It’s been months. And it somehow hurts even more now.
The air in my car gets thicker, heavier. Inhaling and exhaling becomes a struggle as tears begin to cloud my vision. And I want to give in. I want to pull over and punch my steering wheel until my knuckles bleed, scream until my throat is raw about the unfairness of it all.
But I don’t. I won’t. Because it will do nothing. It won’t bring him back or help me grieve. Instead, I’ll still be just as alone as I am now, except the physical pain might distract from the emotional pain of it all.
I relax my grip on the steering wheel, push my foot down a little bit harder on the pedal, and stuff all of those feelings down so deep that I forget they even exist. Or at least pretend they don’t exist until the next reminder threatens to finally crack the exterior I’ve spent so long building.
Stanley’s comes into view and I parallel park right in front. Tucked on a quiet side street and owned by a man who thinks Facebook is “hogwash,” it’s a hidden gem. It’s been here for as long as I can remember and if you didn’t know before you walked in, the decor inside would tip you off. I’m pretty sure they haven’t changed a single thing since they first opened. They even have their “smoking section” sign still up, even though Denver went smoke free when I was in high school.
I open the door and the bell dings over my head. My eyes go immediately to the empty stool sitting outside of the kitchen and I almost fall to the floor in relief. When Mr. Stanley is here, his butt never leaves that stool. And if he was here, he’d ask about my dad and that’s the last thing I need to happen in front of Quinton.
A waitress yells from across the room for me to sit wherever I want. Without thinking, my feet automatically cross the checkered linoleum floors until I’m sliding into the booth that my dad and I always used to sit in.
I run my fingers over the tattered vinyl covering the seat and look at the long scratch in the table. The one I put there when my dad let me color with a pen and I got a little out of control.
I order a Diet Coke and look at the menu I memorized years ago while I wait for Quinton.
“Elliot?” A voice says from somewhere behind me. “Elliot Reed? I knew that was you!”
The voice is nearly as familiar—and now, foreign—as my dad’s. And while my heart flutters with aching and yearning for the comfort and love it’s been missing, my brain sends signals of panic and fear. My palms begin to sweat and I’ve never wanted to be Barry Allen so badly.
But since I don’t have super speed—or the superconvenient power to become invisible—I turn to face my old neighbor. “Mrs. Rafter, how are you?”
I slide out of the booth and stand to give her a hug. My hands shake as I touch the person I was resigned to never see again after I last saw her . . . at my dad’s funeral. The scent of her signature perfume wraps me as tight as her frail arms. I lean back, but neither one of us lets go of the other. Her blue eyes shine bright against her pale skin, and her yellowing teeth still look perfect against the pink lipstick she always wears. The comfort of the familiarity she brings me causes the first crack in my defense system.
“You would know if you ever came to see an old lady, wouldn’t you?” She scolds me, but even though there’s not any anger in those words, there is hurt.
“I know.” Shame washes over me and the guilt I’ve been pretending I didn’t feel makes a sudden appearance.
Mrs. Rafter has lived in her little bungalow since 1969. Twenty years before I was even born. Her husband passed away and she wasn’t able to have kids. So, when my parents bought the house next door and—from the stories Mrs. Rafter told me—my mom took special care to not just be a friendly neighbor but to bring her in as part of our family, Mrs. Rafter didn’t hesitate. And I became the grandchild she never thought she’d have. We baked cookies together and watched old black-and-white movies together. She gave me money every time I brought home a good report card, and a serious lecture the one time I didn’t. And when we found out my dad was sick, she was there every Monday with a new casserole and a story about the crazy ladies from her knitting group at church.
“I’m sorry. I just couldn’t go back.” I focus on the french fry on the floor that needs to be swept up, unable to look her in the eyes.
While the priest was speaking at my dad’s funeral, I made the decision to do everything I could to never feel pain like that again. And that included cutting off just about everybody from my past. The only reason Liv and Marie made the cut is because they are fucking stalkers and wouldn’t let me avoid them. Mrs. Rafter, on the other hand, doesn’t have the social media or Internet detective prowess to find me.
I’ve picked up my phone to call her so many times, but I could never go through with it. After the weeks went by, I regretted my decision, but it felt too late to go back. Part of me was afraid of the pain hearing her voice would cause. But mainly, it was the fear that she would be mad at me for running away and wouldn’t
