He looked at me, a flicker of surprise in his eyes.
“I loved you,” I repeated the words as another tear streaked down my cheek. “But now, I’m not so sure anymore.”
With those words and without a backward glance, I left.
Chapter Nine
A few years ago, back in college, during one of those sad, rainy nights when I was all alone in my dorm room, I remembered being bitter, asking God why I did not have a boyfriend like my roommate, who at that time was with hers, and my other friends when I had so much love to give. Now, I understood why so many found it blissful to be single, thinking that most of them had probably been hurt before.
Indeed, it might have been better to have loved and lost but the pain from losing someone you loved, or even from being hurt by someone you loved, was incomparable. Until then, I had thought that the stomach pain I experienced when I had appendicitis back in fourth grade was the worst pain ever, but now I knew it was nothing compared to the pain in my heart.
True, it was I who had walked away, I who had left him, but I had a feeling I was the one hurting more just the same. The only time it didn’t hurt to leave the person you loved was if you didn’t love him anymore, but if you still did, then leaving that person was just as painful as being left by that person, or perhaps even more so because you were being forced to let go of something you didn’t really want to.
And I still loved Joseph. I knew I did. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be hurting so much.
I tried different ways to deal with the pain. I made a bunch of drawings. I read several of my old books, which didn’t help much since they all had such beautiful romances. I tried watching movies – again, that did not help much. I even tried stuffing myself with chocolates, though I stopped after a while since I didn’t really want to get fat.
Unlike before, Abigail kept silent, giving me none of her taunts, which made me realize that it was probably showing that I was really hurting. Bethany, too, seemed to have noticed it since she made me a peanut butter sandwich – a rare gift since she loved peanut butter too much to give it away. As for my father, he tried to talk to me but I told him I was fine, which was obviously a lie, the real meaning behind it being ‘leave me alone’ which my Dad seemed to understand so he stopped making an effort of consoling me or getting me to open up.
The only person I felt like talking to about it was Michelle, who sounded shocked and devastated when I told her that Joseph and I were no longer seeing each other.
“I’m so sorry things didn’t work out,” Michelle said. “Though I really find it hard to believe that they didn’t. You and Joseph seemed really perfect for each other.”
I sighed.
“Oh, sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I should be saying things to make you feel better, not make you feel worse, like ‘You’re better off without him’ or ‘You’ll find someone who’s the right guy for you, I’m sure, someone even better’.”
I grinned. “It’s okay. One of the things I like most about you is that you’re never afraid to tell me the truth. I wish Joseph had had that courage.”
“Did he tell you why he didn’t tell you the truth?”
“Because he was afraid he’d lose me. He thought I was only going out with him out of pity or something similar.”
“The fact that he was afraid to lose you means he really loved you, though. Can’t you just forgive him?”
I shrugged, saying nothing.
“Anyway, give yourself time to think things over. Well, usually, at first, it’s so painful you can’t think, so you just have to distract yourself from the pain until it subsides a little and you can think.”
“But I don’t know what to do. I can’t seem to distract myself.”
“Well, it can be difficult. But you know what always worked for me?”
“What?”
“Doing something for yourself,” she answered. “Like going to the spa for some pampering or to the salon for a new hairstyle, volunteering somewhere or even just going on vacation. A change of scenery can do you some good.”
“I don’t really know what to do.”
“Do something you like, love even. When you feel better about yourself, then you’ll feel better about everything else.”
I sighed again. “Well, I guess I have to think of something. Thanks, Michelle. I really wish you were here.”
“You could come pay me a visit,” she suggested half jokingly.
I grinned. “Wish I could.”
“Well give me a call when you feel better,” she said. “And don’t worry, I know you will. It may seem like the end of the world but you will feel better.”
“Thanks, Michelle.”
“You’re welcome. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Just talking to Michelle made me feel better, but I knew I was still in a slump. Do something for yourself, she said, but what exactly could I do?
Do something for myself. Do something for myself.
I repeated the words over and over, hoping that they would eventually inspire some brilliant idea.
Finally, after several minutes, they did.
I didn’t know if my idea was brilliant exactly, but I suddenly thought about Vincent’s offer regarding his friend who worked at a publishing company in Philadelphia. Somehow, since I had failed in the romance department, it felt like a good idea to try and see what I could do with my career. Besides, going away for a while seemed like it would do me some good, too.
I talked to Vincent about it, who was enthusiastic and said he would make the arrangements. Then, I talked to my Dad, who seemed happy that I was done sulking and even told me he would call his friend who lived in Philadelphia to ask if I could stay with him.
Two days later, I arrived in Philadelphia.
It was different from Continental, of course, since it was much larger, but somehow, I was not afraid. Rather, I welcomed that change, hoping that there would be something good in it for me.
Already, I was starting to feel better and as I spent time seeing the Liberty Bell, visiting museums like the Philadelphia Museum of Art, the Mutter Museum and the Rodin Museum, taking a stroll through Longwood Gardens and watching the animals at the Philadelphia Zoo, I found the pain in my heart slowly melting away. It was almost as if I was rowing away from that island of gloom and heartache, leaving it behind slowly but surely.
On my third day of being in Philadelphia, it was time for me to meet with Vincent’s friend, Charles. I was a little nervous, especially since it had been a long time since I had gone to a job interview, and this seemed very much like one, but as I rode the elevator up to his office, I took a deep breath, clutched my portfolio close to my chest and told myself that everything was going to be fine. Besides, it wasn’t like I really wanted this job. I was simply exploring my options.
“So, you’re Rebecca Swinton,” Charles said, getting up from his chair and leaning forward to shake my hand as soon as I entered his office.
“Yes, I am,” I said, grinning.
“Vincent told me you were a talented illustrator.” Charles took his seat and gestured for me to do the same. “Did he tell you how the two of us know each other by the way?”
I shook my head. “He just said you two were very good friends.”
“Indeed,” Charles said. “My sister was actually his fiancée.”
“Oh.”
“As you perhaps know, that didn’t end well, but I see no reason for us not to stay friends.”
I merely nodded.
“Anyway, let’s not talk about that,” he said, sitting up and tugging at his collar. “Did you bring your portfolio?”
“Yes, I did.” I placed the envelope that was on my lap on his desk.
For a few moments, he was silent as he went through the drawings, studying them with an occasional gleam of surprise in his eyes. I sat, fidgeting with the hem of my blouse as I grew nervous, patiently waiting for his opinion.
Finally, he spoke. “These drawings are very good, actual
ly. Some of them are very powerful while others are soft and calming, just what children would like.”
“Thank you,” I mumbled.
“We actually do need a book illustrator, especially for our children’s books, on a full-time, permanent basis,” he said. “Would you be interested?”
“I would consider it,” I answered, trying to restrain the excitement in my voice. “Would I have to stay here in Philadelphia?”
“You can stay in…”
“Continental,” I supplied.
“Yes, Continental. You can work from home and send in your illustrations but you’ll have to come to Philadelphia about once or twice a month.”
“I see,” I said.
“Why don’t we do this?” He got up from his chair. “I’ll have my secretary print out some documents right now and then you can go over them and when you’ve made your decision, you can simply call me.”
“I would appreciate that,” I said.
“Good,” he said. He picked up the phone to summon his secretary.
“Do I have a deadline?” I asked after he set down the phone. “I mean, to make up my mind.”
“How about I give you a week?” he asked. “Does that sound good?”
I nodded. Having no other questions, I took my leave, thanking him for his time and telling him I would think about the job carefully. Then, after receiving all the documents I needed to go over, I got a cup of coffee and went to the park, sitting on a vacant bench to think.
I was happy. Really, I felt blessed to be presented with such an amazing opportunity to advance my career. Yet, at the same time, I felt as if I wasn’t fully happy, like there was some sadness lingering in the back of my mind, like there was something missing.
I realized then that even if I managed to have a successful career, I still wouldn’t feel fulfilled. My life would still feel incomplete, just as it did at that moment.
And I knew exactly what was missing.
Or rather, who.
Indeed, I suddenly wished Joseph was there with me so I could share the good news I had received with him and we would both smile about it and celebrate together. Sure, I could very well celebrate with anyone, but I just knew that no one would feel as happy for me or as proud of me as Joseph would, and just those feelings would make everything perfect.
I missed him.
Out of nowhere, I felt an overwhelming sadness and not long after, I felt tears streak down my cheeks. I had already cried over losing Joseph, several times in fact, but it seemed I still had tears left to cry.
Why? Why did things turn out this way?
I didn’t even know anymore why Joseph and I fell apart. Was it simply because he had kept the truth from me, which had made me feel so betrayed?
It was strange, but it seemed the worst fights always stemmed from the most trivial of things, things so trifle that after a while you couldn’t even understand why you fought over them, and yet you did. And the worst part was that you no longer knew how to get things back the way they were, if that was still possible.
Was it still possible for Joseph and me to be together? Did he still love me? Furthermore, could I forgive him?
I didn’t know if I could. I was still hurting, after all, and it was hard to tell which was greater – the pain or the love.
Besides, I wasn’t even sure if he wanted my forgiveness. He never said sorry, after all. In fact, he never called me or even sent me a message, never gave any indication that he was hurting just as I was and that he wanted me back.
Frustrated, I buried my face in my hands. At first, I could only complain, wondering why God had allowed me to be in such pain, to be trapped in such a complicated situation. Then, after calming down a bit, I wiped my tears and I started to pray.
Please, God, show me what to do.
I repeated those words over and over again in my head as I sat still on the bench, waiting for an answer. Then, suddenly, I heard a plop and a rustle beside me and when I looked, I saw that my envelope had fallen off the bench and a woman had knelt down to pick it up.
She handed it back to me with a smile. “I’m sorry.”
I shook my head. “It’s okay.”
“That’s a very nice drawing by the way,” she said, pointing to the drawing that was showing through the transparent envelope.
I realized then that I had not arranged my drawings properly after Charles had returned them to me, since usually, I kept a blank sheet on top so that no one would see my work.
“Thank you,” I simply said.
“Is that your drawing?”
I nodded.
“Are you an artist?” she asked again, showing no sign of leaving me alone.
“Yes, I guess I am,” I answered.
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” She moved closer to me. “You see, I have a friend who’s an artist, too, but he got sick and he can’t give the drawing lessons that he usually gives at the hospital where I work. Would you like to come and give the lesson instead? I would greatly appreciate it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I don’t give lessons. In fact, I don’t think I’m a good teacher.”
“Oh, you don’t really have to teach,” she said, persistent. “You can just draw and the patients can just watch you or they can just draw and you can just let them know what you think of their drawings.”
I said nothing, still reluctant.
“Please?” the woman pleaded.
I thought about it. I wasn’t really in the mood for doing what she was asking me to do, especially because I was still confused and hurting and waiting for a sign about what I was supposed to do with Joseph, but it wasn’t like I was busy. Besides, my Dad would be proud knowing I engaged in some charitable work and I might feel better.
I nodded. “Alright, I’ll go.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you very much.” The woman held my hand between hers. “Come to the Christian Children’s Hospital at four o’ clock. I’ll wait for you at the entrance.”
“I’ll be there,” I promised.
“My name is Mary, by the way,” she said. “Mary Dawson.”
“Nice to meet you, Mary.”
“And your name?”
“Rebecca,” I answered. “Rebecca Swinton.”
“I truly thank God for meeting you, Rebecca. In fact, it seems as you have just been sent to me as an answer to my prayer.”
I smiled at her before watching her leave. It was good to know that God had answered her prayer, but I could not help but wonder when God would do the same for me.
I was beginning to think He would never answer as I made my way to the hospital that afternoon. I still didn’t know what to do, after all.
Still, I decided to set it aside in the meantime, telling myself that I would dedicate myself to my task and make the most of it.
Putting on a smile, I walked to the hospital and sure enough, Mary was waiting for me at the entrance. Upon seeing me, she heaved a sigh of relief, as if she had been afraid that I would change my mind and not show up, then, she gave me a wide smile.
“Thank you for coming, Rebecca,” she said.
I simply nodded. Then, I followed her to the nurses’ station, where she spoke to someone, and then down a long corridor to Ward 13, which Mary explained was the ward for the cancer patients.
As soon as I entered the room, I felt my heart stop. The patients were all so young, no more than ten years old probably, and yet most of them were pale and skinny, some of them having bandages and shaved heads, even. Still, they did not seem to mind their condition, or even be aware of it, nearly all of them smiling as soon as they saw Mary and me.
“Where is Oliver?” one of them, a girl who seemed about seven with a pink teddy bear right beside her, asked.
“Oliver is sick,” Mary explained. “But we have a new friend who is with us today. Her name is Rebecca.”
“Hello everyone,” I greeted as I stepped forward.
“Hello Rebecca,” they chorused.
“R
ebecca is very good at drawing, too,” Mary said to them. “And she will gladly help you with all your drawings this afternoon.”
At that, some faces lit up, though others just continued to stare at me, as if doubtful that I was as good as Mary claimed, or as good as Oliver.
To make them comfortable, first, I told them about myself and about why I loved drawing. Then, I gave them some basic tips on drawing and showed them one of my drawings, which made some of them say ‘Wow!’ and made others gasp, while others, still just stared at the drawing in thoughtful silence. Afterwards, Mary started distributing pencils and sheets of paper attached to colorful clipboards and I told the children to draw whatever they felt like drawing. Upon hearing that, one child, a boy about nine years old, frowned.
“But Oliver always tells us what we should draw,” he said.
“Hmm.” I scratched my chin. “Then wouldn’t it be nice to draw what you want for a change?”
His frown turned into a smile at that. Then, he quickly started drawing.
I, too, started drawing in the drawing book I had brought with me. Then, after a few minutes, I stood up, deciding to go around the room to see what the children were drawing and give them some suggestions and words of encouragement.
Most of them were busy with their work, the girls drawing flowers, unicorns and princesses and the boys drawing trucks, dinosaurs and space rockets. One child, however, a girl with a shaved head who did not look more than seven years old, was not drawing. She simply held the pencil Mary had given her, tapping it against the still blank sheet of paper in front of her.
I approached her and looked at her wristband, which told me her name was Tammy.
“What’s wrong, Tammy?” I asked.
“I don’t want to draw,” she said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Why should you care? You’re just here because you feel sorry for all of us.” She looked up at me with her lips tucked into a pout and her brown eyes filled with distrust.
A Love to Live For Page 8
