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“You used to drive an old car, didn’t you?” he asked after several minutes of silence.
“Oh, good. Small talk. Here I was worried this would be awkward.”
He chuckled, seemingly unfazed by my sarcasm. “Was it a Camaro?”
“It was a 1970 Chevelle.”
“Ah, yes. That was the car you were in when–”
“Yep.”
“Look, I’m sure you don’t want to rehash any of it, but if you ever want to talk about what happened, you can talk to me.”
“I don’t even want to think about it, let alone talk about it.”
“Sometimes it helps to talk about it.”
“It won’t help.” I kept my eyes fixed on the road ahead, and tried to relax.
“I’m sorry. I’d like to tell you it will get easier in time, but I don’t actually know if it will. I think maybe you just get used to the pain.”
I turned my head to look at him. “That’s actually the most realistic thing anyone has said.”
“People don’t know what to say when someone goes through a hard time. It’s not their fault. They just offer you objective words to make themselves feel less awkward talking about it.”
“You wouldn’t believe all the objective words I’ve heard. If I had a penny for every time someone has told me that I should feel lucky to be alive…” I rolled my eyes.
“So you’re saying you don’t feel lucky?”
“Let’s see. My mother walked out without a second thought. My father was a mental mess for years after that, until he just couldn’t bear the pain any longer and took his own life. Then, I wrapped my car around a tree and totaled the only piece of my dad I had left. I had to drop all of my classes because you can’t attend school when you’re in a two-week coma. I’m sleeping on my best friend’s couch with the contents of my pathetic existence in boxes. My life is destroyed, and every morning I wake up wishing that whoever pulled me out of that car had just left me there to die. So, to answer your question, no – I don’t feel very lucky.”
It was silent inside the car after that. I did not mean to unleash my demons on him. I looked out the window and wondered how badly it would hurt if I jumped from the moving car, mortified over what I had admitted aloud. Like Shelly, and like anyone else, Chase would undoubtedly tell me it was wrong to think so negatively, and that it was not normal to wish I were dead. He would now look at me like I was a freak, if he hadn’t already.
After what felt like an eternity, we pulled into a parking spot outside the doctor’s office. I quickly reached for the handle on the door, but was pulled back by the seatbelt.
“You know, you have to unbuckle yourself before getting out of the car.”
“I was just looking for the eject button.” I slumped back into my seat, and waited for him to release me. When he didn’t, I reluctantly raised my eyes to meet his gaze.
“Don’t be embarrassed of your emotions. You don’t have to hide them from me. How you feel is how you feel, and I totally get it. But you need to understand one thing: the people still here – the people that care about you – they feel lucky that you’re alive. That’s why they expect you to feel it, too.”
Nobody had explained it like that. I thought about Shelly and all she had been through; throughout everything that happened to me, she was experiencing it right along with me. Wishing that I died was like a slap in the face to her. I could not see around my own misery.
He clicked the release button next to my hip. “Come by the shop when you’re done and I’ll take you home.”
I nodded and hoisted myself out of his car without a word.
Chase’s words resonated in my head for the entire hour at physical therapy, which helped take the focus off the pain in my shoulder. I actually did not mind the constant shoulder pain. Physical pain was easy to handle. People understand physical pain – they empathize with it. But when you are depressed, the only person they blame is you. They look at you with judging eyes, wondering why you can’t simply snap out of it. As if it was a choice you were making on purpose, choosing to remain in mental anguish, and revel in it. My suffering was too intense for people to comprehend. No one could fathom stepping into my shoes. I couldn’t blame them. Who would want to, even if they could?
I took my time as I walked over to Chase’s family shop, letting the warmth of the sun beat down on my face. I didn’t want to face him, or worse, the way he would look at me after getting a glimpse of the thoughts inside my head.
“Hi Merritt.” Chase’s mom was sitting behind the desk when I stepped inside. She greeted me with a warm smile as she stood up to give me a gentle hug.
“Hi Mrs. Brooks.”
“Please,” she waved her hand. “Call me Beverly.”
Beverly was tall and slender with blonde hair, the same color as Chase’s, settling around her shoulders. She wore minimal makeup, but she did not need it. She had natural beauty. Her kind personality had always shone right through her face. Growing up, I often wondered what it was like to have a mother like her.
