Jessica Sankiewicz: If Only We

I knew better.

At least I thought I did. I'm not so sure anymore. Maybe it's possible he wasn't trying to protect me. The hurt in his eyes from earlier flashes back into my mind. The vulnerability. The despair. He claimed we were never friends to begin with but he was lying. He felt something—exactly what it was, I don't know. It's more likely he was protecting himself.

Now I'll never know.

All summer I attempted to push our memories out of my mind and fill the void with anything else. As much as I tried to fight it, to forget him, it was to no avail. The feelings lingered; they were in my heart, just as they are still.

I close my eyes and allow the memories to flood in. The times he made me laugh when I was having a bad day. The time we were making fun of that one substitute teacher who never shaved her legs and wore pantyhose. And all the times we sat side by side passing a notebook discreetly to have a conversation without the librarian knowing. Did it all mean nothing? Was I kidding myself? Did he ever feel it too? Did I really love him or did I only think I loved him? I scan these memories searching for an answer.

What could I have done differently? How different would my life be if I chose another path? From where or which way would things come together? Could I make my family proud? Could I create a path that brings me joy? Could I find a way to make everything right again?

The same words roll over and around in my head, making me dizzy over their continual loop.

What if I…and if he…then we could have…but if only we…

Oh, if only.

I fall asleep that night with a trail of tears sliding down my cheeks.

Buzz…buzz… “…that’s what they said anyway. I thought it was a good…” Slam!

My alarm clock is set to a local all-talk-no-music radio station. The annoying sounds before and the talking always get me up in the morning. If there were music playing, I would keep sleeping. Groaning, I stretch out my legs, still aching from the tossing and turning last night. Remembering moment after moment with Chevy, replaying the conversation in the cemetery. My mind refused to let me relax.

A quick glance at the clock tells me it’s eight. Wait. Eight? I do a double take. Sure enough, it’s eight. I could have sworn I set it for nine thirty so I could sleep in a bit. I will myself to sleep in another hour and a half. After fifteen minutes of staring at the ceiling, I sit up and rub my eyes. As strange as it is to be in my room again, it looks almost like I never left.

I stretch and go over to my vanity to brush the tangles out of my auburn hair. When I look in the mirror, I notice something different about my clothes. Hadn't I worn the pink and blue striped tank to bed? Why am I wearing the yellow and gray polka dot one? Rolling my eyes, I have a feeling this summer has warped my thought processes.

I throw on a cardigan and head out my door to grab a bagel for breakfast. Kaitlin’s bedroom is across the hall from mine. Her door is open. What is she doing up so early? She is hardly ever up before I am. I peek in to find it empty. Maybe she is in the kitchen.

Before I walk away, I do a double take. Why is Kaitlin’s room pink? She and my mom painted it while I was gone. It was a pale shade of purple yesterday. That’s weird. I shake my head and go to the kitchen. My mom and Maurice are at the table drinking coffee. Maurice looks up from the paper and says, “Good morning.”

Although the tone in his voice seems more cheerful than it should be, given the circumstances, Maurice can sometimes rise above bad things. It’s probably the pale yellow walls. Yellow just seems to bring about a sunny attitude. My reply is automatic, “Morning.” I pull out a bagel and toss it in the toaster. Deciding to extend an olive branch while I wait, I say, “Morning, Mom.” I sneak a glance in her direction to find her smiling.

Smiling?

“Morning, sweetie,” she says.

Is she...happy?

I hide behind the refrigerator door to get the cream cheese before she can see the bewildered expression on my face. There is no rational explanation for her nice demeanor, but I'm not about to question it for fear of ruining the moment. Just spread the cream cheese on the bagel and eat it. Leaning against the counter, I turn to face her again.

She says, “So, are you ready for today?”

“What’s today?” I ask right before I take a big bite.

She gives me a look of impatience as she walks over, putting her dirty dishes in the sink. “Of course you will be a funny girl today.”

As I absently stare at the back of her head, I see something off. Is her hair shorter? It was closer to her shoulders yesterday...wasn’t it? “Did you get your hair cut?”

“Of course I got my hair cut, you were there, sweetie.”

I was? I shake my head again. “Where’s Kaitlin?”

“Taking a shower.”

Maurice says, “She told me she wanted to watch another episode of your show before we leave but there probably won’t be time.”

“Oh.” Earlier this year, Kaitlin was going through my DVDs and discovered The O.C . Once she started, she was hooked. We started to watch it together, her for the first time and me for probably the seventh time. The last one we watched was episode twelve. We were going to watch the rest of the series over the summer. It didn’t go as planned. She finished it by herself. Did she restart? I finish off breakfast. “Hey, wasn’t her room purple yesterday?” I can still picture the color in my head.

Mom gives me a blank look. “No. It wasn’t.” Shaking her head, she gets out a glass, pours some orange juice, and hands it to me. “Drink up. You don’t want to be low on potassium on your big day when you’re walking across the stage.”

“I could have sworn it was a light purple,” I mutter to myself, taking a sip. Then the rest of what she said hits me. “Big day?”

She sighs. “Stop being silly.” She doesn't like it when I play around. In fact, it irritates her to death since it reminds her too much of my dad. The problem is I’m not playing around. I have no idea what she's talking about. Like I said before, I’m not going to question it. Maybe she will just say it. “It’s your turn to shower so hop to it. I’ll go set your outfit on your bed now that you’re up.” She gives me a kiss on the cheek and smiles. “My little girl’s not so little anymore.” Then she leaves.

I find myself staring into the space she occupied a second ago. Something's not right. She isn’t angry with me for leaving anymore. It isn’t possible for her to have forgiven me overnight. Plus, Kaitlin’s room couldn’t have changed, or my mom’s hair. And since when did she become so sentimental? Big day? A stage? Little girl is not so little anymore? It almost sounds like I am getting married. My head is starting to hurt from all these things that are not right. It is kind of like when you were a kid and they said “one of these things is not like the other”—except everything is not like the one thing.

I put the empty glass into the sink, “hop to it,” and get into the shower. My questions will be answered when I see what outfit she puts on my bed. When I get to my room, I don’t find a wedding dress. Thank goodness. I do find, however, a dress—and a graduation cap and gown.

Graduation.

The day everything changed. The day I ran away to my dad. The day my heart broke.

A wave of nausea crashes into me, almost causing my legs to give out beneath me. I grab hold of my doorway with both hands to keep myself standing. A few deep breaths later and my stomach calms down enough for me to close the door. I lean against it and stare at my bed.