Love & Light

by Michele Shriver

  Just because we have this in common, though, doesn’t mean I’m totally comfortable opening up to him. He gets points for not prying. “Brain tumor,” I say after a minute, but don’t elaborate. “You?”

  “Car accident,” he says. “Some asshole ran a red light.” He looks down at the bleachers. “Some days I want to kill him, but that won’t bring my mom back.”

  “No, it won’t,” I say softly. “Life sucks sometimes, doesn’t it?”

  “It sure does,” he agrees. “So that’s why you’re depressed, then. Because of your mom.”

  It’s a statement, not a question, and I feel myself getting defensive. “Who says I’m depressed?”

  “You basically did, yesterday.” Landon smiles, and there’s nothing arrogant or judgmental about it. Instead, it just seems sweet and understanding. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know. I’ve been there too.”

  I nod, but I’m not sure what to say. “Was it weird, when your dad got married again?” I ask instead, partly to change the subject and partly because I really am curious. I don’t even want to think about my dad marrying someone else.

  “It was at first,” Landon says. “She’s pretty cool, though. She likes baseball.”

  I laugh a little. “Is that all that matters to you?”

  He shakes his head. “Of course not, but it’s a start.”

  “I guess it is.”

  “I have to go grab a shower and change,” Landon says, standing up. “But do you want to meet back up in a little bit, maybe go eat?”

  I don’t answer right away. It’s a lot more social interaction than I like these days.

  “We don’t have to talk about your mom, if you’re not ready,” he says, sensing my hesitation. “We don’t have to talk about anything, really. We can just eat.” His eyes search mine, and I know I need to say something.

  Saying no would be easy, but it won’t help me any. I know that’s what Dr. Morris would tell me. “Sure, okay. Food sounds good.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ~Kori~

  It surprised me how easily the acceptance flowed from my lips, but half an hour later I find myself sitting at a table in the HUB’s Union Grille.

  “Pizza should be ready in ten minutes,” Landon says, taking the seat across from me. He’s got his Plymouth State ball cap on again, but wears it backward so it’s not concealing his bright blue eyes. His hair’s still damp from the shower, and curling a little where it’s touching the hood of his sweatshirt.

  “Sounds good,” I say. It’s hard to remember my proclamation against dating jocks, or dating period, when he looks this cute. “I love pizza.”

  He grins, looking even cuter, if that’s possible. “Does anyone not love pizza?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. If they don’t, they’re weird.”

  “I was a little surprised you agreed to join me,” he says.

  “So was I,” I admit. “Tell me something. That fist bump thing with your teammate...was that an ‘I hope you score’ kinda thing?” I hope not, and Landon doesn’t seem like that type of guy.

  “No, nothing like that,” he says, shaking his head. “Just a guy thing. Jaden’s my best buddy from high school. We both got scholarships here. Anyway, I’m not looking to ‘score’ as you put it. Just get to know you a little better.”

  I exhale, relaxing a little. “I’m glad. You seem different from other guys I’ve met,” I say. “Which is why I’m here even though I’m not too crazy about social contact these days.”

  He nods. “Yeah, I totally get that.”

  “It’s like nobody understands. They just think I’m an anti-social freak.”

  “I understand,” Landon says. “And I definitely don’t think you’re a freak.”

  That’s a relief, because so many people do. “Tell me something. Did you talk to someone after your mom died? How’d you get through it?” He seems happy, well-adjusted, normal. And I’m not sure I’ll ever feel normal again.

  “You mean like a therapist or a counselor?” He asks, then shakes his head. “No. My dad tried to get me to, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to handle things my way. He went to grief counseling, though, and that’s how he ended up meeting my future stepmother—on a blind date set up by his therapist, who works in the same building she does.” He takes a drink of soda. “Totally weird.”

  Yet it must have worked out, because the way he talks, everyone’s happy now. “How did you handle it, then? What’s your way?” I’m curious, because even though I know Dr. Morris means well, I’m not sure he’s helping me. I’m still just as depressed as when I started. I’m not sure seeing a therapist is the answer either, though, so I’m interested in how other people have gotten through something like this.

  “I don’t know,” Landon says. “I kept busy with school and baseball. I wanted to win a scholarship to make my mom proud. That kept me motivated. Sometimes, though, I just wanted to hit something. Hurt something.” He takes another drink. “It’s gonna sound like a total guy thing to you, but I went to the gym and I hit the punching bag. A lot. I pictured it as the jerk who hit my mom’s car. And I pretended I was hitting him when I hit that bag.”

  I smile a little, in spite of myself. It does sound like a guy thing, but it also sounds like it might work. “At least you could pretend you were hitting the asshole that caused the accident. Something tangible. Who am I supposed to hit or blame for my mom getting sick? God? Because I do get angry with Him sometimes.” It takes a lot to admit that, and I wonder if it’s all too heavy and might scare Landon off.

  “Totally understandable,” he says. “If you want, we can go by the rec center after dinner and I’ll show you how to hit a bag, let some steam out.” They call our order number and he pushes his chair back. “I’ll go get our food, but I mean that. Think about it.”

  ~Landon~

  I’m relieved when our food’s ready, because things are getting kind of heavy. Definitely not the sort of conversation I’m used to having the first time I have dinner with a girl. This isn’t a typical date, though. For one thing, it’s not a date. And Kori’s not like other girls. She’s seen more and lived through more pain.

  “Here’s the pizza,” I say needlessly as I set it on the table.

  “It looks great,” Kori says and reaches for a slice. “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.” I grab my own slice and take a bite. I’m not sure how to handle things from here. Does she want to talk more about her mom, open up to someone? Or is it too painful for her yet?

  It makes me wonder how my stepmother can do the work she does and be so good at it. She always seems to know the right thing to the say. Maybe it’s years of practice and training. I asked her about it once, and she said she has to trust her instincts a lot.

  Instincts. My instincts say Kori needs a break from the heavy stuff.

  “I don’t even know your last name,” I say.

  “Walsh,” she answers. “You?”

  “Grayson.” This is easier. Typical getting to know someone type of stuff. It’s just a little weird to be getting around to it after we’ve already talked about losing our moms and being angry with God. “Are you from New Hampshire?”

  “Yeah, Ashland,” she says, naming a town only about ten miles from Plymouth. “I didn’t want to go very far away from home. Things are still hard for my dad and my little brother, you know?”

  “For sure.”

  “I was going to live at home, but my dad actually wanted me to live on campus.” She takes a bite of pizza and washes it down with a swallow of soda. “What about you? Where are you from? And any siblings?”

  “I’m from a little suburb of Concord called Hampden Park,” I say. “And I was an only child, but when my dad married Liz, I gained a stepsister. And she recently made me an uncle. My niece, Grace, is six months old.”

  “Wow,” Kori says.

  “Yeah, I’m still getting used to that. To go from being an only child to Uncle Landon in about a year’s time. She
’s a cutie, though.” I could take out my phone and show Kori some pictures, but I’m not going to do that unless she asks. She may not be the baby type. I didn’t think I was, either, until the first time I held Grace.

  “So you’re just the perfect, happy family now, huh?” Kori asks, and I’m pretty sure she’s being sarcastic.

  “Nontraditional family, and far from perfect. We do okay, though.” She’s made me a touch defensive.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to strike a nerve. I’m glad you’re happy.” Kori turns her attention back to her food, so I reach for another slice of pizza and we eat in silence for a few minutes.

  It’s Kori who starts the conversation again after we’ve almost finished off the whole pizza. “I’ve thought about what you said earlier. I would like to go punch that bag, if the offer still stands.”

  .

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ~Landon~

  “Have you ever kickboxed before?” I ask Kori once we’re at the rec center on campus. “I know they have some classes here.”

  She shakes her head. “No. I’ve done Zumba a couple times, and yoga, but no kickboxing.”

  “My stepmom’s into yoga. She tells me I should try it, but I don’t think it’s a guy thing.” I shrug. “Anyway, I’ll show you a few basic boxing moves, then let you take over, work some frustration out.” I have no idea if this will help her, but what can it hurt?

  I put my boxing gloves on. “Are you right handed or left handed?”

  “Right,” Kori says.

  “Me too. That means we’ll have the same lead hand and rear hand,” I explain. “Your left hand will be the lead, your right the rear, okay?”

  She nods. “Got it.”

  “The first punch is a jab. It’s just a quick, straight punch with your lead hand.” I demonstrate by jabbing my left hand at the bag a few times. “You keep your rear hand up by your chin as kind of a defensive move.”

  “Seems simple enough,” Kori says.

  “Want to try it yourself?”

  She shakes her head. “Why don’t you show me the others first?”

  I nod. It’ll be easier to show her all of them first, rather than keep passing the gloves back and forth. I’ve only got one pair, and I don’t want her hurting her hand attempting to box without gloves. I have no idea how hard she might end up hitting the bag. “Okay. Next is the cross. It’s a straight punch with your rear hand.” I show her by punching the bag with my right hand. “It’s probably the most powerful punch you have.”

  “Because it’s your stronger hand,” Kori concludes.

  “Yeah.” I smile at her. “You’re a good student.” I hope that carries over to Psychology.

  “You’re not a bad teacher.” She returns the smile, something I haven’t seen much from her. “What’s the next one?”

  “The hook. It’s a semi-circular punch with your lead hand to the side of your opponent’s head. Or in this case, the side of the bag.” I let out a chuckle as I demonstrate a few hooks. “I like this one. It’s helped me a lot, pretending it’s that asshole’s head.”

  “Do you know what he looks like?” Kori asks. “Did he go to jail or anything?”

  I shake my head. “No, just a ticket. Can you believe that? Son of a bitch gets off with a couple hundred dollar ticket, meanwhile my mother is dead.” As I say it, I feel some anger coming back to me and I hit the bag harder, this time thrusting my right hand upwards as if I’m hitting his chin.

  “What’s that one?” Kori wants to know.

  “Uppercut.” I grunt a little as hit the bag again. “One of my favorites.”

  “Yeah, I noticed a little increase in intensity there,” Kori says, and there’s a trace of amusement in her voice. She lets me get in a few more jabs and uppercuts, then says, “Okay. Let me try. This is supposed to be therapy for me, remember?”

  Therapy. I’ve never called it that, but she’s exactly right. It is a form of therapy. Maybe not the kind my dad got or stepmom does, but it works for me. Maybe it will work for Kori too. “Sure thing.” I pull off the boxing gloves and hand them to her. “Here you go. Let’s see what you got.” I step back away from the bag.

  “I’m still not sure about this,” she says as she tugs the gloves on. “I don’t have a tangible thing to be angry at and pretend I’m hitting.”

  “No, but you can still let some steam off,” I tell her. “Come on, give it a jab.”

  She does, but it’s a pretty weak one. I swallow the ‘hit like a girl’ remark and try to encourage her. “Try a little harder. I know you’re angry. Let’s see it. Take it out on the bag.”

  This time, Kori hits the bag harder and lets out an “Oomph.”

  “There you go. That’s more like it,” I say. “Now try a cross.”

  She does, then follows it up with a hook, another cross, and then an uppercut that has some power to it. “I like that one too,” Kori says with the hint of a smile before hitting the bag again.

  I watch her for a few minutes and try to encourage her. She might be a natural at this, and I hope it’s making her feel better. Then, suddenly, she starts to cry. Tears stream down her face, but she’s still hitting the bag, until she stops and wraps her arms around it.

  What the heck?

  My dad’s told me before that there are very few sights worse than a crying woman, and I think he’s right. I’m frozen for minute, unsure what to do, then I walk up behind Kori and put my arms around her. “It’s okay,” I say. “Let it out. Let it all out.”

  ~Kori~

  I admit I was skeptical about the whole boxing thing, but it’s not like anything else has worked. So what the heck, why not give it a try? My first punch is pretty weak, and I expect Landon to make some typical guy remark about me hitting like a girl.

  He doesn’t, though, just encourages me to hit a little harder, so I do, and then I start to get into it. Jabs here, crosses there, then an uppercut. Yeah, I can see why that one’s his favorite. Even if I don’t have a ‘face’ to be angry at and to pretend I’m hitting, this still feels good. Like I have a little power over something for a change.

  That’s the hardest part about being mired in depression—the feeling of being powerless. It’s been like that for too long. Powerless to help my mom, to make her feel better, to do anything to keep her around. And now that she’s gone, I’m just stuck. Unable to let go, unable to move forward.

  Why her, anyway? Why such a good, beautiful person? Why was she taken from us so soon?

  She hung on just long enough to see me graduate from high school. I know that now. At the time, I told myself she was getting better. She seemed stronger, at least in those last few weeks before graduation. The doctors said she didn’t have much time left, but they were wrong. They had to be wrong, because she was stronger. She even left the wheelchair at home and walked into the auditorium herself, with only a cane and my father to help her.

  She was getting better. She could beat the odds. She would beat them.

  Three days later, she was gone, and I knew the truth.

  My mother willed herself to stay alive long enough to see that special moment and then she let go. She was at peace then, she was ready. That’s what people tell me. But what about me? I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t at peace.

  I don’t even realize I’m crying until the tears blur my vision, and then suddenly I can’t take it anymore. My arms are heavy, and I don’t have the energy to hit that bag anymore, so I stop and just wrap my arms around it.

  The next thing I know, Landon’s arms are around me and he tells me to let it out. So I do.

  “I hate it,” I say. “I hate that she’s gone and I’m still here.” I turn around so I’m facing him, but his arms are still around me. “Did you ever feel that way?”

  “Sometimes, yeah,” he says softly. “Doesn’t solve anything, though. It won’t bring her back.”

  “I know that, but I still hate it.” He pulls me closer and I sink into his chest, and he puts a hand on my hair, stroking it. For
a second, I wonder if he’s going to try to kiss me or put some sort of move on me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just holds me while I cry.

  I don’t know how long we stay like that, but finally I feel all cried out and I pull away from him and wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt. “Sorry for blubbering all over you,” I say.

  Landon looks down at his sweatshirt, now wet on the front where I cried into it, and shrugs. “It’s okay. It’s washable.”

  “I should probably go wash up,” I say, nodding in the direction of the restroom. I’m a little embarrassed, both for breaking down like that and for clinging to him the way I did.

  “Sure. I’ll wait, then I can walk you back to your dorm.” He’s being cool about all of this, but I figure he’s had enough of me by now and I want to give him a chance to get away, so I shake my head.

  “No, it’s okay. You go on ahead. I’ll be fine.”

  “You sure?” He looks at me uncertainly.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I’ll see you later.” I get a few steps away before I turn back around, and Landon’s still standing there. “Thanks for dinner. And the therapy.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  ~Kori~

  My visits to Dr. Morris always start the same way, with him asking me how I’m doing. Seriously. My mother’s dead. How the hell does he think I’m doing? He’s been my doctor my whole life, though, and he’s a nice old guy, so I tolerate the insipid question. Besides, today I have some news that I think might make him happy and get off my case a little bit about trying therapy.

  “I met someone,” I tell him. “I have a friend.”

  Dr. Morris nods, his expression kind. “That’s a hopeful sign. Do you want to tell me more?”

  One of the reasons I’ve been resisting therapy is I feel like I can talk to Dr. Morris. Sure, he may not be a trained therapist, but I’ve known him a long time and I feel comfortable talking to him. Why would I want to open up to a complete stranger? “His name is Landon, and he’s a pitcher on the college baseball team,” I say. “You told me I should get outside more, so I started going to watch baseball practice, and Landon came up to me the other day and talked to me.”