Since You Happened by Holly Hall
Chapter 23
Much to my dismay, Christmas arrives and turns out to be an intimate affair between just my parents and I. I was counting on the rest of my family to provide a buffer between me and my mother’s maternal concern about my love life, but the rest of our family is scattered all over the state, tending to other familial obligations. And, to make matters worse, David and Emma are coming here, to my apartment. So much for never hosting Christmas at my place. Apparently there’s a snow storm headed our way that will make it impossible to navigate the roads to Silverthorne, so my parents insisted on leaving a couple days before Christmas to beat the storm to Denver so I won’t have to spend the holiday alone. Thus, my next conundrum: I’ve let my apartment go to shit. I mean, it’s not like I’ve been expecting company. According to Emma Kendall, a living space in disarray is a dead giveaway that your life is falling apart.
I spend a day washing stray bits of dirty laundry and cleaning every visible surface, which now seems to be an unreasonable amount for a one-bedroom apartment. It’s probably not up to Kendall family standards, but I’m past the point of caring. Then I spot the boxed-up Christmas tree in the corner. There’s no time left to decorate it, so I shove it into the storage space on the balcony to avoid questions. I’ve just pulled on some jeans and a sweater when there’s a knock at my door.
It becomes clear that my apartment is entirely too small for occasions such as these when my parents come shouldering through my door laden with grocery sacks, totes of casserole dishes, and their duffel bags. I would say “make yourself at home,” but my mother’s already unpacking things in the kitchen in a matter of seconds.
“It smells a little musty in here, Blake. Have you been staying over at Landon’s or something? David, open a window, just for a second. We need to air this place out.”
“Don’t mind the fact that it’s freezing outside,” I say, but she waves my father along, and he grumbles all the way over to the window.
“It won’t kill you just to open it for a second. How are you doing, sweetie? You look a little pale.”
I hoist myself onto the counter to sit and watch while she bustles around my tiny kitchen, huffing at the lack of storage space. “I’m okay. I think I’m just getting over something.”
“Do you have a juicer? You know, there’s something to this green, vegan, no sugar movement, I think. I saw it on The Today Show. Or was it Facebook?” Little does she know, the illness I’m “getting over” isn’t one that can be cured by holistic remedies.
“No to the juicer, but I’ll be fine. I think I’m on the upswing.”
She sighs, collecting some dirty wine glasses I somehow forgot about and thrusting them under the faucet in the sink. “Ugh, that dreaded word . . . ‘fine.’ ” She sighs. “Moms don’t want to hear fine. We want to hear excellent, stupendous, fantastic. Hell, maybe even awful, or miserable. At least we’d finally know what was going on in you kids’ heads.”
I smile, listening to her ranting, unsure of how I can go so long without hearing it. She just chats along with hardly any input from me—aside from the random grunt or nod of agreement— scrubbing the wine glasses until their appearance lives up to her expectations. Then she moves on to rearranging my refrigerator, which isn’t such a difficult task given the noticeable absence of anything resembling food in there.
Somehow, someway, I’m able to deflect inquiries about Landon that day and most of the next, all the way through cooking Christmas dinner and sitting down at my tiny, bistro-sized table to eat. Non-committal shrugs and one-word answers seem to placate my parents’ curiosity. Up until the apple pie, that is.
“Shame Landon’s missing this. You did say he liked apple pie, didn’t you?” my mother asks. Her ease of inserting a man she doesn’t even know into nearly every conversation concerns me.
I set my fork down, and it clatters on my plate. “Landon and I aren’t together anymore,” I finally answer in a huff, as though the words are the air that’s been dying to escape a deflating balloon. If I didn’t tell her eventually, it wouldn’t be long before she moved on to the topic of naming our future children—a conversation we won’t be having, thanks to me.
A silence fills the room that’s so profound you can almost hear grumpy old Karen next door as she finishes her dinner and converses about whatever it is that Karen converses with her relatives about. Then my mother looks at me with the sympathy of someone who’s just seen a toddler fall over, and I silently gather my emotions, and my sanity, for the discussion that’s sure to happen.
“Oh, honey,” is all she says, but I can tell the effort involved in not questioning me further is paining her. Despite my father’s casual shrug, I can see the concern held in the line between his pinched brows.
“She’s only twenty-six, for crying out loud. Kids her age are basically elastic; she’ll bounce right back in no time.”
“She’s not sixteen anymore, David. She’s not exactly a kid.”
“She is right here,” I remind them sullenly. I don’t want them to worry, so I pick up my fork and take another bite, though the apple pie tastes no different than cardboard, now.
“Well, you know I don’t like to pry—” my mother begins, and I fight the urge to say yeah, right. “—but you know you can tell us what happened, if you need to get it off your chest.
There’s a high possibility that going down that road will just open the door for suggestions of therapists and support groups, so I choose to avoid it as best I can. “We just didn’t see eye-to-eye on every topic.”
“He just couldn’t hold a candle to your ol’ dad, could he?” My father chuckles to himself and leans back in his chair, rubbing his belly.
I smile forlornly at him, my chest tightening with nostalgia. Aside from Haley and Arielle, these two people are the only ones in the world whom I can never scare off, no matter what I’ve done. The people who truly love each other, and me, unconditionally. From my position now, it’s hard to comprehend reaching that level of commitment with a significant other, but I push those bleak thoughts aside. They came here to enjoy quality family time—even though they insist on hashing out my failed relationships over Christmas dessert—so that’s what I’m going to do.
After watching Elf, all curled up together on the living room couch, I move mechanically through my nightly routine—washing my face, brushing my teeth, and changing my clothes—all with the added murmurs of my parents’ voices through the walls. I’ve given them my bedroom, since they’re older and probably can’t bounce back from a night of sleeping on a couch from Ikea like I can. It reminds me of when we all lived together under the same roof and there was rarely a moment in which I felt lonely. I always had an overly-concerned mother or the lame jokes from my father to help pep me up if I was feeling down.
A little over eight years have passed, but I feel infinitely wearier. The girl I was then could’ve never predicted this outcome: haunted by a tragedy that took place years ago. In fact, seventeen-year-old me assumed I’d be married by now. That thought is humorous, but I’m not in the mood to laugh.
I say my goodnights and pad into the living room, slipping beneath the blanket on the couch. My mother must have snuck out here to tuck a fitted sheet around the cushions at some point during the evening, because I sure as hell wouldn’t have bothered. The gesture warms my heart. I switch on the TV, watching it on low volume, but all I can think about now is how I envisioned myself at twenty-six—all happy-go-lucky with barely a care in the world, other than what’s considered standard for us Millennials. The contrast to my life now makes my insides twist.
When I think of all the great times I’ve had—family vacations to Destin, running through the backyard with my old dog, Betsy, staying out all night in college with my best friends, graduating near the top of my class—I’m filled with a different kind of guilt. It settles in the pit of my stomach and makes me feel hollow. The guilt that arises when you know you’re taking what you do have for granted.
I roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling fan as it whirs faintly. My mother’s nurturing demeanor, my father’s optimism, the greatest pair of friends I could ever ask for, a job I truly love—these are the threads that stitch me back together when it feels like I’m being torn apart. They’re the things that allow me to lead a semblance of a normal life. Yet all I can think about is Landon and how our confrontation caused me to revert to those feelings of guilt I experienced all those years ago.
I feel miserable that I’ve allowed myself to fall this far, and with these kinds of feelings, at this time of night, there’s only one thing that can curb the frustration I feel. So, I wander to the kitchen and pull out the pan of cobbler that my mother made especially for tomorrow’s lunch. She’ll forgive me for digging into it early eventually.
I’m halfway through my slice when I hear my door creak open.
“Little Blake? That you?” I smile when I hear my father’s voice. I should’ve remembered he’s a light sleeper.
“Just me,” I say, wrapping up the cobbler and sliding it back into the fridge. I expect my father to disappear back to bed, but he shuffles into the kitchen in his socks and pours himself a glass of water from the sink. He sips as he walks over and rests against the counter I’m sitting on.
“I expect there’s a whole other side to the story you weren’t telling your mother earlier,” he says, and I’m hardly surprised that he can tell.
Sometimes, through all the joking and lighthearted conversation, I forget how perceptive my father can be. At the sight of the expression on my face, the corner of his mouth twitches. I am a carbon copy of him, other than being female. There’s this ease with which we relate to each other that nobody but us understands. And I know, without a doubt, that he will understand what I’m going through, though he’s never experienced anything like it.
I push my plate away, and without hesitation, I begin to recount everything that’s happened in the past few months. I begin with Landon’s hesitation to get close to me, our slow progression into something that turned into a relationship, then continue on to the argument with Zach in front of the bar that led to Landon confiding in me about the accident, my realization of the connection of our pasts, and finally, I end with Paul’s confrontation. My father remains expressionless, but not due to lack of interest. I know he’s just taking it all in and sorting through the mess of information as well as he can.
When he finally sighs, sorrow enters his blue eyes, accentuated by the deep lines at the corners. “As if you need all that after the things you’ve gone through,” he says wearily, his hand patting mine where it rests on the counter. “I hope I don’t have to remind you that that was all just a terrible accident.”
I nod, slowly at first, then more insistently. “It took a while, but I’m basically to the point of accepting that. This has just brought so many of those emotions back to the surface.”
“Because you’ve been suppressing them,” he says, as if he’s finishing my sentence. “I know you, because I know me, and trust me, that took a long time to accomplish. You think things are easier to deal with if you compartmentalize them all into a tiny box and store them away. Unbeknownst to you, those things are all just gaining momentum, raring to be let loose again. So be sad, if you need to. But don’t feel guilty because a piece of your youth was stolen when you witnessed such a tragedy. You don’t even need to feel guilty if you miss Sam; after all, that mistake isn’t who he is. It was a horrible lapse in judgment, and you both were together for long enough that he must’ve left a lasting impression on you.” I almost want to interrupt him when he gets to the part about Sam, but then I realize that maybe a part of me did long for the things that just weren’t meant to be, and another part of me hated myself for that.
As if sensing my tumultuous thoughts, my father squeezes my hand a couple times and gives me a reassuring smile.
“Landon is experiencing all that again, too; feelings he probably never thought he’d have to deal with again. The thing is: we’ve all got to come face to face with our demons at some point. Some people just allow themselves to be swallowed whole, but if you fight, as I know you can, you’ll come out better and stronger because of it. Whether you two end up back together, or even as friends, is not important. It’s what you make of this that counts. So don’t let yourself be swallowed. Fight.”
I thought nobody could completely dismantle the façade I had erected over the years to protect what I was really feeling, but my father somehow has managed to do just that in less than half an hour, and I feel as though the raw, pink skin of my exterior has been left in its place. Suppressed tears clog my throat to the point of being painful, so I just let them go. I let my sorrow and pain and guilt all wash away, leaving trails down my cheeks as evidence. My father just pulls me close with his arm around me and holds me, his thumb making soothing circles on my upper arm.
After my tears have subsided and I thank my father with a big hug, I wave him off to my bedroom while I return to the living room. And when I lie back down on the couch, with the blanket tucked under my chin, I feel the beginnings of something. Over the past few years, I’ve felt like my heart has been savagely dissected, my innermost thoughts examined and judged, but here, beneath the roof that I myself have put over my head, I feel the strong urge to start over. To take a hold of my life and start living.