October Breezes (26 page)

“You al right?” she asked, looking back at me.

“I’m fine?”

I nodded and looked out the window, stil thinking about the locket.

“Did you find what you came for?” Warren asked, staring at me via the rear-view mirror.

“Yeah, I’ve got it. Let’s go home.”

“Al right,” Warren agreed, and started the car. “Let’s.”

Although I wanted to hide and let the world forget I ever existed, I knew that wasn’t possible, especialy not after being in the limelight at my school. But I did the best I could at hiding out for the next two months while I continued to see a therapist, Ms. Gilmore, on a weekly basis. At first, it wasn’t easy to talk to a complete stranger about my dad, Tyler, and everything in between, but I knew I couldn’t keep it inside anymore. That was part of what had led me to this choice, I would later learn from Ms. Gilmore.

Although she looked like a young English teacher with her long hair and romantic dresses, she knew what she was doing. “It’s not uncommon for women who have had abortions to attempt suicide,” she told me about a week after I’d been released from the hospital. “What makes you think about the abortion?”

I folded my arms across my chest and took a deep breath, trying to focus on the rain outside her window. “Everything.

Sometimes it’s a baby commercial. Sometimes it’s a story in a magazine. Seeing the clothes I’d worn that day, reading
To Kill a
Mockingbird.
It can be anything.”

She leaned back in her chair. “So what happens when you see something that reminds you of that day?”

I spotted a piece of lint on my jeans and plucked it off, wishing I were anywhere but here. I wanted to forget, not dredge it up. “My heart beats faster and faster. I can’t breathe fast enough. I just want to run away.” Even talking about it made my heart jump, and it took everything in me to stay sitting down.

“You mean like now?” she asked softly, adjusting the ruffle on her cream blouse.

“How did you know?” My throat felt dry, like I had been in the desert. In fact, my whole body was sweating, but the room wasn’t that warm.

“Your expression is pretty open, Skye. Ever heard of the Fight or Flight response?” I shook my head, and she continued as rain spattered the window, streaking the outside into a blur. “Wel, when you put someone in a situation that she thinks is threatening, she wil respond in one of two ways—she’l come out fighting, or she’l choose to run away.”

A chil swept down my back, probably from the sweat and nervousness. I shivered. “But nothing is threatening me.”

“Isn’t it?” She stood up and drew the blinds closed, forcing me to focus only on her. “It’s not always a physical threat, Skye. Sometimes it can be a psychological one. In this case, I think it probably stems from the trouble you’re having in reconciling the person you were before the abortion with the one you’ve become since.” She glanced at the silver clock on her wal. “As long as you don’t have to think about the abortion, you’re okay. The problem is that it keeps showing up in different, unexpected ways, and you’re not okay with that. Do you know what PTSD is?”

“No.” I shook my head again and folded my arms across my abdomen.

“It stands for post-traumatic stress disorder, and while most people tend to associate it with soldiers who have returned home from fighting in a war, it’s caused by many things, including rape and abortion. Do you have nightmares?”

Swalowing hard, I thought of the dreams of Tyler and the abortion. They stil came frequently. “Yes.” I frowned. “Does what’s happening to me have a name?”

“Yes, it does. Post-Abortion syndrome.” She smoothed her skirt. “It should comfort you to know that if it has a name, there are lots of women who’ve have suffered from it. Al these symptoms point to PTSD, which is what we’l need to treat first and then we’l talk about your self-concept.” She must have seen the confusion on my face because she went on. “You’re self-concept is who you think you are.”

She said a lot more than that, but what I latched onto was that I wasn’t alone. There were others like me who understood what I felt. She even gave me a business card with a crisis hotline number in case there were an emergency and she weren’t able to be reached.

Over the weeks that folowed, Ms. Gilmore helped me understand my choices and began to look forward to our sessions.

Mom must have known how much I’d come to trust her because she selected Ms. Gilmore to tel me about the testimony I would have to give about the rape at Tyler’s pre-trial hearing.

Although I’d spent lots of time preparing my statement, up until I stepped into the courtroom, I didn’t know if I could go through it, and while I must have answered al the questions, I don’t remember what I said. I just wanted it to be over.

Originaly, Mom wanted to go with me, but I told her I wanted to go by myself. Staring at her worried frown, I knew she didn’t like that choice, but as she worked just down the street from the courthouse, she agreed, teling me to come there after I finished or cal her if I needed anything. When I exited the courthouse and started down the steps, I planned to folow her instructions, but then I spotted Becca on her way inside to give her deposition. But it wasn’t the Becca I’d expected. Instead of her usual fare of revealing shirts and shirts, she wore a bulky sweater and black dress pants. Her hair was drawn back in a plain style and she barely wore make-up. I guess she must have sensed my gaze because we looked at each other. I expected an angry glare, but instead I saw a momentary glimmer of pain, then nothing. She looked away and hurried inside.

For long moments, I thought about Becca, and the longer I thought, the more puzzle pieces fel into place. Becca had always been popular with the boys, but the previous year, there seemed to almost be a lightning shift in her. Before, she’d always been so quiet. Now she didn’t have a quiet bone in her body. She’d changed into someone who wore shorter skirts and crop tops.

There had even been a few rumors about a possible pregnancy, but somehow she’d convinced us al that there was nothing to the talk.

Everyone thought she was just changing because she was the only cheerleader on the varsity squad who happened to be in tenth grade, and, not only that, she was also the head cheerleader. Now, thinking about just how eager she’d been to destroy me, I made the connection she’d tried so hard to bury. When she came out, I stil stood there, waiting.

She started down the steps and I caled, “Becca.”

Turning, she saw it was me, flushed, and started to continue her course toward her mother’s car about twenty feet away, but her mother quickly gestured for her to stop and speak to me. She swalowed hard and slowly walked to me. “I’m sorry for what I did,” she said, a tremble in her voice.

I stared at her face, unable to acknowledge her apology.

There was something I needed to know. “How far along were you?”

The flush deepened, and she looked at the ground. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I shook my head. “Yeah, you do. Last year, you were pregnant. The least you could do is tel me the truth.”

She gripped the stair railing and closed her eyes. “Twelve weeks. I was twelve weeks.” Immediately, she looked down at her mother, who stared at us.

The pit of my stomach dropped because up until then I’d been guessing, and although it should’ve been something that made me happy, a revenge of sorts, the knowledge hurt that much more because it meant that Becca was more broken than I was. Where I stil had hope, she had anger and guilt. “Do your parents know?”

“Why?” she snapped. “Are you going to tel them? Is that how you’re going to get me back?” That sounded more like the old Becca, but the anger was tired, meaning Becca was probably close to the edge.

“No, I’m not. But at least now I understand.”

Shaking her head, she said, “Understand what?”

The wind picked up and blew my hair into my face. I brushed it back. “What you did wasn’t realy about me. It wasn’t even about Kelin. It was about you.” I paused, waiting for her to deny it, but she didn’t. “You couldn’t believe you realy did that, could you? So you focused on me because I made a great target.

It’s a lot easier to tear someone else apart rather than deal with your own demons, isn’t it?”

She started shaking, and for the first time, I knew she was wounded. I knew I could say so many ugly things and that maybe if I pushed realy hard, I could make her feel the same desperation I’d felt when I’d tried to take my own life. But I didn’t want that.

She looked so pale and lost, and her grip on the handrail tightened. “I’m sorry,” she whispered and fought to blink back tears. “What do you want from me?” Again, she looked at her mother, and I knew she was wondering if her mom could hear the conversation.

I reached into my purse and puled out the business card Ms. Gilmore had given me. I handed it to her. “Maybe you can find a way to deal with this alone before it destroys you, but if you get tired, here’s the number for someone who can help. I’m offering you a chance.” I turned to leave as she stared at the card.

“Why are you doing this? Why don’t you hate me?”

I stopped and took a deep breath. “Would it change anything if I were to hate you? Would it make my life better? No.”

I clenched my jaw and took a deep breath. “Besides, I made the same choice you did, and one day I’l figure out how to accept that.” I looked at her defeated expression and waited until she met my gaze. “And just for the record, I could never hate you as much as you hate yourself.”

Becca walked down the stairs as if in a daze. As she reached her mother’s car, I saw her look back at me, and at that moment, in the scared eyes and parted lips, I saw someone like me, someone who wasn’t scared of dying but instead of living with the pain. She slipped into the passenger seat, and I walked away.

So now here I am, a much different Skye than six months ago. A month after I was released from the hospital, Mom and Warren rented a U-Haul truck to move. Although it should be easy to pack after al that had happened, I keep seeing things that remind me of Devin—movie ticket stubs, a dried corsage, compact discs we both liked, his t-shirt I borrowed and never returned. It was a shirt from a rock concert that we had attended together, and it had been his favorite. I'd borrowed it one day and always meant to give it back. I lift it to my face, trying to remember what his aftershave had smeled like, but the scent is gone. Then I open a box and set it inside. With trembling fingers, I close the lid.

From the bookshelf, I pick up the locket, taking pleasure in what had once been. Since I'd picked it up from school, I rarely go anywhere without it, even if the clasp is broken.

No matter where I look, some part of him appears. The pictures are the hardest to bear. Although I vaguely remember the girl in those photos, she doesn’t exist anymore. Has the Devin in those shots died, too? I hold our ninth-grade prom photo in which Devin wore a black tux and I a soft, knee-length pink dress. I leaned against his chest, and while Devin and I had never realy talked about being more than friends, that pose hardly seemed uncomfortable. It’s like we were each pieces of the other and now neither could ever be whole again.

Mom sits on the bed. “How’s the packing coming?”

I shrug. “Slowly.”

She plucks the photo from my fingers and studies it. “Have you spoken to Devin since you came home?”

I shake my head. “No. I don’t think he wants to talk.”

She slides her arm around me. “Maybe he does and maybe he doesn’t, but shouldn't you try?” She hands the picture back to me. “I know you want things to be simple again, Skye, but they’re not going to be. That’s a lesson we al learn. I just wish you hadn’t figured it out in the tenth grade.”

I lean against her, taking comfort in being held. “Do you think he’l forgive me?”

“I don’t think it's about him. You've got to find a way to forgive yourself.”

I put the picture into a box. “Mom, I’m not sure how to let it go. I know I wasn't ready to be a parent, but every day I see pictures of babies and I wonder if it was a boy or a girl. I'l never know. What if that was the only one I'l ever have? Maybe it's better. Look at what kind of a parent I'd be."

Mom holds me, her fingers caressing my hair. "What you did doesn't make you a bad parent. It makes you a scared sixteen-year-old girl."

I shake my head. "That's too easy. I made that choice, and I live with it every day, but I’m not sure I can ever combine the person who had an abortion with the girl Devin knew.” I shut the box.

“They’re both you, Skye, just different parts. Everyone has the same darkness inside. They may not make the choices you've made, but they make others just as bad or worse.” She brushes back my bangs. “The only thing you can do is try to find a way to use what you feel to help someone so they don’t go through what you did—or if they make the same choice, they don’t feel it's worth dying over.”

She pats my knee and stands. “I don’t think you’re going to get any packing done while I’m here.” She heads toward the door.

“When you get a few boxes filed, bring them to the truck, okay?

“Sure. Thanks, Mom.”

“For what?” She looks genuinely puzzled as she touches the molding where the wood had been damaged over time.

“For not giving up on me.”

“You don’t have to thank me for loving you, Skye. You’re the best gift God gave me.” She walks out, leaving me to survey the boxes.

“I might as wel take some down,” I mutter, grabbing the top two and heading out. Spring is beginning to peek through the melting snow. I try not to think about how much has changed since last October. I used to think it was the big things that I had to be scared of, but now I know. Sometimes big things start out like smal breezes, a change in the wind you don’t expect. I just keep teling myself that spring is coming. I even heard a bird singing yesterday. I stack the boxes in the truck, and when I turn, I almost run into Devin.

“Hey, stranger,” he says softly. He wears a softbal jersey with blue sleeves and a basebal cap with its bil backwards. As the sunlight iluminates his face, I see dark shadows beneath his eyes, and he looks realy tired.