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On impact, my body slams against the side of the car, but it’s my head and the skull cracking on the window that brings on the splitting headache.
In my hazy state, I look around me. There’s shattered glass everywhere. I can feel blood trickling down the side of my face. Sirens wail in the distance. Lifting my head off the headrest, I press my hand against the side of my head. There are hundreds of stars floating in front of my eyes before my world goes black.
“Ms. Wilson, can you hear me?” Muffled voices pound my head as I come to.
“Eli,” I whisper. My throat is scratchy and it hurts to swallow.
The bright lights blind my eyes. I’m being moved on a bed. The head-spin sends me back into the peaceful unconsciousness I came from.
“Jilly baby, please wake up.”
Dad. My daddy is home. Opening my lids, my eyes try and focus on his face in front of me, but he’s all blurry. Swallowing, I lean forward to hug him. I wince from the pain in both my throat and my side.
“Try not to move, Jill. You broke a few ribs on impact,” Dad says softly.
“Oh Daddy, you’re home,” I whisper as a tear rolls down my face. Everything is better when Dad is home.
“Shh, it’s okay, baby,” Dad whispers, patting my head, “Don’t worry about anything, okay?”
I catch movement to my side and turn my head. Sitting there is Eli. I smi
le. I thought Dad was holding my hand, but it’s Eli. I should have known the large, warm, soft hand holding mine didn’t belong to a marine.
I gasp. “Oh Eli . . . I’m so sorry. I tried to get to you.” I swallow my words as a tear falls down Eli’s stricken face. I can’t breathe. My lungs burn from holding my breath. I crack, and ugly tears burst down my cheeks.
“Shh, let’s not talk about Dad today. Let’s concentrate on getting you out of this hospital,” he mumbles, squeezing my hand. I squeeze back and let myself drift off to sleep.
***
The funeral for Mr. Anderson is today. Given that I’ve been bedridden for the last few days and Eli hasn’t been around due to my parents, I haven’t seen or spoken to him. I tried texting him with no response. I want to be there for him, to grieve with him, but I feel like he’s pushing me away.
Sophia and I meet at my place to go to the church together. There will be thousands of students there, saying their final goodbyes to a teacher who was well-loved. It was going to be a hard day for all my classmates, but that paled in comparison to what Eli was going through.
“Are you okay?” Sophia asks, grabbing my hand.
“I’ll be better when I’m in Eli’s arms,” I respond, desolate.
“It will all work out. I promise,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around me. I smile through my tears and squeeze her hand. I’m glad she can be here with me.
We arrive at the church early and I immediately spot Eli. He is standing with a group of people at the front, and I can’t tear my eyes away from him. He’s wearing a black suit, and despite the somber mood of the occasion, he is smiling and laughing.
Eli’s eyes find mine, and he smiles. It’s a simple gesture, but it tells me he’s okay. I watch as he turns back to the group, wishing I could go over there and console him. But I know I can’t. This isn’t about him and me, and as much as I want to be there for him, I know my presence will only create more drama. That’s the last thing he needs right now.
Eli and his three sisters stand up the front of the chapel, his arms around all of them. He doesn’t speak—instead he stares straight ahead into the crowd of hundreds of mourners. The only hint of emotion is the pulsating vein in his neck.
The tallest of the three girls clears her throat and steps forward to speak.
“Dad’s passion in life was to break down the history of the world. Growing up, my sisters and I would sit around and be told stories, shown videos . . . anything that was significant in time.” She pulls out a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. “I’ll read one of the quotes Dad would often say to me. ‘What is history? An echo of the past in the future, a reflex from the future on the past.’ Dad, your passion became my passion, and I am a better woman today because of it.”
Her voice breaks and Eli’s arm tightens around her shoulder, his expression remaining stoic. I hate seeing him like this. I want to feel what he’s feeling, be the shoulder for him to cry on.
He is refusing to let himself grieve and that scares me.
After the service, we stand around making small talk as the family makes their way around the room. Only Eli avoids me. I know I’m being stupid—he has so many things on his mind that it’s silly I would even factor into his thoughts—but I hate not being able to help him.
I pull out my phone and type out a text. I watch as he reads it, but shoves his phone back in his pocket without replying. His expression gives me nothing and it scares me because I have no idea what he’s thinking right now.
“Are you ready to go, honey?” Mom asks. She frowns at me and I nod, shooting one last look back at Eli.
