A Lover's Lament(41)

My focus drifts from the letter to the lump that’s formed in my throat. I swallow hard before continuing to read.



And I’m so sorry about your best friend. I can’t imagine how hard it was to lose him. I know it’s not exactly the same, but I feel like I can somewhat relate to that. I don’t think I told you in my first letter—actually, I know I didn’t because I haven’t told anyone—but I have this memory of waking up and seeing my dad for a couple of seconds right after the accident. If I close my eyes, I can remember everything so perfectly ...

He was covered in blood—it was literally running in streams down his face. I kept watching his chest, trying to see if he was still breathing, but I couldn’t focus because I was fading in and out. I don’t remember much else, but it haunts me. I don’t sleep well because when I close my eyes at night that is what I see. Why do I see that though? I have so many memories of him, and yet that’s the one that always pops up. How do you do it? How do you close your eyes and not see your friend? Or maybe you do … maybe the memory of him bleeding out in your arms is what keeps you up at night. It probably sounds sadistic, but as much as I hope that you’re not haunted by those memories, I find it somewhat comforting to know that maybe I’m not in this alone.



The letter falls to my lap and my eyes close tightly. I think of Katie, fighting for consciousness in the passenger seat, watching her father die before her eyes, and I can’t help but feel more connected to her in that moment, having been through the same with Jax. I ache for her, too. I imagine her lying in bed some nights, the pillow collecting tears beneath that beautiful masterpiece of a face. In my mind, she’s clutching a silver frame, her father’s picture staring back at her. I have to take her pain away.



I don’t know how you do it; how you cope with everything that you’ve had to witness or do. Unless you’re like me and you aren’t really coping with it at all. My guess is that you’re living one day—one second—at a time, just getting by. That’s what I’ve been doing. But I want to change that. I want to stop existing. I want to live again, and your letter did that for me. So if you don’t mind, I’m going to very gently throw your words back at you.

Don’t treat your grief as I do. Don’t let it simmer until it’s boiling over the edge. Live your life, not just for yourself but also for your friends who have lost their lives. Take them with you wherever you go and do all the things that they’ll never get to do.

I’ve read your letter several times now, and each time I get to the part where you think you’ve done more harm than good and I have to smile because you have absolutely no idea how much good you’ve actually done. I made a huge change in my life today, one that left me with a flicker of hope, and then I read your letter and that flicker exploded. I can’t explain it—I wish I could—but in the words of my father, “some things aren’t meant to be explained, they just are.”

So, I’m not going to think about it too much. I’m just going to be grateful that things happened the way they did, and I’m going to work toward making changes. I know it won’t be easy, but I want to forgive Mr. Drexler because I know that’s the only way I’ll move past all of this. Or maybe not forgive him … maybe that wasn’t the right word. How about make peace? That sounds better, don’t you think? I want to make peace within myself toward Andrew Drexler. I think I’ll work on myself first though. It seems appropriate that I get comfortable in my own skin again before I try making amends with anyone else.

Anyway, I’m sure you’re tired of hearing me babble on and on. I’ll bet when you wrote that you hoped you’d hear back from me, you probably weren’t expecting all of this, were you?

I really do hope that you’re doing well. And from the tiny snippet of your letter, it seems like you had a rough go of it in Pennsylvania, but I’d like to hear more about that … about your time there. How is your mom? I hope she’s managed to clean herself up, but I have a feeling you’re rolling your eyes right about now.

I’m so sorry to hear about your grandmother. I know how much she meant to you and how much you enjoyed spending your vacations there as a child. I bet it was nice getting to see her more after you moved though, wasn’t it?

Well, I could probably go on and on with any number of the questions running through my head, but right about now I’m thinking that baby steps are in order. I noticed your email address on the last letter you sent and I contemplated emailing this letter to you, but I didn’t want to do that. Seems silly, I know, but emailing you rather than writing felt like I was making a first move toward something—what that something is, I have no idea. I just know that I’m not ready to make any first moves, not when it comes to you. I will, however, put the ball in your court.

I hope to hear back from you.

Sincerely,

Katie

[email protected]



I’m taken aback for a moment when I realize that she just might be okay with the idea of opening her life back up to me. All I want is the chance to know her again, to learn about the new Katie, and the road she took to get here. I want her to learn about me too, and how different I’ve become. How much better I’ve become. Or have I?

I read it over three more times, and the smile that I’m sure is plastered on my face could light my way through the desert night. I haven’t felt this in a while, and it feels really damn good.