Chapter 44
aimee
I’ve been home for a month now.
I was trying to not count the days. But being back home…it was hard not to. Not to count the moments that had passed, that had been lost. I stared at the ticking clock on the wall. I picked at the skin on my thumb—an anxious habit I was trying to stop.
Lukas’ accident…I squeezed my eyes shut and focused on my breathing.
Dr. Alicia Fairfield sat across from me, waiting patiently for me to talk. Since his accident everything was…fresh again. In a lot of ways it felt like I was starting over, point zero, the first steps—and I hated it. I breathed through the press of tears behind my eyes, the lump in my throat.
“Aimee, no one is saying you have to go and do this. This is entirely up to you,” she said, voice gentle and calm.
In light of everything, it had dawned on me that the last time I’d seen Asher’s parents was the funeral.
On top of everything else I’d been feeling, the realization caused panic to bloom tight in my chest. I’d made myself physically sick over it.
It had taken many sessions and my therapist had finally been able to get me to admit what was bothering me.
“Even a few months ago, you wouldn’t have given the idea a single thought,” she said.
I swallowed past the lump in my throat, while I switched from my thumb, to spinning the ring around my middle finger.
“You were close with them.”
I nodded, I still had my eyes shut, still trying to breathe through it all.
Dr. Fairfield was much better than the first therapist I’d been seeing—the one that in retrospect wasn’t very good at her job.
She didn’t complain if we sat in silence, or if she was the only one to talk, or if everything I’d been feeling for months now just poured out of my mouth in an endless stream.
She made it clear on the first day—months ago—that she was here to be whatever I needed, for however long I needed. She would help teach me the tools to manage all the things constantly racing around in my head—how to spot the bad thoughts and redirect before I spiraled.
I didn’t love coming to these appointments, but I now didn’t dread them either.
She was a big advocate for positive affirmations due to the online bullying and the impacts that it had on my self-esteem, self-guilt and self-blame—reframing that it was not my fault.
“The guilt you feel is natural—completely normal. Realistically, you will probably always feel some measure of it.” She paused, studying how my body tensed.
“I’m not saying that to upset you. Guilt is a weird fickle beast, and it’s one that the majority of people always struggle with, but learn to live with.
The goal is to find alternate paths—healthier paths of coping. ”
With a shaking hand, I wiped a lone tear off my cheek.
I still felt guilty a lot of the time. I still blamed myself, but the pressure and weight of it wasn’t as constant as it used to be. It wasn’t this too heavy load threatening to drag me under…I wasn’t sinking all of the time anymore.
“We can facilitate the meeting here—you, your parents, them, myself…if you think that would be better.”
I thought of it and hated the idea. How impersonal it would feel to meet in this pseudo-sterilized office.
I shook my head.
“What…what if they hate me.”
“What if they do hate you? What then?”
I sucked in a shaky breath. I didn’t know.
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think they will. I think they’ve been waiting for you to be ready to reach out.”
“But it was my choice to—”
“Pause. I know you feel the guilt for what happened that day. But you, Asher and your coach decided on the skills and program you’d perform. You are not the sole responsible party here.”
“Online people—”
“Online people have seen video clips, heard a sound bite, read someone’s inane rant on a feed—their opinions in the grand scheme of things—they don’t matter.
I know that’s easier said than done, but I need you to try and remember that.
Reflect on the reasons why you think you’re at fault for what happened. ”
I clamped my mouth shut.
“Plan a visit. Give it a try. And during the next session, we can talk about how it went for you.”
So, here I was, standing on the doorstep that had never once felt unwelcoming in the past. This door had never once been closed to me, had never been slammed in my face. Now, it felt like a barrier I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to cross.
If I’d been stronger, I would have come alone, I wouldn’t be contemplating wanting to turn around and run in the opposite direction.
Mom was standing next to me, her hand on my lower back—a comforting pressure to keep me steady and my nerves in check.
It didn’t matter which reassurances my therapist had given me—the gnawing fear that they’d open that door and hate me?
I wrung my hands together in front of me.
Letting out a shaky breath, I focused on the sun warming the back of my head. The feel of the cool winter air freezing my lungs. I looked at the little potted pine tree on the porch, and counted the seven baubles that decorated it. Three red, three green, and one gold.
I heard the jangle of mom’s keys from wherever she stood behind me.
I was terrified. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat.
My hands felt clammy. I was shaking, and it wasn’t due to the chill in the air.
My whole body was fighting fight or flight, and flight wanted to win terribly.
The angry wasps were roiling in full force, and I wasn’t sure how I was going to respond when the door finally opened.
The navy blue door that had once been as familiar to me as my own. An evergreen holiday wreath hung with a bright red bow.
Asher’s parents had been like a second set to me.
Alice and Jon had claimed me as one of their own—the daughter they never were able to have.
I lost the battle with silent tears when I realized that maybe my absence made them feel like they’d lost two children that day…
and I didn’t know what to do with that thought. I didn’t know how to redirect.
Mom’s hand rubbed soothing circles on my back, and I wanted to tell her that I didn’t think I could do this after all—face them—but my voice got stuck in my throat just as the door swung open. Alice Leland stood there. Tears were pooling and spilling just like mine and she threw her arms around me.
It took the span of three heartbeats, and a gasping breath before I was hugging her back and sobbing into her shoulder.
We stood on the Leland family’s porch and cried.
The air smelled of the florals Mrs. Leland favored and the tears flowed harder.
Her arms tightened around me and there were no words. Nothing would be enough.
I didn’t want to let go, but I forced myself to start to pull back, when another pair of arms wrapped around the two of us. Jon. His hand rested on the back of my head, and a fresh wave of tears poured from me.
We were all sitting in the family room. It hadn’t changed—still sporting the oversized comfy couch that we used to curl up in. The framed pictures were all the same, the knick-knacks on the shelves. I ran my hand over the blanket that we’d spent so many moments under.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you,” I said, not able to meet their gazes.
I wiped my cheek with the cuff of my sleeve, and Alice squeezed my hand she hadn’t let go of since we’d stopped crying on the porch.
“Sssh, you have nothing to apologize for. Samantha—your mom—has been keeping us up to date,” she said.
“You know you’re welcome here anytime…we know it’s been hard. We don’t blame you,” Jon said.
I swallowed, hard and looked up. I could feel my chin trembling, and I hoped everything I wanted to say, but couldn’t was evident in my eyes.
“We know sweetie,” Alice said as she hugged me, and I closed my eyes.
For a moment, I turned off every doubt in my head and just let myself be here for this moment. I let myself memorize this feeling.
Asher’s room was still the same.
Bed unmade. Papers and books littering his desk.
Clothes were spilling out of his hamper, and the closet door was half-open.
His walls were covered in awards and medals.
I touched a picture of the two of us smiling, heads titled together, clinking our medals together.
It was the first time we’d competed at a professional level and we’d won second place.
There were pictures of us throughout his room.
I wiped errant tears away.
So much of our lives had been entangled with each other.
A sob escaped when I saw the picture he had by his bed.
It was from our second date. I sat down and pulled it into my lap.
It was the end of July, the state fair had opened and he took me.
I was staring at him. He had a huge smile on his face with his eyes lit up.
He had his head thrown back in a laugh. The lights of the rides painted us in technicolor.
I touched his face and felt something crack in my chest. It cleaved and gave way to heaving sobs.
Curling on his bed, I buried my face in blankets that still smelled vaguely like him and I wondered where and how it could have gone so wrong between us.
I was all over his room, so I didn’t understand, and he was gone.
I stared out into his room and pictured all of the times we’d been here together.
Maybe it was wrong to do more than just remember him.
I wanted to imagine him walking through the door, dropping his stuff on the floor—only to complain about it later.
I wanted to picture his smile, and how he’d tease me before crawling over me into his bed.
And before, we’d just lay there side by side talking and hanging out…
after he kissed me, then I’d feel the weight of his arm over my waist, the feel of body as he curled around me and we dozed after a hard practice.