thought I’d have to talk to her gravestone to talk to my mother.”

  He places the mug aside and slumps down on the edge of the bed with his head hanging low. I watch his hands curl into fists.

  “Devon.” I kneel down on the floor at once in front of him and cup his face with both my hands, making him look up at me.

  He appears so devastated that I gently press my lips on his. It takes a while for him to respond to the kiss. I act upon my instincts and raise myself to straddle his lap. My lips caress his cold ones while I unbutton his shirt. I pull away just to get rid of my tank top and unzip his jeans.

  I’m aroused by his pain. I want to take it all away. He looks up at me as I start to ride him. I hold his face, and we kiss again.

  This is so different from all the other times I’ve been with him. He has never shown this tender, sensitive, and emotional side of his. Yet I feel so high. And I can tell he is turned on too. We slowly ease between the sheets. I make him lie down on his back to watch me go up and down on him. He rolls me over as I dismount him and we kiss, devouring each other to the best we can with our broken hearts.

  I rake his bare chest with my nails as we move in perfect sync. His hands reach out
to intertwine with mine as we reach climax.

  “Did that little voice at the back of your head speak to you this time?” Devon asks as we lie under the covers facing each other.

  “Yes, it did. It said that we’re gonna be okay together.” I intertwine my fingers with his, before drifting off to sleep in his arms.

  ***

  The following day I go to the counselor’s office again. And this time I don’t walk in alone. I am sitting across Ms. Sengupta with Devon alongside me. He doesn’t want to be here. It’s so obvious. I just hope speaking to the counselor gives him a fresh perspective on things.

  Ms. Sengupta begins with me.

  “Eleanor, what you are experiencing is survivor’s guilt,” she says. “It was not you but your mother who decided to bring you into this world because she wanted you to have the chance to live an amazing life. At the same time, I want to assure you that your feelings of guilt are absolutely normal. There’s nothing wrong with it. But that shouldn’t stop you from making the most of your life. Be happy. Celebrate your birthday. Be a good person to others. Have dreams. Work hard to achieve those dreams ‘cause that’s how you can honor her choice. Write a letter to her to express your gratitude and most importantly, talk to your father. Things shouldn’t be left unresolved.”

  The last bit is perhaps the most difficult part of all. Because I can do something good with my guilt but I don’t know if I can change what Dad feels about me.

  “Devon,” the counselor turns to him after having discussed with me at length, “I could have said that you’re going through survivor’s guilt too had it not been a case of prescription pill overdose,” she pauses. “I understand that you strongly believe that her death was avoidable to the extent that you’re obsessed with what you should’ve done. But you’ve got to face it that addiction is dangerous, and not everyone is able to get rid of it. I know that blaming pills for her death makes you feel like a horrible son but you need to accept the facts at some point and be honest with yourself.”

  Devon says nothing. There’s not even a tinge of emotion in his blank expression.

  “It wasn’t wrong of you to flip out on your mom,” the counselor continues solemnly. “You didn’t hurt her ‘cause she knew that you loved her to pieces, and it pained you to see her in that state. I’m sure she tried to get better for you but at times things are easier said than done due to a lot of reasons. Then again, it’s okay if you feel guilty but you have to manage this guilt so that it doesn’t impact your life negatively.”

  “So, if you want to honor your mom’s life, you can only do it by living your life well ‘cause she would have wanted that,” she tells him. “Write a letter to her about the good times. Accept the past the way it is and try to forgive yourself. It wouldn’t be wrong to do so. And talk to your father. Make an effort to let go and forgive him too.”

  ***

  Looks like it is just me who saw meaning in the counselor’s words and who feels motivated to take inspired action. Devon doesn’t seem to be on the same page at all. It’s as if he heard what Ms. Sengupta said with one ear only to shoot it all out from the other as soon as we set foot outside her office.

  “Tell you what,” I speak as Devon walks me to class, “every time I’ve celebrated my birthday in all these years, I always felt a tinge of guilt. In fact, I decided not to do birthdays anymore after what went down last summer. But I’m gonna do my eighteenth birthday, and I’m gonna feel good about myself.”

  “I’m gonna be there for you in everything that you do,” he responds. “I want to see you happy.”

  “I want to see you happy too, Devon.”

  “If you’re happy, then I’m happy. But if you’re hoping I’m gonna follow the shrink’s words, then let me tell you I’m not.”

  “Devon.” I give him an anxious look.

  “I’m good the way I am.” He shrugs. “Look, I did what you told me to do. But I won’t see that shrink again. I’m dealing with things my way.”

  “If you think you aren’t good in putting your words into a letter, you can sketch,” I suggest. “You can use your passion to seek closure.”

  “Yeah, I’ll think about it,” Devon says in a very non-committal manner. “See you after class.”

  I exhale deeply, hoping for the best, as he turns away and walks down the hallway.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  In the days that follow, I brace myself to write a letter to my mother. The whole thing feels quite scary as I’m not sure about what will happen if I manage to write one. I dread feeling all the more guilty at the end of it. Moreover, I think it’s gonna be very difficult to write to her ‘cause there are so many things to share and a lot of feelings to be put into right words. But when I sit down with a pen and paper, it all comes to me. So I write and write and write some more, moving from one page to another to pour my heart and mind out into each of the lines. There are times when I just break down but that doesn’t stop me because it’s all worth it.

  I wish I could actually give the letter to her. Ms. Sengupta said to imagine the response. And since my mom sacrificed her life so that I could have one, I can very well imagine what her reply would be like.

  The door of my room clicks open and I look up from the study desk to see Devon walk in, followed by a tempting whiff of muffins.

  “Granny Sanchez is making muffins downstairs,” he says. “When I tried to have some, she slapped my hand away―” a frown sets on his face “―and muttered something about me losing my abs and also my ability to make charming babies.”

  My jaw drops. “Did she really say that?” I face palm. “I’m so sorry for the embarrassment, Devon.”

  “Nah. I wasn’t embarrassed. I just called her a silly old hag in return and dashed up here.” He shrugs nonchalantly, plopping down on the couch.

  I look at him in horror.

  “Relax. I was joking. I didn’t cuss her or anything,” he drawls.

  I roll my eyes in annoyance. But then I see the mischievous smile on his face and I just burst out laughing.

  “So what were you up to?” Devon asks.

  “I just finished writing to my mom a minute before you walked in.” I beam at him, waving the letter in my hand.

  “That’s cool.” He nods, sounding impressed.

  “And I’m really glad that I did it,” I say, meaning it. “I mean I think I could’ve written better if I had known something more about her than just her name.”

  “You mean you don’t know how she looks like?” Devon is startled.

  “Nope.” I shake my head. “All I know is that her name is Alice. Have never come across any of her photographs yet and I’ve got no clue whether she was a homemaker or something else. Would’ve loved to include those details in the letter too. And I would want to see for myself if I look anything like she did.”

  “You never asked your gran or your father about her?”

  “Gran says that I’ve Dad’s eyes. And…I never asked Dad anything about Mom, fearing that it’s likely to bring back painful memories. But anyway, I’m happy with my letter.” I smile. Placing my letter inside a book, I look back at him. “Okay now, since you’re here, let me show you my photo albums.”

  I go downstairs to fetch the albums from the cupboard in Gran’s room and then come back up to plop down beside him. Devon is more than eager to see all the photographs of my growing up years. I give him a look when he remarks that he was a better-looking baby than me. I share with him the stories behind the many random clicks. And I love it when he talks about his own good old memories with his mom and also about his childhood.

  “Wait, you played the role of Goneril in the school play?” Devon stares incredulously at the photograph and then at me.

  “Yup. Shakespeare’s King Lear. That was sophomore year,” I say. “Goneril and Regan. I wondered back then who was the lesser evil of the two sisters. But guess I ended up playing the most evil character in the play and the audience hated me.” I laugh.

  Sin
ce Devon finds it hard to picture me as Goneril, I stand in front of him and act out some of the dialogues that I remember from the play. And I think I did impress him.

  “And these were the pictures taken when I’d accompanied Dad to a corporate lunch party in New York last year,” I say as we reach the end of the album. I was wearing this cute yellow pencil dress with a belt at the luncheon.

  “You look beautiful in these,” Devon says, his deep tone makes me blush. After we see the photos on the last page, Devon puts the album down and asks me, “Did you get on the phone with your dad?”

  “No, not yet…” I trail off with a sigh. I still can’t bring myself to talk to him.

  “Forget what I just said. Let’s go out into the woods,” Devon proposes. “It’s a pleasant afternoon today.”

  I’m caught off guard.

  “No, I-I don’t think I would want to,” I stammer. Devon fixes me with a perplexed look, to which I add, “One of my…one of my worst nightmares included a graveyard right in the middle of the woods. I’ve avoided going to the woods ever since.”

  “In that case, we should definitely go there. C’mon.” He shoots to his feet and grabs my hand.

  “Devon!” I protest.

  “Trust me, I’m gonna make this right for you.”

  So we go into the woods on the outskirts of Crawford Lane. It is the same woods my nightmare had been all about. I’ve not been here until today.

  Devon and I hold hands and walk on the same carpet of lush green grass, surrounded by the same tall majestic trees and bushes topped with stunning daffodils. The fine smooth leaves brush against our arms as we make our way through the branches of trees that hang extended above the narrow path.