When I close my eyes I see her frightened face. I remember her telling me to remain calm and that help was coming. I remember every second of being beside her in that wrecked upside down vehicle.
I see all of the wonderful things she left behind. I see her unborn baby and the life she and West could have had together. It’s too much.
She was my rock, a constant when everyone else couldn’t give a shit. I might have gotten on her nerves and made West hate me, but she always made time for me.
Most of the things I did were because I longed for attention. I thought I wasn’t loved as much as Brice. She was always the one they were most proud of. A doctor. Years of schooling. I’m just the town floosy, or at least that’s what people say.
I know I was out of control at times, but that night I was being responsible. I called her because my so-called friends ended up ditching me at some stranger’s party, and on top of that he was a drug dealer. The second I saw someone sit a gun on the coffee table I knew I had to get out of there fast. I hadn’t driven my car, and it’s not like I could pay for a cab. There are no cabs in the boonies. I hated waking her up, but I was scared, and calling my dad would have been a disaster waiting to happen. She reassured me it wasn’t a big deal. She told me she’d rather me call her then get behind the wheel after a few beers. I’d only drank two. To be honest, I wasn’t really in the mood to party. The guy I’d been seeing ended up breaking things off. What else was new?
I could tell Brice was tired. She was alert, but yawning and saying she’d only been sleeping for a little while. I felt bad. When I called I thought they’d still be out.
Neither of us could have predicted a drunk driver would skip across the median and plow into us. There were no headlights on to warn us, and we don’t have street lights in the area. One second we were listening to music and the next we were rolling. The crash was so loud I can still hear it like it’s happening on repeat. It was like my life was flashing before me, and in that instant I knew nothing was ever going to be the same. I should have been the one to die. I should have been the person to give my sister an organ so that she could continue living. She’d made a life for herself. She was going to get married to someone who loved every single part of her. They were perfect together. I’d always been jealous of the love they shared.
Knowing I’d broken the heart of Weston Wallace only burdens me more. He’s a good guy who never got the credit he deserved. Part of my rehabilitation is to reach out to the people I feel I’ve wronged. He’s always been at the top of my list. My actions didn’t just take my sister, but their unborn baby. I can’t fathom what the last year of his life has been like. It took me forever to get someone to tell me what happened to him. If it weren’t for the old house key I kept, I probably never would have figured it out.
Cooper and Caleb Wallace have been living at the house West shared with my sister. I had to wait for them to go to work before sneaking inside. Everything’s been moved around. My stomach knotted up the moment I took in the space and recalled the way she used to have it decorated. I’m surprised to find the bedroom door is locked. I pry it open with a kitchen knife and am shocked when I find it untouched. It’s exactly the way it used to be. Picture remain on the walls. Her vitamins still sit on the nightstand. Her phone charger is plugged in and dangling across the top. The bed hasn’t been made, and from the amount of dust I can tell this room hasn’t been used for a very long time. I sat on that bed and bawled my eyes out. I saw the sonogram picture of their unborn baby on the bedside table. That made it even worse. So much loss. No possible way to ever forgive myself.
When I’ve made sure it’s locked, I search the kitchen for any sort of mail that may have a forward address. As I’m about to give up the mailman drops today’s envelopes in the box. I hurry outside and search each piece. That’s where I find it. A post office box in Alaska, with his name under the return address. I can’t believe it. West moved to Alaska. My hands shake as I take a photo of the address and slip it back into the box. When I drive away from the house I don’t know if I’ll ever be back again. I know I won’t be invited.
Following the death of my sister, I stopped talking to my friends. I needed someone to blame and they screwed me over that night at the party.
If I’d been more responsible a lot of people would still be around. It’s like I caused a major domino effect. That day changed my life. Before I had no purpose. Now I feel like every waking second is about redemption, and the harder I try to find something to live for, the more I learn I’m alone, and will die that way too. I feel like it’s the only way to right my wrongs.
After the accident I didn’t get released from the hospital for several weeks. I missed Brice’s funeral. I never got to say goodbye. It’s bad enough I lost my sister, but the first moment I stepped foot into my childhood home I knew I’d lost my parents too.
I never asked for my sister’s organ. I pleaded with my family. I begged them to let me die before giving me a piece of her. It’s not because I’m ungrateful. It’s because every single day I know I’m alive because she’s dead. How is a person supposed to handle something like that?
Riddled with grief, I became someone they still can’t look in the eyes. It’s so bad I had to leave, even before I knew they were getting a divorce. Without a real place to stay, I sleep in my car, but that only makes me feel worse, because if I’d had it that night my sister would still be alive.
I tried to take my own life. I went into the bathroom one day and pulled every pill out of the medicine cabinet, shoving them in my mouth then drinking from the spigot. After a few minutes something made me want to live. I still don’t know why I made myself throw up. It was like someone forced me to do it, yet I know I was alone in that bathroom.
I was able to vomit most of the meds out, nonetheless, my parents insisted on having my stomach pumped. It’s terrible to know they can’t be around me, but they don’t want me dead either. I don’t know what’s worse.
I was ordered a seventy-two hour evaluation in the mental facility. From there, I was referred to a shrink. For six months I had to see the woman three times a week. She forced me to talk about my sister, my parents and our upbringing. Every single time I sat in that office I felt like I wanted to die again.
When the appointments stopped I tried to take my life again. This time I planned it out. I drank enough alcohol to numb the pain and slit my wrists. I’d almost bled out in the tub of a shitty motel when the maid came in to clean the room. I didn’t know check out was so early in the morning. Once again, some kind of divine intervention kept me alive.
This time my parents had me committed.
For months four white walls surrounded me most of the day. I was allowed to write letters in the common area, but was considered high risk to have the materials in my room. I’m not going to lie about my intentions. I still wanted to die. If an opportunity arose I was going to do it, because every single day was like burning alive in Hell.
I’d say after the first week in the hospital my father stopped coming to visit. Mom lasted another few days before it became less frequent. Finally I stopped expecting them. Once in a while my aunt would come by. She’d sneak me treats and promise that I had lots of reasons to want to live. I wasn’t allowed a phone or computer time, so I never expected anyone else I knew would make the trip. I’d given up hoping for that long before this anyway.
The only thing keeping me somewhat sane was writing. I kept a journal about my life and feelings. I wrote down my fears and the things I’ve never told anyone before. Mostly I wrote about how much I missed my sister. I know a part of her still lives within me, but it’s not Brice. I’ll never feel her love again.
Months ago I began writing letters to West. I’d stared at the photograph of that PO Box so many times I’d memorized it. Not expecting anything in return, I found reprieve with each one I sent. Sometimes I’d talk about my day, and other letters I’d write stories about Brice. I’d make her a princess and him the s
table boy. I’d give them a reason to fight to be together and they’d get the happy ending they both deserved. Then I decided to change things around. Everything I write now is their life if she never died. I gave them a proper wedding, with all the details she’d talked about. I’d write about them vacationing, and raising a family. I’d do my best to write about something that would put a smile not only on my face, but West’s too. If that didn’t work at least it would remind him of the never ending love they shared. I wasn’t sending them to him for forgiveness. I was doing it to connect to someone who loves my sister just as much as I do. He may get them. He may not.
If he does, he’ll probably stop reading them. I could be sending them to a stranger, who is entertained by my craziness. Whatever the case, they help me. They’re the only thing that does.
Speaking of mail…
Just last week my mom met me and delivered some mail that was sent to her house. There was an envelope from my lawyer containing the first installment of an ongoing settlement. The drunk driver lived, and my insurance went after him. He was charged as a criminal for manslaughter. I’m not going to be rich by any means, but it will temporarily get me out of the back seat of my car at night. Soon I’ll have to leave town to look for a job, because I doubt anyone will hire me. People are too nosey on this little island. Everyone knows your business. I don’t belong anywhere.
It’s funny. I’ve never been the type of person to contemplate suicide. I embraced life and lived it to the fullest, always searching for a good time. I’m in my early twenties and I feel like I’m ninety. Everything hurts. I can’t remember the last time I smiled. The only thing I do know is that eventually we all die, except in my case I’ll be all alone.
Chapter 15
Kimber
It’s a Friday. I head to the bank first thing to make sure the check I’ve received is deposited. Since I’m not sure where I’m going to be in the near future, I opt to stay at a motel on the island. It’s nothing fancy. Shitty room, with even shittier amenities. They have a bar, and under normal circumstances I’d avoid it, but today I want to sit back and celebrate the only good thing I have going for me. Tonight I’m going to sleep in a bed with four walls surrounding me. I’m going to bask in white sheets and this ugly dated floral bedding and an extremely long hot shower. I’m going to relish in cable television, and probably order a pizza that I’ll finish for breakfast. I just want one day to go good.
Emptying my car and filling my new temporary room feels great. For now it's mine. I have a space where I can rest and be alone, but also shower. I've been only going to my parent's house when I knew neither would be stopping by. Being there brings back all the memories. I often sink down to the shower floor and weep. Mom says to go back to my shrink, but she can't bring back my sister, nor can she magically make my parents show me they still love me. I've been tempted to ask on occasion, but terrified of what they will say.
Since I don't have much, it only takes three trips to empty my car. Dad keeps mentioning that I need to pay insurance. I guess I can afford it now.
Sitting on the hard double mattress, I take my journal from the knapsack next to me and stare at a blank page.
I've been counting the days since Brice has been gone instead of using a date. I stare at the number, feeling as if time is skipping by.
When the pen presses to the paper, I want words to come. They don't. Nothing comes to me. I'm drawing blank. It's like I'm numb and unable express anything.
Maybe I need to be committed. It's probably the smart thing to do. At least then I'd have people to talk to. Some of them might even care about my wellbeing.
Truth be told, I think my parents need professional help as well. They're lost in their own misery and without being able to communicate they've turned bitter against one another. I'd give anything to have someone to share my feelings with. Anyone. I'd talk to a complete stranger if I was able to find one in this small god forsaken town.
Good thing for me there is a motel bar, with enough alcohol to ensure I'll get a good night sleep.
It's funny, I used to drink for the fun of it. Now it's like medication for my soul. A few glasses of wine and I'm ready for bed. Mentally the pain remains, but for a little while it shields me from dwelling on it.
I no sooner step into the bar when I'm carded. Five years younger than my sister, I've always thought we looked to be closer in age. Being twenty four just means I could be graduated from college by now. I could have a degree and make something of my life if I put forth the effort. Dropping out of school made my parents angrier. After the accident I couldn't return. My focus wasn't there. It still isn't.
The bartender takes my order and pours a glass of red. I raise it. "Five o'clock somewhere right?"
It's not even lunchtime, but I'm so tired all I want to do is sleep until tomorrow.
With a fresh head I'll be able to look for jobs and figure out what I'm going to do with my life.
I'm looking around the place when I notice a help wanted sign. As much as I loathe the idea, this is the last place anyone who knows me would hang out. This isn't where the locals come for a drink. They go to the Wallace bar and restaurant. This place is for passerby’s who can't afford to stay in a nice hotel. It's cheap and within walking distance of Assateague island where the wild ponies and beaches are. It's also where the local lowlifes reside. I suppose I'm one of them now, minus the addictions, criminal records and a general lack of morals. I might have a chance at getting hired here. Against my better judgment, I wave to the bartender to get his attention. He's an older man, probably in his sixties. His large belly shows off the wording on the Harley Davidson shirt likes it's popping out. The guy is covered in tattoos and they're poorly done too. They’re not like mine; the ones that hide my scars. He's got an eagle on his forearm and a cross above it. His bushy face is salt and pepper and when he smiles he's missing a couple bottom teeth in the front. "Can I help you?"
I point to the sign. "The job. Is it still available? Do I need to see the manager?"
"I own the place. Ever tended bar?"
"Not professionally."
He points to me. "You'd be good for business with those looks."
I roll my eyes. "Seriously? You couldn't pay me to thank you for that crap comment. You and I both know this place is a shit hole. I've lived here my whole life. We both know the kind of visitors you cater to. I'm staying at the motel. I've paid for the month. Transportation won't be an issue. I can work all hours, and not that you'll need it for this place, but I have a clean record."
I may have been taken to the station, but my dad got me off of any trouble I used to get into.
"You've got a smart mouth on ya."
I finish the first glass of wine. "Only when I need it."
"Tomorrow. Be here at eleven. If you can handle that crowd you've got the job."
I finally smile. "Deal. How about a refill?"
Just as I suspected, the two glasses of wine does me in. In the time it takes me to consume the beverages, I learn that the owner is named Otis, and if I decide to stick around for longer than a month he’ll take money off my rent for being an employee. He also tells me there are a couple cleaning ladies in the building, but no maintenance man. Otis says he does all the repairs himself, which explains the horrible, outdated décor and lackluster appearance. Saying goodbye to this guy isn’t easy. He won’t shut up. Thankfully, I spot a couple coming in that soon takes the attention off of me. I scurry out of there and find my room, where I quickly lock both the deadbolt and chain. Then, because I’m being paranoid, I start checking the room for hidden cameras. When I come up with nothing I fall on the bed and laugh at myself. Now tired, I stare at the ceiling and let the wine work it’s magic. I won’t sleep through the night, but a few hours will be a great achievement.
Maybe things are going to look up. I have some money, a place to stay, and a new job. None off this will make my parents proud of me, but at least I’m making progress with my life.
> Chapter 16
Weston
I’ve been staring at the two envelopes for several days. There’s not much else to do when the cabin is covered in snow. There’s no telling when this madness will end. The only one happy about this is Bee. She’d stay out in the white stuff for hours if I let her. Nick is out somewhere on the Bering Sea, and the only thing he asked me to do while he’s gone is cut some firewood. I’ve done that for every day since he left. Now the satellite it out, and I’m getting sick of playing video games while Bee rolls around like she’s attention deprived. “What do you think, girl? Should I read them?”
Of course she barks. Leave it to the dog to guide me to do something I’m trying to talk myself out of.
Taking one of the envelopes into my grasp, I pry the seal and retract the paper from within. The familiar writing catches my eye as I unfold the contents. I don’t know why this gets to me the way it does. Changing the way you look at things changes how they actually appear.
When I received the first letter I reacted the way anyone would have, put in the same situation. I’ve never liked Kimber, so for her to write me a letter rubbed me the wrong way. Now I’m sort of melancholy. I don’t have any feelings but curiosity. Maybe it’s because the letters have become monotonous. It’s possible that my give a shit button broke a while back. At any rate, I’m looking down at the handwriting and seeing more than the note itself.
I begin the first one.
West:
I don’t know if you’ll get this. These letters are more for me than they are anyone else, but you’re the only other person in the world I’d ever share them with. I haven’t gotten response to any of them, so you’re probably not even in Alaska, and some stranger is reading these letters thinking I’m some crazy kid with a vivid imagination for story writing.
Waves of Despair: Oyster Cove Series Page 9
