Page 60 of Over Us, Over You
Why isn’t she looking at me?I wondered. I felt as if she were actively avoiding me. Perhaps, it was only due to the pain of losing her sister.Talking about her must be hard for her.I didn’t often bring up my mom.
Mary had helped me so much through my grieving, even got me a therapist, which was another reason I was up there in the attic, going through these boxes. The therapist said it could be helpful if I went through their things and saidgoodbye. I wanted to look at their lives through pictures, but I had found only a handful, and none of them were of them as small children or even in their teens. Even with the lack of pictures, there were other items that reminded me of them and made me feel close to them. In some ways, it did seem to be helping, yet I was sad that I would never get to see them as children, and never get to see what my grandparents looked like. Looking up at Mary, I noticed the dark circles under her eyes. She was my mother’s younger sister, not even old enough to have a child my age, and yet, she had moved into my house and had become my guardian after they passed, no questions asked. I loved her more than I could ever express. The pain there, the loss she felt, was so apparent, not only for my mom, but also regarding that new topic: no pictures of her family. So, I didn’t press any further. I understood that losing images of the ones you love was completely heartbreaking. I felt it, too. I couldn’t imagine not having what few pictures I did have of my parents so that I could look at them whenever I needed a reminder of them, because I missed them.
“Come down soon, Emma. You don’t want to pass out in here from this heat,” she said, finally looking at me with a sad smile. She tucked her hair behind her ear as she went back to the door.
“I won't be much longer,” I said, watching her as she walked through the door, closing it behind her with a soft smile for me.
The next day, I was back up there in the attic. It seemed to call to me, and I knew I had to go through every box, just in case there was something I would want; I was almost done. I sifted through my dad’s college books, which weighed the same amount as a small car, and I wondered why he had saved them. The books were mostly about science, biology, and other medical stuff. I flipped through the pages of his books, imagining that he had touched those very same pages in his youth. All those books, while priceless to him and to his career as a physician, werenotpriceless to me. I wouldn't keep those books, and somehow, as I carried them downstairs, placing them in the trunk of Mary’s car and then closing it, it felt good—felt right. He would like them being donated so that others who were interested in the same things as he was might benefit from their pages.
I miss you so much, Dad.I tried to shake that thought away. Letting it linger would have led to tears.
I drank another cup of cold ice water before heading back upstairs and into the hot attic. I opened a box that was full of my mom’s things. It was a jumbled mess, but it was not heavy—almost as if she had gathered up her life as fast as she could, and then she just threw it all into that brown cardboard box. Her box held many letters. The collection of letters ranged from letters from my dad, to letters from friends, to birthday cards. There were also programs from plays that she had seen, and even a few movie tickets hidden within the mess. It felt good, and yet miserable, to search through my parents’ lives, all crammed into those boxes. I picked up the top envelope within a smaller box. Itwas old and yellowed, and I couldn’t read the inscription on the front. I opened it and pulled out a small sheet of paper and read:
Darling Ara,
I have spent years longing for home, searching for a way back to it. You and your love make me feel as if I have found home, here, in this strange place. I am at peace because of your smile, your soul, and the melody that you have within yourself. I am touched, and I know we can make a life together as beautiful as the ones we left behind. You are my world.
All my love,
Lamont
I tried to stop the tears which fell from my eyes as I read my dad’s words, but I couldn't. I was so affected by how much he loved my mother, by how sad he must have been at the loss of his own parents, but at what peace he had found in love—in love with my mom. I wiped at my tears and set the letter on top of the others. I thumbed through those other letters; there were over a dozen there from my dad to my mom. The pain of losing such wonderful people became acute, and I felt it deep within my soul; I wanted to scream. Misery welled up within me and slithered from my eyes. After a time, when the tears had stopped, I stared at the box; it was as if their love still lived inside of it, manifesting itself to me within those written words, even after they were gone.
Will I ever have a love like that?I wondered.Will someone ever love me like my dad loved my mom—Will anyone everrefer to me as their home?I often questioned, how could someone ever love me when I was broken, shattered glass?
I would never be whole again.
There was a loud rumble outside, causing me to turn my head towards the window. It must have been coming from a large vehicle. When I heard a door slam, I knew I was right. Nothing out of the ordinary ever happened in our small neighborhood, but I was pulled from my thoughts anyway, just enough to become curious. Perhaps one of the neighbors was in need of some kind of repair, and for some reason, I wanted to know for certain. I walked to the small circular window to peer down below.
The cute home across the street with a picket fence had gone up for sale a few weeks earlier, and apparently, it had been sold. The large moving van directly across the street from our house was proof that we would have new neighbors. The house was the same cookie-cutter type as most of the other middle-upper class houses in my neighborhood. It had a manicured lawn, ornate window trim, and neutral cream colored stucco, which to be honest, seemed weird to me.Why would you paint your house white? Won’t it get super dirty?Still, the white picket fence was my favorite. I always told myself that I'd have a home with a white picket fence one day. I shook my head, focusing on seeing who was moving in. My heart jumped as I watched a boy climb out of the moving van. I looked down at my chest, confused at my racing heart. Nothing like that had ever happened to my heart before–or well, maybe it had; there was so much I could not remember about my life before losing my parents. I watched the boy; he had dark black hair and tan skin, and he looked to be my age or maybe a little older. A song, a melody, floated within me, and I felt my senses awaken.
What is going on?
His hair was midnight black, rich and dark, but in the sunlight as he moved, it appeared to have a sort of blue hue to it. It was styled longer on top, somewhat messily styled with a middle part and shorter on the sides. He looked ready for a photoshoot for some academy school catalog, standing there in tan slacks and a blue, button-down shirt that hugged him in all therightplaces.
I murmured under my breath, “Turn around, turn around,” I repeated softly to myself, wishing to see his face. He was tall and broad-shouldered; the way he stood, it was as if he commanded an army for a full-time job, not that he was a high school student, whichhe had to be, right?Or,maybe he is in college.Oh my goodness, I was too invested in that stranger.
Please turn around! Did I say that already?I felt my heart do flip-flops within my chest, which freaked me out because I was sure that I didn’t have a working heart anymore after the loss of my parents; that had shattered it. I had become accustomed to a lack of feeling and an absence of it beating.
What is happening to me?
He turned, facing my house, and I squinted, trying to make out his face. His chin was strong. I couldn’t see every single detail, but I knew he was handsome. As he raised his head more, and looked my way, I quickly ducked my head—panting.
Did he see me? What theheck! I am such a stupid stalker.
I felt the heat rise in my cheeks, which was new. I tried to calm my racing heart. I never thought I would ever feel that way—alive.
This feeling makes me feel like I exist.
You do exist. A voice seemed to float within my mind. I guess I did, but something was different in that new existence his simple presence gave me.
It was as if that boy jump-started my dead, frozen, hollow body as well as my heart. I was struck alive for the first time since the horrific night my parents took their last breaths.
How can a stranger—albeit a very attractive stranger, cause this? I don't even know him! Hormones, perhaps? This is just pure attraction. That explains it, right?
Yes.
Of course, you think he is hot. That’s normal. I want to know him—be his friend, his—