Authors: Janice Hadden
Then
there were the guys—Rob, Adam, Phillip, Vinny, Ryan and Cash.
We used to all hang out on 10
th
street on Tuesday
nights. Fridays were usually Glenmoore movie nights, where movies
were at a discounted rate of three dollars. How I missed all of us
here; Avril, Adam and Michella still lived in the area and decided to
go to SCU. Sam and Airi went to Andrews. Jen’s at UCLA, Vinny
and Phillip got accepted to USC. Sue and I are still seniors in high
school. Ryan got a job instead and whether or not he’s going to
College was still up for debate with his parents. Rob took over his
parents' restaurant business.
Then
there was Cash. Cash and I dated for a couple of years in High
School. How in so many ways I have missed him—but we’re
still the best of friends. We still keep in touch. Cash and Adam were
Madison High school’s football star athletes. Everyone thought
Cash would be pursuing an NFL career. But I knew he had another
passion. Cash got accepted to one of the best culinary schools in
California.
It
still seemed strange to me that we broke up. He was the only boy I
have ever dated and really cared about. When we broke up, it felt
more of a grown up decision rather than an emotional one. It was hard
to decipher all the clashing emotions that Cash had when he broke up
with me. He seemed torn about the decision, but it wasn’t
enough to change anything.
H
er
voice was
soothing.
She
sang the most
beautiful lullaby, echoing and lulling her into the most beautiful
dream. She was in the fields, picking wildflowers and putting them in
her basket. The sun was bright and the sky was blue with soft patches
of cloud. Sitting down, she ran her hands on top of the soft lush of
greens—It felt like soft carpet. She wanted to lay down and
feel the warm sun in her skin, while the cool breeze soothed her,
caressing her face. She wanted to stay there forever.
Her
small hand tucked her hair to the side—but It was no use, the
breeze kept blowing her hair, playing with its strands. She closed
her eyes. She heard a familiar voice.
“
We’re
almost here Sweetie.” Opening her eyes, it was dark and foggy.
She wasn’t in the fields anymore, she was somewhere else.
Bright lights blinded her and a sound
so
terrifying, she wanted to run back to the fields. A long screeching
sound echoed,
the
longest sound she’d ever heard, and finally it hit and she spun
dizzy. Smoke was all she could remember…and the pain, the pain
came fast and finally she was numb.
Her
lashes fanned open. Her eyes hazy. She tried moving her lips but no
sound came out. She was weak and dizzy to understand what just
happened. “How are you feeling?” She heard a voice. It
was a very soft whisper that faded along with her consciousness.
T
he
morning sun peeked through the window sill, glaring at my
bed—blinding me. I tried to reach for my alarm clock. I had
already forgotten most of the details of my strange dream right after
I woke, though it weighed heavily in my heart. Strangely enough, the
mysterious stranger was the first thought in my mind as I opened my
eyes.
A
strange feeling descended in my heart—an irrational one. I was
hoping I would see him again despite the aggression that always made
me want to flee the instant I see him. And if I did see him again, I
vacillated whether to approach him this time. Would I have the guts
to confront him? Could I introduce myself? Could I ask him the
questions that’s been hovering in my head? I wasn’t sure
why everything about him seemed out of place. But somehow, there was
an unusual attraction that was unknown—a sixth sense perhaps. I
couldn’t wrap my mind whether he was somebody that I should
genuinely fear. The strange chill I felt was terrifying as I recalled
the first encounter we had, but yet I felt drawn to him somehow. I
couldn’t seem to find the feeling of prolonged anger or
avoidance even after his strange aggression toward me.
My
mind wandered on the thought that perhaps I was attracted to
dangerous things. I had more than my shares of troubles and accidents
when I was younger, though, my recollection of my near death
experiences were poor; most of them still a mystery. I tried so many
times to stitch the fragments of my broken memories—gaps that
just simply vanished, the abstract details, not forming into anything
concrete. And each time, I always felt like I was only half present
in my own life, unable to control my own mind. The only thing I knew
and what the numerous doctors have concluded were that those memories
were traumatic experiences that I have blocked out somehow; my
subconscious trying to protect me from things I couldn’t
handle. But even with my mind blocking the unpleasant memories, I was
still very much aware of my fears. Because maybe it was inevitable.
Maybe bad things find me eventually. It was a curse and I have no
control over it.
I
dragged my unsteady feet and went downstairs to the reassuring
familiarity of everything. The smell of dark roasted and freshly
brewed coffee beans. The walls that were a muted shade of yellow,
cabinets made of oak and white, tiled counter top that could use some
upgrading. It was very easy to live with Steve. We didn’t need
much. Dishes didn’t usually pile up. I always found time to put
them away after they dried. A couple of years back, I had shopped for
several sets of dinnerware. Though company were rare, I had purchased
lightweight plates, cups, mugs and glasses for whenever it was
needed. My mother had a beautiful collection of china dishes that is
now neatly tucked underneath the bottom drawers of the kitchen.
After
I ate a bowl of cereal and had my coffee, I quickly went upstairs and
brushed my teeth, took a quick shower and grabbed whatever was the
first shirt I pulled from my top drawer, paired it with my usual dark
denim and ballet flats. With a little time left, I packed myself a
light snack and headed to my car. School was always crowded so
parking in less than a minute was nothing short of a miracle.
Once
I had geared into park, I realized I had a couple of minutes to check
my phone and text messages. I scanned through them quickly; one from
Steve, wishing me a great day, another from Sam, wanting to know if I
wanted to see a movie, another was from my neighbor Becca, to see If
I could come in for a job interview where she worked. I texted my dad
and Sam back and left Becca a message on her machine. As soon as I
hung up my phone, I yanked my calendar from my bag and skimmed
through my schedule. With College right around the corner, time
management is key at this point.
Five
minutes later, a sudden thumping sound of car tires and engine
humming lingered, making me look up to see from behind—a red
Honda, honking. One of the darkly tinted windows rolled down and a
man with a red backward cap yelled something—muffled by a loud
rap music coming from his stereo. He didn’t seem familiar. I
don’t remember seeing him in campus before. He gestured his
hand to see if I was going to leave my space. From my mirror, I had
to let him know that I wasn’t leaving. He seemed to have gotten
agitated and suddenly screeched his tires, leaving the most annoying
sound and burnt tire marks. I grabbed my leather bag and walked to
class.
I
sat down next to Charlie, who pleasantly smiled at me as soon as I
came in. We both got there about five minutes earlier than necessary,
so we consumed the whole time chattering about our classes, her
boyfriend, Eddie and the stuff we will be doing after graduation. She
even found time to show me photos from her I-phone.
I
noticed in my Pre-calculus class that we had gotten a new student and
to my luck and also lack of surprise—it was the guy in the red
Honda. His cap was gone. Obviously I had expected this. I seem to
have the luck of bad fortune. He smiled and winked at me when I
twisted myself to look behind after he was introduced by the teacher.
As
I came into my last class, the stranger crept back in my thoughts
again. The constant curiosity and thoughts of him that pop up, seem
to draw out strange thoughts in my head. I examined my heart
deeply—logic didn’t make much sense when it came to him,
but somehow something in me felt lost, like I felt an overwhelming
sadness at the thought of not ever seeing the stranger again, and
even though I knew, I probably would never see him again, a small
part in my heart, hoped that we‘d cross paths again somehow.
Past
S
hadows
I
suppose the mind is a true mystery even if it was your own. If I was
missing some parts of my memory, in some ways, my mind was not
whole—I didn’t feel whole. The shattered pieces of my
life seem to drift outside my consciousness—floating, like
haunting shadows from a distance.
It
was a chilly month of October. I was standing in front of a dull,
gray headstone.
Camilla
Rose West
Beloved Wife and
Mother
1970-2005
Sweeping
the dried leaves that had tumbled on the headstone, a sharp pain
stabbed me. It was the anniversary of my mother’s death, a
painful reminder that whatever had happened to her must have been so
horrific that I completely blocked everything about her death. The
thought that I was the only witness and was unable to identify any
suspects and not able to give her justice and our family some closure
was a weight that I carried everyday. Steve had the hardest job of
explaining things to me while he mourned my mother’s death. For
several years he was afraid that someone would come after me and one
of the reasons we had to move.
I
carefully placed the bouquet of flowers that were her
favorite—clusters of yellow roses, colorful gerbera daisies and
blue hydrangeas. I suppose not the typical flowers you would find at
a cemetery—but like her, she wasn’t typical. She was
special. Suddenly, strong hands tapped my right shoulder—it was
Steve. We came here every year to spend time with my mom. Though
every month we visited her on our own. Steve had missed her as much
as I have. Steve clasped his arms around me from behind and kissed
the top of my head. I took out both my hands that was warmly tucked
on the inside pockets of my blue pea coat and placed them on top of
Steve’s. A smile passed my lips, though, I knew he couldn’t
see my expression. But my mediocre attempt at composure ceased after
hearing his voice—the comforting words that I had heard once
before.
“
Kat,
don’t ever think that it was your fault,” he softly
whispered. Steve felt the need to say the words that he knew I always
felt, that he didn‘t want me to feel—
r
esponsible.
“
In
some ways I was glad that you don’t remember what happened. You
were much too young to go through something like that. You should
never blame yourself. Your mother wanted more than anything for you
to be happy. She loved you more than anything in this world.” A
silent anguished sob escaped me; I felt the stream of tears rolling
down my cheeks without a chance of going back. My emotions trickled,
tearing my heart out as it always did when I thought of her—
oh
how I miss her
.
She was taken away so soon. Echoes of her laughter reigned in my mind
as if she was gently speaking to me—her voice a whisper,
floating like a symphony. I knew she would want me to move on—that‘s
what she would want.
Memories
of her came back to me at that moment, like in a dream-like
state—visions appearing, recalling a beautiful memory of the
three of us while hearing the most enchanting sound in the
background.
She
had the most soothing voice. I was hearing it in my head, clearly. I
was glad, I still remembered how she sounded. Not one day had slipped
by when I didn’t think of her. But there was also another ache
that I feel when I think of her—a hollow, deeper sadness that
didn’t seem to root from her absence. I didn’t know what
or when it started. But it was always there.
In
the past, I had wished I had gone with my mother. But I was glad I
was spared. I couldn’t bear thinking of leaving Steve now. I
was all he had. My mother was a lot like me in many ways; I looked
like her, my father said—her hair was dark, the same shade and
length as mine. Seeing from her old photos, the resemblance was
striking; her face was soft, eyebrows arched, her brown eyes were
always gentle like she was. She had the most beautiful,
porcelain-like skin and I was glad, I inherited the trait. Her hands
were soft. Her fingers were long and delicate when she played the
piano. I couldn’t play the piano though, she tried to teach me
but I wasn‘t a good student. I wasn’t as patient as she
was.
Drizzle
of rain started splattering, turning heavy, washing away my tears.
Steve and I didn’t care, we stood there for as long as we
could. It was our time with her, and nothing was going to make us
leave. Rain soaked our hair and dripping clothes clung to our bodies.
We have spoken to her in our minds as we always did year after year.