Layla – Present
Clark arrived a half hour ago. He’s in the kitchen, packing up the contents of the cupboards while I fold Ben’s clothes and put them into boxes.
I couldn’t bring myself to throw anything away.
I did decide to give Clark the keys to Ben’s car, though.
I wanted him to have it, something to hold on to, a piece of him.
Maybe one day I’ll let him go through Ben’s things properly, so he can pick more of what he wants. But I’m not ready for that yet.
I set down the T-shirt I just folded and go to the window.
I roll up the blind, and the room floods with light for the first time in months.
Outside, there’s a pretty tree lined street that leads to a park.
The last time I noticed it, the leaves were falling, and the ground was covered in the beautiful browns and oranges of fall. Now, they’re in full bloom.
I look across to the park and see children throwing a football to each other on the grass. My fingers linger on the string of the blind, and I tug it, blocking out the happiness that’s been happening outside every day.
The thing about death is it shatters your world.
But everything outside of that remains unchanged.
I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing back the tears that are always just beneath the surface. Clark’s already had to deal with too many of my emotions today.
“That’s the kitchen done.”
Clark’s southern drawl pulls my attention away from the closed blind. I cross my arms, running my hands up and down them.
“Are you sure you don’t mind helping? I completely understand if you–”
“Of course not. I’ll donate the food like you said and then ship the rest to you in a few months once you’re settled.”
He reaches down to the box I just finished packing and pulls out Ben’s college jersey, running his thumb over the number twelve. His hand stills for a moment before he sets it back down, his eyes slowly meeting mine.
“Let’s take a break.”
“I need to get the rest packed and into the van,” I tell him.
I don’t want to tell him the truth. That I’ve promised myself I wouldn’t leave for anything that wasn’t essential. That I haven’t traveled further than the corner shop at the end of the street, and even then, I’ve had to force myself.
“I’ll make sure it’s all finished by the end of the day. Come on, we’ve been at this for hours. A bit of fresh air will be good for us.”
I hesitate. I like this little bubble I’m in. I like that I go to bed every night reading my journals. I feel like he’s close to me when I do. I’m afraid that when I leave, the bubble will disappear, and I’ll be sucked back into reality.
I don’t want that.
I want to pretend like he’ll come home to me. I want the seasons to keep changing without noticing them. I want to disappear into my own little world. One where I can ignore the reality of Ben’s absence.
“Come on. It’ll be good for you.”
He grabs the cream flecked cardigan I took off earlier from the bed and holds it out for me.
“Ten minutes, and then we’ll come back and finish this.”
I feel forced, and I don’t like it.
“Please.”
He says it with enough emotion that I grab my cardigan.
I walk with him down the stairwell and out into the street. We stroll along the path that loops around the grass, where the children are playing. I hear the children scream and turn to see why, Oscar’s ice cream truck has pulled up on the sidewalk, and they are sprinting toward it.
“I’m glad you called me.” Clark sits on a wooden bench.
I didn’t have a choice. Max gave me two months.
And I spent the first six weeks of it in denial.
When I finally let it sink in, I called Clark, took out a credit card, and booked a one way ticket to Rockport.
I haven’t even told Dad I’m coming home.
He doesn’t know about Ben, he didn’t even know I was dating anyone.
My keys are due tomorrow, the same day my plane leaves.
“I’m glad you came.”
That’s the truth. I’ve done nothing but ignore him since Ben died, and I know it’s wrong.
It’s not his fault he’s a living, breathing reminder that Ben is gone.
He’s feeling the pain of Ben’s loss the same way I am, and I know that should bring me comfort.
But it doesn’t.
He smiles. “I told you I’m here if you need me and I meant it.”
He reminds me so much of Ben. The way he’s looking out for me right now would be exactly what Ben would have done, had it been Clark who died.
At the beginning I was so angry I wished it was Clark. Maybe that’s why I don’t like sharing the pain with him, knowing I’ve begged for it to have been him and not Ben. It’s a terrible thing to even let enter my mind.
But it did.
And what’s worse is if it were an option, I’m almost completely certain I would take it.
That probably makes me a horrible person.
“I know it’s… it’s been…”
Hard. Painful. Impossible to talk about. All of the above.
He nods. “I understand. I miss him too.”
Miss.
I don’t think that word is enough.
It’s a strange thing, isn’t it? The smallest words are used to describe the biggest emotions.
Love. Isn’t enough.
Miss. Isn’t enough.
Lust, Loss, even hate, isn’t enough.
“You know that day in the bakery when Ben met you?”
“Yeah.”
“He talked about you the whole way back to our house. And when you turned up to that party, I knew he was a goner.” He laughs. “I told him on our walk back from the bakery that he found his wife. I was joking, but it was like he knew it even then.”
He shifts a little, the amusement in his face softening.
“I know this isn’t going to make it easier for you, but there’s this thing my mom told me when Ben died.
She said that the most painful losses are because you loved them the deepest. It doesn’t matter, in the end, how much time you had.
What mattered was that you loved him. And he died knowing it.
Remember that Layla. He lived. And you need to live again, too.
So when your plane lands tomorrow, leave this here.
You pick yourself up, and you keep going, and you live the best damn life you can.
Because that’s what Ben would want. You go and do all the things he believed you could.
That’s how you keep his memory alive. That’s how you live for him. ”
I’m crying by the time he’s finished speaking.
I wipe at the tears, and nod.
I know he’s right but living when Ben isn’t feels wrong.
***
I stare at myself in the mirror. My blue eyes look gray in this light. I tug my hair from the bun it’s been wrapped in all day. It’s gotten longer, falling below my breasts. I can’t remember the last time I really looked at myself.
In the eight months since Ben died, I’ve changed a lot, and it’s not just the emptiness in my eyes. My skin, usually tanned from spending so much time in the sun, is pale now from barely leaving the apartment.
I step into the stream of steaming water and let it ease the pain in my muscles. This is the last time I’ll use this shower. I can feel the threat of the tears brimming in my eyes.
Tomorrow is going to be hard. Tomorrow is going to be cruel.
We wanted to stay here until I graduated this month.
Then we were going to buy a house. I was going to start my own bakery from home before opening a shop.
We were going to travel, and then, somewhere down the line, we were going to start a family and do a better job at being parents than ours ever were.
We had so many plans and dreams together. Everything I wanted was with him.
I used to be able to imagine what our life would be like in five years, and now it’s all blank pages.
They told me, when he died, it was quick. That he wouldn’t have felt much, if any pain at all. I’m grateful for that. Even though it was hard to hear at the time, I’m glad they told me.
In the days after he died, I remember thinking I wish I had known it was coming, I thought it would have helped if I had time to prepare.
And then I thought about how much worse it would have been for Ben, to know it was coming and have to live through the pain of knowing all the times he wouldn’t get to have.
I’m glad I’m the one that has to shoulder that burden. I’m glad I’m the one left with the pain when he had none. He got to live his final moments being blissfully unaware he would never return home.
I turn the shower off and wrap a towel around me. Then, flopping down on the bed, I open the journal, flicking through to the last page I read and turning it over to the next.
I smile because I know what this entry is. I still think about it.
I close my eyes and breathe, ready to immerse myself into the past.
Where the pain can’t reach me.