Not If I See You First(68)

“Please take me back.” I hear how this sounds and add, “To the cafeteria.”

“Okay. I really am sorry about Trish.”

I just nod. We don’t talk anymore.





With all the work I did over the weekend it doesn’t take Molly and me long to finish in the library. We did our trig homework in class so we don’t have to wait for Kent. I head for the track and she goes back to her mom’s classroom, but then I turn toward the street. I didn’t lie, I was going to talk to Coach Underhill, but I can’t seem to do it now. It’s been a miserable day and I have nothing left. Aunt Celia’s quiet ride home I could cope with, but everyone at the house, and Petey and his energy… just the thought of it all exhausts me.

I usually call for my ride later so no one’s expecting it yet. I decide to walk home. I need the meditation, to calm this storm in my head. It’s two miles and I haven’t walked it for more than a year but I know the way.

After about a half hour I’m ready to call it a failure. I can’t clear my mind. Scenes from the past few days play out, over and over, like songs stuck in my head. Even replaying the good scenes doesn’t help—they either make the bad ones seem that much worse or they just make me feel pathetic again.

Is this self-pity? God, that would be rock bottom. But no, I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me, myself included. Part of why I’m walking out here is I don’t want anyone to see me like this… except you can’t hide from yourself, or at least I can’t, me and my troll brain, always watching, always on alert. Maybe part of this wretched feeling is its vagueness. Maybe if I pin everything down and look at it honestly, I can sort it out, or at least see that it’s not as overwhelming as it feels.

But it’s the third time I’ve decided this and I’m lost in memories again… not just recent ones, but going back to Dad, and Scott before that… even Mom.

I’m never going to have a dad again, or a mom. Those relationships are gone forever. And my friends… it’s just not the same. Vital members of my chosen extended family, but nothing can replace a soul mate of the kissing kind. Someone you feel passion for, and from.

That’s what I lost in the eighth grade. It seemed a little ridiculous to believe you could find your soul mate in middle school anyway, but then last week I completely turned around and fell for it again like a little girl in a Cinderella costume.

Is that what happened? I found the one and screwed it up and now it’s over for good? Whatever else may come later is just going to be settling?

I can’t believe that. But just because lightning can strike twice in one place doesn’t mean it will. Even if it does—in a year, or ten, or fifty—how’s that supposed to fix this huge aching hole in my chest right now?

I’m not walking anymore and don’t remember stopping. I’m slightly doubled over and breathing heavy, leaning way too hard on my cane and it’s probably near the breaking point. It dawns on me that I’ve done something I’ve never done before; I’ve walked for blocks on autopilot without mapping in my head. I have no idea where I am.

All I needed to do was walk seventeen blocks, turn left, and walk nine more to get to Gunther Field. I usually zigzag, though: one block forward, one left, one forward, one left, till I’ve done nine left and then I just walk eight straight forward. Have I done that four times? Five? Six? I’ve lost count. I also have a hazy memory that I haven’t zigzagged every block. I’m lost.

I can’t breathe. The pain in my chest is growing. How can an imaginary pain feel this real? I sink to one knee still leaning too hard on my cane. I don’t hear cars or anyone walking nearby; there’s no one to ask what street I’m on or what’s ahead. I can’t even call someone to ask them to come get me because I can’t tell them where I am.

Calm down. This is not a big deal. You can knock on any door to ask their address and then call any number of people to come pick you up. Hell, your phone will give you walking directions from Current Location so you don’t even need to know where you are. Now get up, take out your phone…

Just get up, get up before someone sees you like this. You don’t want someone calling an ambulance or the cops or even just other people nearby and then you’d be surrounded by strangers. You’re not in any real trouble. Don’t be pathetic. Just get up. Get up! You’re going to break your cane!

Oh, Jesus, don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t f*cking cry! Do it in your room if you really have to but not out here in the middle of God knows where. Just breathe and stand up and— Shit! I told you you’d break your cane…





TWENTY-EIGHT


Rules aren’t just for other people. Some are for me. The most recent was the no-crying rule that Sarah talked me into revoking. I’m still not sure whether it was the right thing to do or just a big rationalization for not being able to make it stick.

Another rule is to have a spare cane. I used to have one but when my primary cane lasted so long and then only broke in a freak car-door accident, I switched to my spare and wasn’t in a hurry to order another and never got around to it. This broken one is all I have now for at least a couple days, even paying for rush delivery.

It didn’t actually break. A middle section bent and my hand slipped. It jolted me and gave me a problem to solve. I sit on the sidewalk to explore the damage with my fingers. It bent maybe ten degrees but it’s still usable. I need a new one, definitely, but this will work till it comes. I’ll order two.