Unlit Star

by Lindy Zart

  You have to tell her.

  I promise myself I will, but I cannot promise when.

  We get to the flower shop and my mom immediately goes inside to start on her flower orders. I stand outside the small white building, taking it in. There's a large picture window with pink cursive writing that reads 'Flower Appeal' and the surrounding vicinity is bursting with blossoms in vibrant shades of oranges, yellows, and pinks. It's like looking at a sunset in the form of flowers.

  I grab the broom from inside the door and sweep the walkway, the sun already attacking me with its hot rays. There is peace in solitude, and there is quiet. And you know what? There is a lot less drama to deal with when the only person you see and talk to is you. There was a handful of people I hung around in school, but if I didn't want to do something with them, I didn't. They were like a security blanket—a permanent fixture I could rely on to be there. We went to an occasional party together, maybe a movie, bowling. I didn't share secrets with any of them and I never had any inclination to show them who I really was. Just a glance into me was all I allowed and that was all I wanted of them in return.

  So began the life of Delilah Bana—the high school years. I guess, in a way, I have Riley to thank. She destroyed me, but she also made me stronger. She made me see that friends are impermanent, but how I choose to be, and how I act, and how it affects who I am, is not. I experimented with piercings, hair colors, and clothing. I didn't think being different should have made me odd, but I guess I was wrong. The weight of other people's judgment is heavy if you decide to let it be. And you do have that choice. You can care about you, or you can care about everyone else.

  I am more important than any label given to me by others who never really knew me.

  When school let out, I didn't contact any of the "friends" I'd had throughout my high school years, and it didn't bother me at all. Summer started and I shed the cape that categorized me as one way, and focused on being any way I chose to be. I guess Rivers is right—I sort of am a chameleon. I think we all are. Circumstances in and out of our control are constantly forming us and reforming us. Does it ever end? No. Not until we pass from this life and into whatever lies in wait beyond.

  But this, this void where Rivers used to be, is bothering me. A lot. So now I am thinking maybe it wasn't that I was socially inept or that I would rather be alone than with others, but that there just wasn't anyone I really wanted to be around. I miss him like I think I would miss the sun if it stopped burning in the sky. In fact, he is like the sun to me; glowing, bright, consuming, transcendental.

  I set the broom against the side of the building and lift my face to the glowing fireball, inhaling deeply of the summer air, letting the warmth of it wash over my face like a kiss from the sky. I smile, knowing this time apart from Rivers will be short, knowing I have already figured out what I needed. There wasn't anything to figure out, really. I can't push him away. I can't live my days knowing he is close to me and yet unavailable because I made it so. I suppose these little hitches of weakness are normal, and still, I wish I could forever remove them from my thoughts. I want to be strong, and being strong means I can't be scared—or if I am scared, I have to breathe around it and remain centered.

  There is a hole inside me. The longer I ignore Rivers, the bigger it grows. I don't want that. Even minutes are adding to the depth of it, widening it. I want to be whole. I can't be unless we are okay. I grab my tote from the pavement and find my phone, my fingers flying over the letters on the mini keyboard.

  Me: I had a dream last night too. You were swimming in the ocean, the blues and greens of the sea like a watery blanket around you. You were alone, but you were okay. You knew the water was all you really needed. You were smiling.

  The responding text shows up immediately: I was smiling because I knew you were standing on the beach waiting for me.

  I laugh, feeling the prickling of tears in my eyes. I text back: You were smiling because you were thinking of peanut butter and ice cream and trains.

  His response: That sounds like you.

  My reply: You're right. When did you get to be awesome enough to start thinking like me?

  Rivers sends back: Is that what you're calling it? Another text shows up: I want to see you. Now.

  I want to see him too, but I feel like I should spend time with my mother as well. I just got home and I can't take off already. Plus I have to work. And I really should be going inside to do exactly that.

  I hesitate, then type: Not yet.

  The answer is fast and one word: Now.

  I scowl at the phone and quickly text: No. Working. Need time with Mom. Two days.

  I can feel his incredulity through the phone screen: Two more days?!?!?!?!?!

  I smile. You'll be okay.

  I will NOT be okay. Just so you know.

  I know.

  Sigh.

  I burst out laughing, pressing the phone to my forehead and closing my eyes. Warmth washes over me, and contentment with it. I send a smiley face back and head inside to do some heavy duty cleaning. Today will be a good day, I decide. It feels strange to not be at his house; even sleeping in my own bed didn't feel right. Without his presence I am dimmer than usual, but the atmosphere of the shop is light. Carefree. My mom steps with gaiety I don't recall seeing before, talking to me often, smiling just as frequently. I relax and enjoy what is before me.

  I FEEL THE SOFTNESS OF the blanket between my fingers, wanting to wrap it around me and use it as a shield. There were days at the beginning of summer when I fought to get out of bed. There were days where I struggled to do the simplest of things. It all seemed so pointless. Why pretend everything is okay when it isn't, when I am merely waiting for the imminence that is to befall me? None of those bad days compare to this ache inside me now. It doesn't seem possible that this separation from Rivers should have the capability to block out my darkest days, and yet it does. I don't know if I can stand another day of this, even if I am the one who requested it.

  A knock at the bedroom door announces a visitor. I sit up and call out a greeting, bringing my knees to my chin as my mom enters carrying two mugs.

  “Yours is hot chocolate,” she tells me with a soft smile.

  I accept it, murmuring a thank you.

  Her movements are hesitant as she sits on the edge of the bed. “As much as I love your company at home and at work, I don't like to see you hurting. I know you said you don't want to talk about it, but I can see that Rivers cares about you a great deal and that you reciprocate his feelings. Maybe you need to go back. Whatever happened between you, you two can talk and work through it.”

  I blink, surprised by her words, tenderness washing over me that she would sacrifice her happiness for mine. A layer of the sadness falls away and I smile. “I love you, Mom.”

  It is her turn to blink. She nervously tugs on her blonde ponytail, looking flustered. I don't blame her. I can't remember the last time I told her I loved her or called her mom. Looking down, she finally says quietly, “Thank you. I love you too. So much.”

  I set the untouched hot cocoa on the nightstand and scoot across the bed to her, feeling her warmth, smelling the herbal-flower scent of her skin, and being at peace in her nearness. Wrapping my arm around her shoulders, I press my head to hers and lock my fingers around hers as they clutch the cup between her hands. Her knuckles are white and there is a slight tremble to her body. A sniffle escapes her and I tighten my hold on her.

  “I was a brat,” I announce.

  She laughs, but there is a catch to it. “You were a child.” She knows exactly what I am talking about. It's the conversation we've avoided for years, for far too long. It is time that it was spoken.

  “Part of me was guilty that I wasn't there. Even though I was younger and I wouldn't have been able to save him, I thought if I'd just been there, he wouldn't have died. That guilt ate me up, made me distance myself. I am sorry. I'm sorry for pulling away when you needed me.”

  A warm teardrop falls f
rom her eye and onto my hand. Her pain seeps into my skin, becoming a part of me. “You have nothing to apologize for. You were only six, Delilah, and no matter how old you were or weren't, or whether you had been there or not, there was nothing you could have done. It was just Neil's time.”

  “Is that what you truly think?” I whisper. “That we all have our time to die, and when it comes, everyone should accept it?”

  “Accept it? No. Learn to live around the pain, yes. Try to forgive instead of blame? Yes.” She leans away to better look at me, her blue eyes lingering on mine. “Every time I look into your pretty eyes, I see Neil. I never understood how the two of you got the same colored eyes when you didn't have the same father.”

  “Must be from some awesome part-cat ancestor of yours. What happened to Neil's father?” I ask immediately, something I have always wondered and never had the courage to question.

  My mom takes a moment to steady herself by getting up and placing her mug next to mine on the nightstand. She touches the shimmery cream and white floor-length curtains, pushing one back and allowing sunlight in to silhouette her. Keeping her back to me, she says, “We were high school sweethearts, got married right after graduation, and had no idea what we were getting into or what we were doing. The stress of money and not having enough of it wore us down. We began to fight all the time. We grew apart, realizing we both wanted and needed different things. Our love turned into something ugly, and we came to an agreement that we couldn't keep doing what we were doing to each other. We divorced when Neil was just a baby.”

  The beating of my heart picks up. “And then?” I prompt.

  She glances at me. “And then I made a bad decision that turned into the second best thing that ever happened to me.”

  “The first being?” I tease. It was Neil. Of course it was Neil. That boy was adventure and laughter and bullheadedness all rolled into one. I miss him still, I miss him always. There is a hole in my childhood that is devoted to the place where he was, and where I wish he could have continued to be.

  My mother smiles. “Do you remember Greg Morgan? His father? He picked Neil up every other weekend and on holidays.”

  “Sort of.” I have a vague image of wavy brown hair and eyes in my head for Neil's father. “Why didn't you keep his last name after the divorce?”

  “Neil had his father's last name, but you had no one's. I went back to my maiden name for you.”

  “And you never saw him again, after Neil died?”

  Pain, old but no less powerful, flickers over her features and recedes back into her. “Once. I saw him about six years ago. He looked...he looked so sad when he saw me that I just turned away and walked out of the store without even getting what I went there for.”

  “Does he still live around here?”

  “I don't know. I don't know anything about him anymore. Which is probably best,” she adds.

  “Why is that best?”

  Turning away, she begins to pick up my clothes. I protest, but the look she gives me silences me. I guess she needs to keep busy as she talks, and I don't really mind her putting my clothes away. We both know I never will. “Because too much time has passed, too much pain, too much of everything. Sometimes it's good to leave the past in the past.”

  “Sometimes it's impossible to,” I mutter.

  She pauses, and then folds a pile of shirts. “You're right. You can't escape the past, but you can move on from it. You've done that this summer too. I've noticed. You're more like you used to be, before you turned into a typical teen—happier.”

  “Happier,” I quietly muse. “Yep.” And sadder. Funny how you can't seem to have one without the other.

  “Are you going to talk to him? If you ask me, I think you should. He's such a sweet boy. Nothing like what you made him out to be. Who knows, maybe he's the one.” She smiles and winks, putting my folded clothes away.

  He is the one. The one and only. Even if he wasn't the only one, he'd still be the one.

  “What did he do to make you so mad anyway?”

  I look up at my mom, my eyebrows lowering as I contemplate her question. She waits expectantly, something changing in her expression the longer she waits. And then she exhales slowly and slumps against the dresser. Her mouth opens and closes. She gives me a helpless look, wordlessly saying she knows. She knows, she wants to help, and there is no way to. Funny how one look at my face can tell her all she needs to know about how I feel about Rivers.

  “He didn't do anything,” I say when it is apparent she is struggling for words. “He didn't do anything but make it impossible not to love him."

  She nods, a touch of sadness in her eyes. Even though she doesn't know the circumstances, she understands how painful it can be to love someone. “You're scared?”

  I flop to my back once more, closing my eyes. “Terrified.”

  “Loving someone is scary, but it's also wonderful.”

  “I'm scared it can't last,” I whisper. I know it can't last.

  My mom lies down beside me and strokes my hair. “You know the saying that nothing can last forever? It's partly true. Feelings can stop, people can leave us, but regardless, a piece of them is always with us, in some way. Maybe it's in a song, or a forgotten note, a picture. Even when you no longer love someone or can't be with them, you still remember them, you still remember good parts of them, and you smile.

  “Why worry about it lasting or not? Even if it doesn't, you'll still have a part of him. And he'll still have a part of you. And isn't that what's really important? Holding the best pieces of someone in our hearts so that the love never really fades, so that we don't forget that we once knew them, and they were special to us.”

  My throat tightens. She said exactly what I needed to hear. “Thank you.”

  “You're welcome. I need help in the garden. Quit moping and get your butt out into the sunshine. Don't forget your sunscreen,” she adds as she gets up from the bed. “And call him before he decides to camp out in our front yard.”

  I get to my feet. "I will. I promise. I'll be right out."

  Alone once more in the room, I turn in a slow circle, not seeing what is before me, but what resides in the form of memories. A sleepover with Riley, reading books with Neil, my mom sitting on the bed behind me as she brushed and braided my hair. This room is full of nostalgia. I wonder what it will hold for my mother in months to come. I rub my eyes and sniffle, closing my eyes against my thoughts. An ache forms in my chest and I swallow, wanting it, and what is causing it, to go away. I head into the upstairs bathroom, layer myself in sun protection, and go about helping my mother in the garden.

  I tell her about college and she goes still, looking stunned. Then she nods, not saying anything, though the smile on her lips says everything anyway. I pull weeds out on one end of the garden as she tackles the other. The plants rub against my legs, making them red and itchy, but I don't mind.

  I go on to tell her about the Brewers game Rivers told me I was going to and she laughs, asking if I know they play baseball. I scowl over that, but it doesn't last long before I am laughing with her. The sun heats my back, dampening my hair and clothing. The bucket fills up with green beans, another with red and yellow tomatoes.

  When the garden is weeded and the ripened fruits and vegetables picked, we sit on the outside furniture of the backyard, sipping lemonade and eating chocolate chip cookies. I am exhausted, but in a good way. Sometimes all it takes is some physical work to quiet the chaos of the mind. Birds flitter through the sky overhead, chirping as they go. I watch them dance from limb to limb of the trees in the distance, their innocence and grace causing a smile to swell my chest.

  "Where are you going to go to school?"

  I push my sunglasses up my nose. "I don't know. Probably the tech school in Fennimore to start. The other day I checked out the classes they offer." I may have agreed to college, but I am keeping my expectations low.

  "For?"

  I smile. "Cooking. I wanted a fun class and that's w
hat I decided on. Culinary Arts," I announce in a deep voice.

  "That sounds like a good time. And Rivers?"

  "He's okay with it. He gets perks to my scholarly choice. Like...food."

  She bumps her shoulder to mine. "What's he taking for classes?"

  I mumble, "Business management."

  "You don't sound happy about that."

  I straighten in my seat, turning to look at my mother as I say in earnest, "Isn't life about following your dreams? Even if they are impossible, you still strive to reach them, right?"

  She slowly nods. "Yes. I think so."

  I slump back in my seat, picking at a loose thread in the hem of my shirt. "That isn't his dream. He doesn't belong in some stuffy office. He needs to be outside, or at least surrounded by it. And I can't see him running some business, directing people. That isn't him. He needs freedom." My mouth twists as I tell her, "He's settling."

  "What about you? I know you like to cook, but that isn't really what you want to do for the rest of your life, is it? You always wanted to design things, decorate."

  Lowering my head, I am thankful for the sunglasses. They hide the pain in my eyes. "I'm not settling. I wasn't even going to go to college."

  "I never understood why you made that decision. You're so bright, so creative." I don't respond and she finally says, "Maybe this is his starting point. We all have to start somewhere. It's possible he'll change his mind, or go on to something else that fits him better. It's okay to want more for others, Delilah, but you also have to be supportive if they decide they don't want more, not now, and maybe not ever."

  I nod, resting my head against the top of the chair. "I should have listened to you sooner. You have amazing advice."

  She smiles, reaching over to pat my leg. "That's the thing about kids and parents. Kids don't listen when they should and parents have to realize that and repeat all the words of wisdom once they grow up. It's a tough job and that's why adults do it and not kids."