by A. M. Hudson
“Are you okay, Ara? You were pretty spaced out there for a bit?” Sam asked slowly and cautiously, with his hand extended.
“I’m not going to flip, Sam.” I rolled my eyes. “I know everyone’s waiting for it, but I’m okay, really. Really!” I added in response to his conceited grimace.
He doesn’t believe me—no one believes me. My shoulders dropped with a huff. Enough is enough. Why can’t everyone just leave me alone? I can handle my mum’s death in my own way. I’m nowhere near a nervous breakdown.
Sam took a long step sideways—away from the crazy person—and continued drying the dishes, wearing the same smug grin he always wears when he thinks he has the upper hand.
That’s it! My teeth clenched and I dipped my fingertips into the sink. He is so going to get it. Lost in his own self-righteousness, Sam never saw it coming. I flicked the soapy dishwater all over his face. “Argh, Ara!” He jumped back, blinking and wiping his eyes.
I laughed aloud, but Sam’s lips meshed together and his eyes became small.
Okay, that seemed like a better idea in theory.
“Oh, you’re gonna pay for that, big sister.” He held the tea towel an arms-length away, spinning it in circles until it looked like a long, twisted snake.
“Oh, no. No. Don’t you dare!” I warned, with the pointed finger of authority.
“Oh, yeah? And who’s gonna stop me?” He laughed and flicked the back of my leg with the towel.
“Ouch.” I squealed, running around the island bench to out-manoeuvre him. No good—he took a head shot. “Hey, no fair, keep it below the knees,” I yelled, running toward the dining table, then bolted up the stairs.
“Come back and I’ll make it quick.” He thudded up behind me.
As the towel came at me again, I slammed my bedroom door—catching the end of the towel in the doorframe. Sam laughed boisterously as he tried to pull it out.
“Told you I’m faster, Samuel,” I called through the door as I folded over, laughing. “And don’t even—”
“That’s enough, you two.” Dad’s strong voice forced Sam and I into stillness.
“But, Dad—” Sam started.
“I said enough! Now get back down and finish your chores.”
“What about her?” Sam said.
“Now!”
This is not a good time to argue with Dad.
In the hall, Sam sighed loudly—probably rolling his eyes and planning a revenge strike, too. The tea towel made a grating sound before it released from the door with a short, dull thud. “Why does the princess always get her own way? It’s not fair.” Sam’s voice trailed off.
Folding my arms, breathing out with a smile, I leaned on the back of my door. It’s good to laugh again. Sam can be a pain, but at least he’s good spirited. However, there’s no way I’m going back downstairs to get my butt whooped.
Instead, I sat at my desk and looked out over the yard. Under the charcoal sky of the coming night, the oak tree rustled lightly in the breeze, and the swing, hovering low over the soft grass, swayed gently—almost as if a small, invisible child were rocking back and forth on it.
My mum would’ve loved it here. She’d be happy that I found David—that I was able to start living again. I wish I could call David. I even picked up my phone a few times today and dialled his number, only to stop myself before I pressed the call button. If David wants to talk to me, he’ll call. I wouldn’t—if I was him—I would’ve left already. There must be a million inconsiderate and selfish girls out there in the world, there’s no reason for him to want to stay with this one, especially since I’m so messed up and damaged as well.
My ledger of secrets—housing many hours of hopelessness and memories—peered out at me from under the corner of my mattress. That’s not right. My diary was definitely stuffed a lot further under there than that. Maybe Sam’s been reading it. I know Vicki wouldn’t. She’s desperate to get inside my head, but even she wouldn’t stoop that low. Still, I think I’ll find a better hiding place for this.
After a moment’s hesitation, I walked over, slipped the diary from under the mattress and sat down with it open on my desk. I want the sense of resolution that diary writing usually brings, but I don’t want to record my true feelings, because as soon as I write them down—they become real.
Outside, a group of children ran noisily past our block, dragging a red box-cart behind them. Their laughter filled the night until they disappeared down the street, leaving an eerie stillness behind them.
How is it that a second of distraction can make everything seem less empty, and when it’s gone, it seems as though the silence and hollow void you were lost in before has now grown into a vortex of desolation. Just like with David, I suppose; he came into my life when I was numb inside, and now he’s gone, I feel like I’m dead.
I looked down at my diary, and sighed. I need to record my feelings and thoughts—even if I don’t want to admit them. They’re just eating away at me. I can’t take it anymore—self-pity is very exhausting.
Dear David, I wrote in my diary.
I’m so very, very sorry. I understand completely now why you have to leave. It was me. It was all me. I moved too fast—threw myself at you, and you felt compelled to give me the attention I wanted—afraid to say no to a desperately sad girl. My dad must’ve told you they have me on suicide watch, even though I’m in no way suicidal.
But if you knew I was really okay, you’d never have let me be with you. That’s why you wouldn’t kiss me in the first place! You don’t really love me. And then I went and made you feel bad—made you feel like you had to keep up the lie of your love for me, and even made you feel obligated to give me my first kiss.
I wish you hadn’t, though—the memory will always sting more now.
If only I could’ve returned your kindness, at least by being there for you when you lost a friend. Instead, I hurt you, and I’m sorry.
I’m no good for you—you knew that, and I see it now, too. So, I’m letting you go. I won’t be sad here without you, I promise. I’ll always be happy that I had you for a while, and I’ll always be grateful to you, because despite how much it hurts, by pretending to love me, you brought me back from the darkness I caged myself in. You were my knight in shining armour.
I love you. Your friend, forever, Ara
As I closed the book and rested my pen on top, a wave of resolution washed over me. David will never see this letter, and I’ll read it to myself whenever it gets hard to be without him.
He’s free now. Free of my confining heart; I won’t trap him here any longer.
Tomorrow, when the sun comes up, I’ll go running for the first time since I lost them—feel the fresh air on my face in the early morning, just as I used to every day with Mike, back home in Australia.
Vicki will think I’m okay again, Dad will be happy I’ve left my mum and Harry in the past, and I will run. Nothing more. Run, until everything that hurts in my heart and my soul moves to the edges of my limbs, into my knees and my lungs, and I will leave it there. Leave the pain—leave the sorrow. Leave David.
When I see him at the funeral, he won’t know me. I can play a different Ara. I can stand strong—smile. I will smile. If only for a second, just to nod toward him, while in my mind I’ll be saying goodbye.
Chapter Fifteen
“Dad, you look nice,” my voice trailed up as I set eyes upon my suit- wearing father, headed down the stairs.
“Thank you, Ara.” He nodded solemnly.
It’s hard to hear his voice sounding so flat and sad. Today will be hard for him, too—we’re both saying goodbye to someone.
Dad’s lips twisted tightly as he studied my mournful black attire: a soft, cotton dress with a burgundy belt around the waist. “Ara, are you sure you’re ready for this? For a…funeral.” His voice wavered on the word funeral.
Steadying my desire to burst out and tell him, again, to stop worrying about me—that I’m fine—I looked down at my feet. He won’t just let
me forget about them. No one will. Moving on from this has been really hard, but I am getting better. Why is it that every time I try to do anything normal, someone shoves the memory of their death in my face or questions my ability to cope?
“It’s just that—it’s barely been two months, honey, since—” he stopped. Even he can’t say the words—not when they apply to Mum. “Are you sure you can cope with this?”
“No, Dad. I’m actually not sure. I’m actually not sure about anything anymore. But I want to go—for Emily and…David.” His name stuck in my throat.
Dad nodded, but didn’t speak.
“What?” Sam yelled; I spun around quickly, my heart racing from the sudden noise in the ultra-still of the house. “Why does she get to go? She didn’t even know him.” Sam pointed at me.
“Sam, neither did you. And I’m not having this discussion with you again.” Dad groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose, then started down the stairs.
Sam folded his arms across his chest and stomped back to his room at the end of the hall—slamming the door. Dad didn’t even bother to look up, let alone yell at Sam for it. Vicki didn’t even pop her head out to yell. She must be in the shower.
I looked at Vicki’s door, then the clock on the wall at the base of the stairs. It’s nearly time to go. The funeral isn’t until nine o’clock, but Mrs. Rossi asked my dad to attend a church service beforehand. Unfortunately, he agreed. I wonder if David will go to it.
While David’s face—the moment I told him to leave and never come back—impaired my breathing with its hurtful parade around my thoughts, my stomach complained at me; twisting into tight knots and groaning loudly. If I don’t feed the ogre soon, I’ll turn into one, especially since I’m already feeling green. But I don’t want to eat. My heart hurts too much.
From the kitchen downstairs, the smell of Dad’s toast wafted through the entranceway—making my hunger pangs worse. With the itch of the ogre controlling my footfalls, I stomped down the stairs, slumped on the bottom step and hugged the wooden post. I should sit at the table with my dad—maybe even have a coffee to help ease the chill in my skin from my early morning run, but I don’t want him to see through my mask and tell me I can’t go today.
I watched my father with a careful eye—sitting with his chin rested on his interlaced fingers, staring out at the white glare of the morning. I wonder where his thoughts are. He says so little about what he’s feeling—how he’s coping.
There’s no way of knowing how I’ll cope today. I know I’m not ready for this. The memory of Mum and Harry, of their…funeral, is still so fresh in my mind. It feels like it was only yesterday, and the last thing I want to do is cry at a funeral. No one knows about my mum—they’ll all assume my tears are for this kid I never met—then they’ll think I’m creepy. But I have to go. It might be my last chance to say goodbye to David.
“All set to go, are we?” Dad asked, leaning against the doorway of the dining area.
Standing up quickly, I painted my carefully practiced sympathetic-yet-emotionally-controlled mask on my face. He fell for it.
“Everyone ready?” Vicki asked from the top of the stairs.
“Vicki.” Dad paused with his hand on the doorknob and looked at her adoringly. “You look lovely.”
“Thank you, Greg.” She straightened the front of her skirt. “I’m just sorry for the occasion.”
Dad nodded, and a humbled smile stole the sadness from his blue eyes for a moment.
Vicki does look nice in black, but it seems like such an unfriendly colour, almost cruel really, to say goodbye to someone in. If my last memory were of my funeral, I’d want to see everyone dressed as rainbows—to celebrate my life, instead of mourn it.
Dad took Vicki’s hand, and as he swung the door open, my breath stopped short of my lips. The cool morning air blew across my knees, sending a chill through my skin, and the sun reflected brightly off the damp black road outside, like a spotlight—blinding me. But my eyes did not betray me—displaying perfection before them. “David?” my dad said cheerfully. “You’re right on time.”
Right on time?
David stood in the doorway with one hand in the pocket of his tailored black suit as he shook my dad’s with the other. “Good to see you again, Mr. Thompson, Mrs. Thompson.” He nodded politely at Dad, then Vicki, and turned his head to look directly at me.
I’m shrinking. I can feel it. I should close my mouth—wipe the dumbfounded stare off my face, but I really do love him too much to hide the elation in my soul.
But, what is he doing here? He’s been gone for nearly two days without a word, and now he turns up—uninvited—looking so damn perfect that there’s no way I’m going to be able to control my emotions now.
“Good morning, Ara,” he said in that smooth, weightless voice.
He shouldn’t speak to me so nicely—I’m not a nice person. When I looked up at him, the proverbial rock I thought I’d lost found its way onto my chest again. My face contorted, desperately trying to retain the fake smile. “Um…hi,” I said, and my eyes fell to the floor. I can’t look at him anymore. How can he stand there like that, looking so normal—like nothing ever happened between us?
“Uh, Ara,” Dad disrupted the lengthy silence, “since you kids are having your own wake at Betty’s, I thought you might like to ride to the funeral with David so he can take you out after?”
“You mean you assumed.” I folded my arms, and my bottom lip jutted out slightly. How could he do this to me? How could either of them do this to me? Nobody seems to care about my trying to move forward. I went jogging today! Jogging! Isn’t that enough?
It’s true, I can see it now; they’re trying to make me suicidal. By bringing him here when I wasn’t ready for him, they’re making me lose all my resolve to let him go.
David looked at Dad before turning stiffly away. I skulked along behind him—arms still folded. He opened the car door for me, and I pierced his soul with eyes like daggers. “I can get the door myself.”
“I’m sorry.” David took a step back. “I know you can. I was…” He stopped talking when I pushed past him and slumped into the passenger seat. I kept my eyes forward, and the door closed after a short sigh from David.
In the silence, while Dad talked to David by the mailbox, the woodsy, lemony smell of his leather seats stirred the memory of our picnic by the lake—making my stomach growl again as a familiar weak and shaky feeling spread through my arms.
Outside, David lowered his head, and my dad placed a hand on his shoulder. Vicki rubbed David’s arm gently, smiling. Then, they all nodded a few times, smiled again, folded their arms over their bodies and nodded again.
God, what are they doing? Nice of them to just leave me sitting here. David looked over his shoulder at me, just for a second, then shook my dad’s hand, jerking his head in the direction of the car. Dad looked at me, pressing his lips into a tight line while eyes lit with humour. I know they’re laughing at my bad mood—they always do. No one cares what’s wrong. All they care about is that I’m sulking and it’s something funny to laugh at.
It’s not like it’s deliberate. I don’t mean to be moody, and I don’t mean to be selfish, either. And I do feel bad that I’ve noticed the obvious sadness in David’s eyes this morning and yet, there’s no way I’ll ask him if he’s okay. Not because I don’t want to know if he’s okay, but because I’m worried he’ll say something like “Yeah, I will be when I get you out of my car.”
You see? There it is. Despite trying to change, I’m still just the same spoiled, self-centred girl I’ve always been.
David slid into the car and closed the door as a roll of thunder echoed across the sky, making my skin crawl. “You okay?” he asked, buckling his seatbelt.
I cleared my throat and looked out the window. I’m so mad at him for carrying the lie of this friendship even further—just to please my dad. There’s no way I’m going to make him feel at ease by lying and saying, “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You haven’t eaten,” he stated factually, resting the key in the ignition.
“I’m fine,” I muttered—just to shut him up.
“You know, you could’ve said no—” he said in a short tone, starting the engine. “I didn’t force you to come in my car.”
“You could’ve said no, too.”
“Your dad asked me. What was I supposed to say?”
“Humph.” I refolded my arms for good measure and glared at my parents as we pulled down the drive.
I hate this. I feel like a science project or a carefully guarded psyche-patient. Why did he say yes to babysitting me today if he hates me? Maybe I was right about him having Knight Syndrome—either that or he’s a glutton for punishment.
By the time the church came into focus on the distant horizon, the silence in the car had turned into tension. My eyes tried to focus on the dizzying blur of trees outside my window, and David drove very slowly and much more carefully than ever before.
When the car stopped, I jumped a little as he appeared at my door and reached for my hand before my seatbelt even came undone. God, I must be fazing out more than I thought—I didn’t even see him get out of the car.
Ignoring his offer of assistance, I grabbed the doorframe and hoisted my dizzy self from the car, taking inconspicuously deep breaths to steady the ringing in my ears. David’s hand hovered near my waist; I must look pale or something. I feel pale. “Are you okay, Ara?”
“I’m fine,” I said, scowling at him, but the spite in my tone caught me off guard and flattened my brow.
David stood taller and dropped his hand. My eyes stayed on his shiny black shoes and the pebbly gravel of the car park. It’s his own fault if he’s insulted or hurt that I don’t want him near me; he shouldn’t have pretended to care about me just to save me from myself. I should tell him that I know all about his and my dad’s little conspiracy.
