Kristie Cook - Purpose

I wrapped my arms around her shoulders.

“I’m sorry I’m such an ass,” I whispered against her cheek. I cringed, knowing I’d just offended her again. “Sorry.”

She patted my hand. “I’m sorry you’re still suffering so much.”

I pulled away to pour a cup of coffee, then sat down at the table with her. I played absent-mindedly with my necklace, sliding the pendant and key back and forth on the chain, rubbing my thumb over the smooth face of the triangular ruby. Usually Foggy could numb the pain, but I hadn’t been fooling anyone that she made it completely disappear, especially not Mom. And not even myself. I knew the pain always lingered, under the fog, and, deep down, a part of me wanted to feel it…needed to feel it.

“I would really like to stop hurting, Mom, but then it feels like I’m…giving up.”

“Nobody would blame you, honey,” she said quietly.

I stared into my coffee cup. “I know. They’d probably be glad I was finally coming back to reality. Seven years is a long time….”

“Not really. Not for us,” she said, waving her hand to dismiss the idea. “I still mourn for Stefan—”

My breath caught at Stefan’s name. I still mourned for him, too, but... “He was a protector. I mean, not a boyfriend or real love or anything. It’s not the same.”

“Yes, but we were very close. We even talked about dating, but were afraid we’d ruin our friendship. I miss him very much.” Mom sighed. “And I still mourn for my true love.”

I looked up at her with wonder. She’d never mentioned her true love before.

“Yes, honey, I’ve lost my own true love. Many years ago. It was 1910, a very different time, before either of the World Wars. Oliver was an English man visiting Italy, where I was born and raised. We fell in love at first sight. I followed him back to England and we married almost immediately. Barely more than a year later, he died. He’d become terribly sick and no one knew why. He probably had cancer, but we didn’t know back then. I couldn’t save him.”

A single tear slid down her cheek. She brushed at it with the tips of her fingers and then wiped at her eyes before anymore fell.

“Mom, I had no idea.”

“He was my soul mate, Alexis. And just like you, I had such a short time with him. As you can see, I still grieve for him. But life goes on and so do we.” She smiled, just a turn of her lips that didn’t reach her eyes. “So, it’s not how long it’s been that bothers me, honey. I understand.”

“But you mourn for their deaths. Tristan isn’t dead. I can’t believe that! I don’t mourn. I hang on!”

“Look how miserable you are, honey. I know hanging on is part of who you are. Ever since Stefan left when you were little, breaking your heart, I realized you were given the capacity to love more intensely than even me. Once you allow yourself to even trust enough, you become so attached. But…do you really think Tristan would want you to live like this?”

Tears pooled in my eyes. This wasn’t the first time she’d brought this up, so it wasn’t the first time I’d thought about what he would want for me. He would want me to be happy. I knew that with my brain, but my heart didn’t care. I had to hang on and wait for him, regardless of how much his absence hurt. She was right. That’s just how I was.

“If I don’t live like this, if I don’t feel the pain, I’m afraid I’ll forget. And I can’t forget!” She took me in her arms and I cried on her shoulder. “He’s already so dim, fading in my mind. What if I lose his face? What if I can’t remember anymore?”

Very quietly, she said, “Maybe it’s time to let go, honey.”

I felt like Mom had just slapped me. Swirly Alexis jumbled my thoughts, but Psycho pushed her away, and the insane anger from yesterday returned.

“NO!” I yelled, slamming my fist on the table, startling her. I jumped up, staring at her as if she were the crazy one. “I will never let go!”

I grabbed my coffee cup and stormed outside. A tumult of emotions battered at me, a hurricane raging in my mind. How could I make any changes, move forward, if I refused to let go of the pain? Letting go of the pain, of the misery, of exactly what caused days like yesterday, meant letting go of Tristan. And I absolutely refused to do that.

Did that mean changing would be impossible? Did I have to live like this until he returned? Or until the Ang’dora, which would change me, make me strong and give me powers so I could find and rescue him? Or did I hold onto something that didn’t really exist? Was holding onto the thread of hope that he still lived completely futile?

Ugh! I hate you, Swirly! Stop messing with my mind!

She responded with more irrationality. An unexplainable and overwhelming need to move overcame me. I went around the corner and pulled out my stash of cigarettes from under the air conditioning unit, needing to take the edge off. As soon as I lit one, I gagged and choked. Gross! When did I start doing this? I smashed the butt out and crushed the pack in my fist. I took a swig of coffee. What I normally called the nectar of heaven now tasted bitter. The warmth felt thick in my mouth and coated the back of my throat. I tossed the rest out. I didn’t need the caffeine anyway. I already felt wired. What is wrong with me now?

I knew I wouldn’t be able to write. My publisher would be expecting those final chapters any day now; it had been too long since I’d submitted anything. I didn’t care about their deadlines as much as I did about Dorian. But despite my revelation this morning, I just couldn’t bring myself to sit down and finish the story. My mind wouldn’t focus and my body couldn’t physically sit still.

While Mom took Dorian to school, I paced anxiously through the sprawling house, first through Dorian’s and my bedrooms, as well as my office, which all sat on the east side of the house. I picked up toys in Dorian’s room and straightened the bed, though it was unnecessary—he hadn’t even slept in his bed last night. I moved to the kitchen and scrubbed the counters and then the floor. Again unnecessary—Mom kept the house immaculate—but I needed to do something.

I even ventured into the west wing that housed Mom’s suite and the guest room, which we called Owen’s room. Besides Rina’s visits every year or two, he was the only one who used it. Wondering why the door was closed, I cracked it open. A pillow flew at me and I jerked the door shut. Crap. I’d forgotten Owen had arrived yesterday. I wondered how much of my tantrum he experienced. Not that it was new to Owen. He’d seen the worst of me.

He must have had a difficult time at first. He mostly stayed away then. Being the one to return that ill-fated day and deliver the crushing news, he’d obviously felt survivor’s guilt and it was hard for him to be around me. I probably didn’t do or say what I should have to make him feel any better. I didn’t blame him for what happened. But I did, every now and then, wonder why and how he, Solomon and the other soldier came back and not any of the rest. I never asked him, though. I didn’t want details…details that might tell me something I really didn’t want to know. Owen never brought the subject up himself, either. I didn’t know if he didn’t like talking about it at all, or just not with me.

Although we didn’t need extra protection, not even a shield, he started coming around more. Especially recently. Dorian loved his Uncle Owen. He was the closest thing Dorian had to a father figure, although I ensured everyone remembered he was not his father and he would never replace him. Mom enjoyed his company, too, and I didn’t mind it.

I let him sleep, returning to the mid-section of the house. I circled the table in the formal dining room and meandered through the living room that we only used for holidays, moving around knick-knacks and putting them back the way they were. I did the same in the family room at the back of the house and eventually swept all the books onto the floor and started re-shelving them by the color of their covers. I supposed Swirly made this organizational system seem rational when I started. Half-way through, though, I realized the idiocy of it. Too impatient to put them back in alphabetical order, I just piled them haphazardly onto the built-in shelves.