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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Erin
Teaching savedme, plain and simple. These wonderful kids lit up my days and Icherished the connection Ihad with each and every one of them.
Seeing the gleam in their eyes when we gave them glitter to work with or how they smiled from ear to ear as we allowed them to paint with their hands and feet on large white fabric was what propelled me to wake up to work in the mornings.
Talking to them and helping them find the direction in art that called to them pushed me to stop moping around. Ihad to be present to have conversations about their lives, how they were liking the classes, and just anything they had on their minds.
My heart and soul were invested in them and their growth. When one of them struggled, Igave him or her extra attention, determined not to let anything deter them from creating. They reminded me of why Ichose this profession to begin with, and they chased my worst thoughts away.
Without them, in the solitude of my apartment, things proved more challenging. Imissed Thomas and loved him as fiercely as Idid before, and yet the aftershocks from watching him beat someone half to death wouldn’tlet me return to him.
We needed each other, no one else, and it destroyed me that my paralyzing fear prevented me from being there for him, sitting on the sidelines, undecided.
Short breaks of relief arrived from either Laura or Alda, the barmaid. Laura showed her support daily, even with her busy schedule. She hung out with me after school and force-fed me when my appetite disappeared. Other than feeding me, she picked me up and washed my face on the afternoons when sadness consumed me.
She came through for me, but she wasn’tThomas.
On the days when my mood brightened, Ipainted Alda. Acouple days after the incident Iwent to the bar where she worked to ask her to be my muse. Going there hurt like hell, but with everything that happened, my inspiration was nonexistent and my bones itched to paint. So Iwent there, ignoring the memories that flooded, and asked Alda to be my muse and tell me her story. Imanaged to convince her, again, that Iwasn’tcrazy, and had been painting her ever since.
She interested me to no end, but she too wasn’tThomas.
The hours with her served to remind me of the months when Thomas sat with me in the studio. Ilonged for his questions, the conversations, to share our minds as intimately as we shared our bodies. Thomas acted as my biggest supporter, my shield from the world, the giver of hugs Ididn’teven know Ineeded.
In between my meetings with the two, Ihad alot of lonely, painful moments and Imissed him throughout each and every one of them.
It would start as early as when I’dopen my eyes and didn’tfeel his embrace or hear his soft breaths as he slowly stirred next to me. Then I’dshower, freshen up, and would naively think Iwas going to have adecent day.
Then I’dstep outside my building to the park where we used to talk for hours, had hot tea, and he’dstroke my hair then kiss the exposed skin as if Iwere his delicate flower. I’davoid that area by doing apower walk around it, and the fresh air and adrenaline lifted my spirits.
Until I’dget to the museum to start aday of my internship. Our campus was on the other side of the road, another painful reminder that whooshed the air out of my lungs.
And every night Icried myself to sleep, hugging my pillow tight and wishing for answers that kept evading me.
This routine, fueled by pain and longing, drained me. Ihad to break the cycle, to examine our entire relationship from the day it started, check for any hidden signs Imight have missed. Once Ihad the full picture, Iknew I’dbe able to reassess the situation and analyze what I’ddone wrong.
Iwent through our memories, emails, and texts, afield of wilted sunflowers that used to be our relationship. Ilooked through every comma, exclamation mark, misplaced smiley emoticon and…nothing.
Well, it wasn’tcompletely nothing. Idid realize something. Whatever happened with Thomas wasn’tmy fault. Icouldn’thave predicted it, couldn’thave stopped it, couldn’thave done anything, really. This was his to own up to.
The realization washed over me like acoat of light. It freed me from the blame Icarried throughout the years, for not being agood enough kid for my father and later on not agood enough girlfriend for Greg. It wasn’tmy blame to carry, not anymore.
Of course they were nothing like Thomas.
While the first two always intended to hurt me in one way or the other, Thomas did everything to protect me. Iunderstood it now, that he’dnever hurt me, ever.
He was broken and Iwanted to care for him and love his broken pieces the same as he loved mine. To kiss them every day and promise them they formed apart of me and tackle each day as it came.
Isat with these feelings late on aSunday night, and swore to myself the first thing I’ddo the day my internship ended would be to go to him, to work this out, to set boundaries.
The day dragged on slowly until it reached its end. Iwatched as the kids filtered out of the room and prepared myself mentally to go to Thomas, solve our issues, and apologize to him for not forcing myself to face him earlier. He deserved better.
Lifting my satchel from where Ileft it in the far corner of the room, Iturned and walked to the door, drowning in my own thoughts on Thomas and fixing us and so many other things and…
Aloud thump echoed through the empty space, through the high walls and back to my heart, as Idropped my satchel.
It was him.
