I Hear...Love (A Different Road #2) (2 page)

I can’t say that I was disappointed that Stephen didn’t come with us on our vacation. Stephen said he was too old for Legoland. He said that it was for babies, so he talked my dad into letting him stay home. My dad had to talk my mom into agreeing to let him stay home, too. She argued that he was way too young to stay home by himself for four days. My dad said he’d be fine, and he’d have his best friend, Sebastien, look in on him. My mom eventually agreed, not that I think she really had any say in the matter.

Today, I still don’t know how I feel about Stephen not being there. On the one hand, I thank God that he wasn’t in the car with us, because that meant that he wasn’t hurt, or worse, killed in the head-on collision. But on the other hand, something changed in Stephen after the accident. He couldn’t look River in the eyes for a full year after the accident. Even though Stephen wasn’t in the car with us, he was still affected. Not just because our parents died, there was something else, something I can’t quite put my finger on. I don’t know if it’s some twisted form of guilt, or if there’s something else that happened. No one knows for sure. Stephen refuses to talk about that part of his life.

Who am I kidding? I refused to talk about it for the first seven years. Then when I was twelve, I started to become destructive. My body was starting to change and do things that I just didn’t understand, both mentally and physically. I wanted my mom. We were being raised by Sebastien and I was in a house full of men who just didn’t understand what I was going through. I didn’t understand why my parents were taken from us. What sick, cruel world do we live in where both parents are taken away from their three children? I didn’t understand why River, Stephen, and I were left on this Earth without our parents. I needed my mom. I knew my mom was in heaven and the only way I could think of to be with her was to end my life. For the next eleven years, I tried to do this . . . unsuccessfully.

Over the years, the need for my mother was shadowed by the sounds that haunt me. They haunt me in my dreams, as well as while fully awake. They haunt me every second of every day. The only thing that drowns them out is loud noise or music. I need it to function. I need it to silence the things I hear in my head.

What do I hear? I hear my mother’s blood-curdling screams as an out of control car hit us head on. That alone is enough to keep one awake at all hours of the day and night. Add into that the sounds my father made as he died in front of my eyes, and you have one royally screwed up little girl.

I’ll never forget the gasping and the gurgling sounds that came from my dad’s throat, as blood poured out of the side of his mouth. His head would slowly jerk back and forth as he struggled to take his next breath. In my head, I knew things were really bad and I knew he was suffering, but selfishly, with each raspy jerk, I at least knew he was still alive. My heart would beat with each jagged breath he fought to take.

But then, he stopped . . .

I think my heart stopped too. He tipped his head and his eye’s locked with mine, then I saw a flash of a million years of love in his eyes as he searched my face . . . then it was gone. The light in his eyes flickered off like I had just blown out candles on my birthday cake. I wanted to make a wish and desperately bring that look of love back into his eyes. But it wasn’t my birthday; there wasn’t a wish to be granted. When he didn’t take another gurgling breath, I knew my life had forever changed.

I looked to River for comfort, but his eyes were glued to my mother sitting in the passenger seat in front of me. I couldn’t see her, but then slowly River’s brilliant, cornflower blue eyes came to mine and in that instant I knew. I saw it written in big, huge, bold letters in the depths of his eyes. My mother was dead, too. Even though I knew she was gone, her shrill screams were still playing in my head.

Not five seconds after River made eye contact with me, his eyelids slowly closed, his head fell limp, and a large trail of blood ran down the side of his head. I looked from River to my father’s lifeless eyes, then to the back of my mother’s still head, then back to River again. My eyes closed, my mouth opened, and my blood-curdling screams filled the crumpled car.

I knew my mom was dead. I knew my dad was dead. But I just knew in my heart that River was still alive, he just had to be. I quickly looked at his chest, and I could see it rise and fall with each breath he took. It wasn’t enough, though. I needed to feel the warmth of his skin in my hand. I needed to slip my hand in River’s.

I desperately reached my short arm over and flailed my hand on the seat between us as I continued to scream. Only when I was able to reach River’s hand and lace my fingers through his, did I stop screaming. As an adult, this is something I still do to River. I find instant comfort in my otherwise tortured life, every time I lace my fingers through River’s hand. Whenever I feel the warmth of his hand in mine, the screaming in my head stops.

That day was the last time I saw my brother’s beautiful, cornflower blue eyes. It was also the last day I saw his eyes focus on mine. Since the accident, he’s totally blind and they’ve transformed into a pale, almost nonexistent blue color. The vividness disappeared, along with the brother I knew and loved so much. As much as I’d love to see his eyes focus on mine and see that special sibling love he had for me, secretly I’m glad he can’t. I don’t know if I can look him in the eyes again, only to see his disappointment for me now.

I’ve lived most of my life in my head, locked away with the catastrophic twisting metal sounds of the two cars hitting each other, the horrific screams that came from my mother, the guttural dying sounds of my dad, and my own gut-wrenching screams. Between losing my parents, Stephen being distant, River being blind, and me being a socially awkward tomboy and not having any friends, I talked myself into believing that I was better off dead. Surely death would take away the sounds and the voices in my head. Each time, the only thing that saved me was River. I always had River on my side. He has this magical way of showing up in my life when I hit absolute rock bottom. All of my attempts at suicide were more of a cry for help than anything serious.

Until last year. The sounds and voices became too loud.

Sure, over the years I was put in more therapy and treatment centers than I could count. But
nothing
could reach me. I could talk myself out of my dark place enough to get me by, but never enough to completely silence my thoughts or the sounds in my head. The words that came out of therapists’ mouths were just annoying, hot air. Their words were never loud enough to talk over or silence the ones that fueled my need to end it all.

Until last year. The need was just too strong.

I pull myself out of my current thoughts and hone in on the crashing tide. It’s hard to concentrate enough on any one sound to cover up the loud, prominent, imaginary ones that slip unwanted into my thoughts. As I stand on the beach, it starts to rain. I’ve been standing here long enough that the water is now mid-shin deep. My skirt, now heavy with rain, swirls around my ankles in the water. My hair is matted to my face and rain drips down my chin. My feet sink farther and farther into the sand. The sinking feeling has a comfort that I can’t let myself feel ever again.

“Sadie,” I hear, carried on the wind.

Sadie is a pretty name. I once had a doll named Sadie. She had blonde, curly, shoulder length, ringlet hair, and blue eyes. She had the prettiest eyelashes, and her lips pointed downward. I always thought she looked so sad. I thought she was the perfect doll for me because her frown matched my own, like we were kindred spirits. It’s funny how one word can bring back a flood of memories. Sad, I don’t remember what happened to her.

I bring my hands down to my side and I shiver. Between the setting sun, the wind, and the rain, it’s gotten chilly. In my left hand, I feel something soft, warm, and wet rest in my palm. It’s comforting. It almost feels like the timing couldn’t be more perfect. Sometimes I ache for River’s hand to be in mine. I’ve tried to make myself need him less. I just don’t think it’s fair for him to constantly worry about me, especially since his girlfriend, Joss, just moved in with him in the main house. I glance down to my side, and sitting on her haunches with the water swirling around her hind legs, is a beautiful, black dog.

“Sadie,” I hear called again.

I look to my left, and I see a soaking wet man jogging toward me. Even as loud as the rain is hitting the ocean surface and the thunder of the waves is crashing on the rocks, I hear the dog sorrowfully whine. Her snout is still in my hand, and she ever so gently nudges her nose against it. Gently, I slide my hand up her smooth muzzle to the top of her head. Her eyes close and she rests her head on my thigh, as I stroke her silky smooth wet fur, then I smile.

“Come on, girl. Let’s get our jog in before the rain hits us,” I say to my four-year-old black Labrador retriever.

At least that’s how old the vet thinks she is.

I lace up my shoes, grab her leash off of the counter, then open the back door of our beach house in Malibu, California. She joyfully bounds out the sliding glass door onto the wooden deck, with her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth. This is one of her favorite times of the day.

In the evening when I get home from work and after we eat dinner, she loves to go for a jog with me. We usually jog down the beach a mile or so, then we leisurely walk back home. Often, she’ll find a piece of driftwood or a stick for me to toss into the ocean so she can prance into the waves like a jackrabbit and retrieve it.

I moved to Malibu from Michigan two years ago when I took a new job working for a major firm, specializing in credit building and credibility solutions for businesses. I had just walked into my new beach house carrying the first box, when a scrawny black dog with soulful dark brown eyes sitting outside the sliding glass door caught my attention. I opened the door, and she immediately came into my house like she owned the joint. She walked to the center of the empty family room, twirled around in a circle twice, then laid down with a satisfied groan. I looked at her, and then looked at the door, then back at her and the door one last time. When I looked at her again, she gave another satisfied groan, closed her eyes, buried her nose in her feet, and fell asleep.

I put up ‘Found Dog’ fliers all around the neighborhood, and I even took out an ad in the local newspaper to see if she had accidentally run away from her owner. She’s such a beautiful and well behaved dog. Surely someone was missing her. Weeks went by and no one replied. She already seemed to think she lived here, so I kept her. I named her Sadie after a turtle I had when I was ten. In the beginning, when I’d call her name, she’d cock her head to the side like I was crazy. But eventually, she warmed up to it and now answers to her name.

I didn’t know a soul in California when I first moved here, so Sadie and I kept each other company. She’s also a good icebreaker with meeting the ladies. There’s not a woman alive who can resist Sadie’s magnetic, dark, chocolate brown eyes. Sadie is good natured and an extremely friendly dog. Sometimes I have to drag her inside from the beach. All of the locals, and even some tourists, call their hellos to her on the beach as we walk or jog by. I’m pretty sure only a handful of people actually know my name. It’s
‘Hi Sadie, hi Sadie’s owner.
’ No matter how many times I tell people that my name is Cooper, it’s still
‘Hi Sadie, hi Sadie’s
owner,’
so I gave up, and I’ve accepted being called Sadie’s owner.

We pretty much stick to our schedule. I leave for work in the morning, but not before she demands her breakfast and, at least, a good fifteen minutes of play time and a belly rub. Monday through Friday, a dog walker comes by once a day to let her outside and to give her a quick walk around the neighborhood.

When I get home from work, I make us each dinner, then we eat it side by side, sitting on the floor in front of the television. After dinner, Sadie picks up her bowl and places it inside the dishwasher, then we go for our jog. After our jog, it usually takes me twenty minutes to pull her away from her ‘people’ friends and drag her back into the house. I jump in the shower, then we curl up on the couch together and watch a movie, or I finish up some last minute work. After the ten o’clock news at eleven—and I do mean
at
eleven, because her cute little head pops up like a timer, she cocks her head and stares at me with those cute, irresistible eyes, and we go to bed where she sprawls out and takes up two-thirds of my king size bed.

I keep telling Sadie that one day I’ll meet a woman, we’ll fall madly in love and she’ll want Sadie’s side of the bed. I swear my own dog laughs at me. She just puts her head down on the other pillow, rolls on her back, legs up, closes her eyes, and loudly sighs. If I didn’t know better, it’s with a smile on her face, too.

I never leash Sadie on our jogs. She’s so good with everyone, even kids, and she obeys all of my commands, except to come in the house after our jog, so I don’t usually leash her. I do carry it with me though, because of the city beach ordinance. I think Sadie has as much fun fetching a stick out of the ocean as I do throwing it for her. I love to see her tongue hanging out of her mouth and her tail wagging a mile a minute. Sadie loves the water and I think if reincarnation exists, she’ll be a fish in her next lifetime.