Adrift
I walked up to the microphone as I heard clapping. They were clapping for me. I could feel the stares piercing through my skin, way deep, into my soul as I got closer.
I took a deep breath. There was silence, as they waited for me to speak. As I saw them all in blue and gold, they looked like one massive big conscience, not several individuals. I was about to tell them about the wonderful future they would embark in—the adventure called life.
“It is not a destination; it is a journey…” I heard myself say. What a silly thing to say, I thought. If David were here now, he’d be cracking jokes and whistling at my ridiculous cliché of a statement. It is so easy to multitask like that—saying one thing on the outside, and on the inside, letting my mind wander.
About twenty minutes later, I ended with “so take your dreams, reach for the stars, and go your separate ways. For we are all unique, and each one of us is bound for greatness, in our own different ways. Thank you.”
I could hear the clapping, but I didn’t. I can hear the whistling, but I didn’t. My mind was a million miles away.
I would have loved to cry, and it was so hard to hold those tears back.
My dad was there too. My only parent; and the one who had Parkinson’s. I imagine what sadness he had felt for me; what parent wouldn’t? He must have thought, of all people my daughter could have loved—she chose the one who left for the stars.
I held a tear back. It was on its way to slipping down, but I caught it. I wasn’t going to be weak and cry. Not at that moment anyway. I’d cry alone, with a glass of wine, and a sad Sasha Sloan on my playlist. I had, in fact, become quite a loner by now.
So, we took the pictures, I smiled, some of my friends gave me extra hugs, and told me they understood. That is the biggest cliché people say to a grieving person, I know how you feel. Unless they are me, which is quite unlikely, since I’ve been already taken, they had no idea how I felt. Even if they’d lost someone themselves. And no one in this crowd had lost someone only eighteen years old. Not in this little circle.
I wish I could teleport myself to a different life, a different city, start from scratch. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be who I am.
I can’t though. I have my dad to take care of. He’s sick and alone since mom died of cancer. So, it would be cruel to leave. That’s why I chose to stay in Rhode Island. Brown is a great university, and it’s right here, I wouldn’t even have to live in a dorm.
Besides, even if that weren’t the case, I am not one of those spontaneous let’s do it now, kind of people. That was David. He was the reckless one. With him, I was a perfect fit to his missing piece. I was the one who had the logic to keep him grounded, to give him a sense of balance, to keep him from…doing what he had done.
Or so I thought.
Over and over he’d talk to me about death. How wonderful it was. How he’d free himself from worries. How all this triteness would be gone. Life was a bunch of lies, and phony people.
I would ask him over and over: “Isn’t our love enough for you? At least you’ll be sharing the triteness and phoniness with me. We’re getting married in two years, D. We’ll be twenty by then—we’ll be juniors in college. We’ll make our own little family unit, our own life, and it won’t be trite, I can assure you. I promise you”
His response to that was consistent. “But we’ll be old, Lena. Once you hit twenty-five, you’re done for. Look at my parents— I’d hate to end up like them. Besides, I’m just tired. Don’t you get tired? We could just go together, you know. Just you and I –we’d live in eternity together. Away from here, away from this sadness. Away from a world that is so unjust.” And I used to reply,
“I don’t want to die., And neither do you. Trust me—we’re here for a reason. If you throw it all away, you’ll never know what you’re meant to do in life. And neither will I. For all I know, you may be destined for great things, David Arnold.”
And he’d laugh. He’d light a Marlboro and exhale rings in the air. That was how hard I’d been trying, and that’s what it all boiled down for him—a joke.
Every weekend (sometimes on weekdays) he’d take the keys to the beloved KTM motocross bike, and go fly in Wrentham State Forest, which was the biggest, and most adventurous trail near us.
He’d be gone for hours. And then he’d come home with muddy boots, and mud on his face, but his skin would glow, and he would look so alive, I kept wondering where all these suicidal thoughts came from.
I failed though. I failed at keeping him alive.
And that’s what was haunting me. I wanted to turn back time and maybe do things right—or move on. Either way, I would have liked to get something done with myself. I was at a loss…and I had no clue what to do with it. I was a being without direction, a floating feather, a bird without wings. One moment I felt trapped and sad, the next angry as hell. There were times I felt hatred for David. I hated him for leaving me. I wanted to move on, I wanted to find someone else to love. Other times, it had been just the opposite. I wanted to hold on to every little detail I had from his memory in case it got lost.
I remember the night he died. He’d gone to one of his motocross trails. Except this time—he never returned. No muddy boots, no glowing skin, no jacket that had to be washed three times just to get the dirt out. No kiss. No hug. Nothing. Just silence. Just waiting.
And nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
The police had gone to his parents’ house, Ileana and Benjamin. He had a younger brother, Johnny. The mother, I heard fainted. The father had no words to say. The brother had called me. He’d been the only one who thought of poor little Lena waiting alone in the tiny apartment she and David shared. He and I used to live together. My dad didn’t mind. He loved David. David’s parents didn’t even know—I’m almost sure of that.
I had hugged Johnny, I had cried on his shoulder for hours. Then I thought it wasn’t true. Then I went riding along the trail and looked for him in my own little cross bike. I went through it over and over as if I were in a trance.
One week later, I made my valedictorian speech. Two weeks later, I was backpacking Europe alone. I wanted to find who I was. I wanted to know who Lena was without the David part. I took a year off college, and I walked through miles and mils of green and fir trees and picked ripe apples and smelled the fresh grass through the trails of Kahlenberg, Austria.
My older sister Sarah took care of my dad. She is a super-busy Psychiatrist. Nonetheless, she did it for me. She knew how much I needed to get away.
As I walked and walked, sometimes alone, sometimes with a group of people I’d meet on the trail, I’d wonder. Can this long walk heal me? What if he hadn’t died? Would we have been hay? Would we have had kids? Would he had killed himself anyway because he’d wanted it regardless? Does fate exist or is this just all chaotic mess and I just happened to be in the middle of it?
Miles and miles of thoughts. And days and nights alone. Sometimes speaking to no one at all. I’d stop at little camping hostels, and spend the night. Replenish my food and water, and move on.
And then one day, I met someone. An English boy who I got along very well with. We confided in each other. We sometimes held hands. We got close in a spiritual kind of way, not a sexual one. I finally got a glimpse of hope again—I could look at the stars and not feel so alone. I could face sunshine without wanting it to hide behind clouds. I loved being with Julian.
And the day I returned home, glowing and happy, and almost in love,
my father had passed away.
