AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Madeline Hart has been my best friend since she forced her tiny self into my heart in second grade. Honestly, she didn’t give me much of a choice but I wouldn’t change a thing. She was the friend I didn’t know I needed, and I can’t imagine a single day of my life without her in it.
Maddie calls me every Thursday at 6:00 p.m. because she knows I’m just getting out of therapy and that I struggle more in these moments than in any other. She used to drive me to and from the appointments until I was finally able to bring myself alone. But then she quickly switched to calling me.
Her calls started as a way to intentionally check in on me, asking flat out, “how are you?” and “are you okay?” But now she thinks she’s sneaky and calls with either a random question—“what was that nail polish color you liked in middle school? I can’t remember”—or to tell me that she happens to be getting food and is either going to my apartment or demands I come to her house. She just knows that I need to feel a bit less alone on these evenings.
Therapy has saved me, but it also leaves the wound a little more open than it was when I started the session. I began with twice a week sessions about eight months ago. But the last four months have been once a week and even though it’s hard, it’s a better balance for me. My mother found Naomi for me when she typed ‘Latina grief therapist in north Jersey’ into her search engine and made me an appointment for the following week. Naomi has seen me through it all these past eight months. The refusal to speak in those initial sessions, the seemingly inconsolable crying and finally the forced conversations that turned into real ones. Beneficial ones. Ones that made me start to live again, if only a little. It took awhile for me to open up to her and build our trust. Some weeks I share more than others. There are still times when I can’t say anything at all.
But I show up every week. And I’m proud of the progress I’ve made. Even if it sometimes feels like the grief will never get better. Even when it feels like it’s slowly swallowing me whole.
I pull into my parking lot and see the familiar old black truck already parked there. I park next to it and slowly climb out of my car.
Madeline comes bustling around the truck with her tiny arms full of bags.
“Hey, pollito,” I say with a soft smile, her nickname making her smile wide. Her face is full of concern and her green eyes search mine as she walks closer, trying to feel out my mood and feelings.
“Hi,” she says, and before she reaches me she turns and dumps all of the bags into her husband's arms—they’ve been married for just over a year.
“Hey, Elliot,” I say, managing a small smile for the tall and dark-haired man who’s become one of my best friends.
“Hey, Ana,” he says with a smile back as I’m yanked slightly down into a hug from Madeline. Her small frame isn’t often strong but when she hugs you, she knocks the wind out of you.
“I got all your favorites, let’s go eat.” She tugs on my hand and leads me up the stairs to my small one bedroom apartment.
TWO
NOW, SUMMER
Madeline and Elliot leave around 9:00 p.m., and as I lock the door behind them I find myself standing there staring at the white painted wood for far too long.
The TV is still playing some trashy reality show that we like to watch and make fun of, and I let the sounds of their voices pull me back from zoning out.
I turn around and start walking towards my bedroom, only stopping to grab the remote and turn the TV off. The silence fills my ears with a hum. When I don’t have my friends or my family visiting, I usually don’t have any type of sound playing around me. No TV, no music. I can tolerate the TV when I need to. But the music is too hard. I hear and feel him in every melody and chord, in every note. He was always playing music some way or another, whether it was intentional in the car or our apartment, or just showing me a new song.
I make it to my bed and take my anxiety medication that makes me a bit sleepy before I crumple into the unmade sheets, letting the blankets and pillows cocoon me. I take a deep breath and try the breathing exercises that Naomi taught me. In for four seconds and out for four seconds, and repeat. I do it until the pain in my chest eases up just a fraction. Because to be honest, the pain is always there, sometimes it’s just duller than other moments. But it’s constant, reminding me that I’m not whole anymore. Reminding me that the only time I’ll see his face again is in photographs or my fading memories. I’ll never feel his touch again. I’ll never hear him tell me that he loves me or see his smile again.
I know that grief isn’t linear, that there is no timeline. I’m not working toward any kind of finish line, knowing that I’ll be better eventually. The knowledge that I’m going to carry this pain with me every day makes me feel like there’s almost no point in even trying to get better. Then there’s the part of me that hates that I let someone else have so much power and influence over me.
I used to pride myself in being strong and independent. I never let guys have any kind of hold over me when it came to crushes or relationships. If they liked me back, then great, let’s see where this goes. If they don't? Their loss. I’m not losing sleep over boys who don’t know what they want and don’t see what they’ll be missing.
I wasn’t even sure that I wanted to be married one day. I was at peace with the thought of being a single successful woman—I was excited for that future honestly. Being the ‘fun aunt’ was totally something that I could do. Casual relationships were something that I was totally down with.
I never would have expected a tall skinny blonde guy with a freakin’ man bun and a stupid skateboard to crash into me, quite literally, and flip my whole world upside down.
He had shiny, pale, wavy blond hair that looked just as good down as it did up. He had a perfect smile, with a slightly chipped tooth. His big warm hands covered mine and helped pull me out of my comfort zone, and into the world in ways I never thought possible.
He’s gone.
He’s never coming back.
I start my breathing exercises over again.
THREE
THEN, FALL, 5 YEARS AGO
I leave the apartment I share with Maddie alone this morning since I have morning classes and she doesn’t. Living off campus has its perks, for sure, but having to wake up earlier in the morning to drive there isn’t one of them. It’s not a long drive at all to St. James University, I’m just not a morning person.
We’re several weeks into our freshman year and it’s been a fairly easy transition so far. Madeline is experiencing some boy drama, but I’m not intervening. This drama needs to play itself out and I know there’s no going around it. I already have a feeling that I know exactly how it’s going to work out.
