Unlit Star (2 page)

“College is starting in the fall. I understand why he's depressed. He's supposed to be going to University of Texas on a football scholarship. Obviously that isn't going to happen. I don't even know if he'll be able to run again. I know it's selfish, but I am okay with that, because at least he's
alive
. I am
so thankful
for his life, but I think all he sees is what he's lost, not what he still has. All he sees is a dream taken from him."

She pauses, and in that frozen instant, pain takes over her features, pinching them. It is the look of a mother who would give anything to help their child, but is unable to reach them. "Riley is going to Texas. They had it all planned out. She said she would stay here for him, but I forbade her to. Her life can't stop because of what happened, and she needs to think of herself and not just Rivers. I didn't say it, but I don't think there is anything left for her here anymore. I just wish...I just wish my son would somehow let me know he's okay. He doesn't have to be the person he used to be, he just has to be
someone
. That's all. That's all I want.”

“Hmm. Maybe some therapy would work?”

She snorts as she leans her palms against the glass of the sliding doors and it looks like she is trying to reach her son through the window panes. “He is in therapy. He doesn't talk.” Turning from the door, she says, “I feel like I'm paying you to listen to me moan and groan more than I'm paying you to do stuff around the house.”

“You're right. You are. I should get a raise.”

Soft laughter falls from her lips. “You're a good kid, Delilah.”

It's my turn to snort.

“Did you get everything done for the day?”

“I have Rivers' room left to clean and then I'm done.”

“Okay. I won't keep you. Riley's leaving anyway, so I'm going to go sit with Rivers for a while. Let me know when you're heading out.”

I nod, making sure I am not facing the backyard as I finish my apple. This whole place is enshrouded in sadness, making it hard to breathe at times. Watching Monica with Rivers is too much—the grief she feels rolls off her in waves of discontent, and I am constantly trying to duck out of its way. I chuck the apple into the garbage as my eyes trail over the stainless steel appliances, creamy white walls, and hardwood floors. Nothing in this room is out of place nor requires my non-professional professional touch.

The lines of my actual job duties are blurred. I was hired to do daily cleaning around the house, but I've sort of entered the role of errand-runner, babysitter, and confidant as well. I am saving up for a post-summer trip, so I need the money, and there are far worse ways to spend my summer days than in the Young house, mopey scene and all.

There is a reason I always leave Rivers' room as my last clean of the day. Now, standing in the middle of the room darkened by drawn curtains and tragedy, a chill goes through me. My brain has an enormously hard time replacing the Rivers I went to school with, with the Rivers sitting outside. And this room doesn't help anyone, least of all him. It's like a shrine to his previous existence.

The room is as big as my kitchen at home and has a high ceiling with two picture windows, milk chocolate walls, and gray curtains and bedding. The scent I associate with Rivers—sunshine and something sweet—lingers in the room. A flat screen television takes up a good portion of the wall facing the bed, and awards line the shelves on the other walls. Most of them are athletic, but even Solo Ensemble and Forensics are in the mix. The guy was sickeningly talented throughout his school career.

At one point, there was nothing Rivers couldn't do.

When I think of the boy I went to school with, I see dark eyes lit up with confidence and the easy-going manner of someone who knew anything they wanted, they would get. Did I ever see him frown? Did I ever see any hint of seriousness to his stance? He was floating on the conviction that he would never fail. It must have been something, going through school like that.

School was something I had to excel at so that I could have better things once it was over. It was about getting good grades so I had a set future. I endured it—I didn't
enjoy
it. I wasn't timid, but I was quiet, keeping to myself unless I felt the need to state my opinion. I was a contradiction in a way—I didn't mind public speaking, but I also didn't go out of my way to interact with my classmates.

Framed pictures take over the remaining wall space. Riley and Rivers' smiling faces stare back at me and I turn away. With her fresh-faced good looks and his dark handsomeness, they were breathtaking to watch together. Their relationship is legend throughout the Prairie du Chien school walls. They started dating freshman year and have regularly been on and off since then. In fact, I think they may have been in an off stage at the time of his accident.

I wonder if Rivers, instead of Riley, is going to be the one to tear down whatever bridge of shared history is between them, allowing Riley to fall down and away into the past. She's supposed to be the heartless one—the one that snips the ties that bind one being to another, but when it comes to him, it seems like her heart is an overachiever, and
his
is nowhere to be seen. The thought doesn't really brighten my day like I thought it would.

Rumors of cheating, physical violence on Riley's part, and Rivers' insensitivity have been whispered in their wake. Riley supposedly cheated, who knows why—insecurites, revenge, to make him jealous?

I saw her slap him once, in the dark corner of a hallway after school had let out. I'd forgotten a homework assignment in my locker and was walking down the dimly lit hallway when I saw it, the sound of it like a piece of something beautiful being ripped away in a bandage of vileness, the sight of it enough to make the air freeze in my lungs. And what did Rivers do? He walked away; a perfect display of indifference.

I guess if no one ever cares about what you do, you keep doing more and more bad things in the hope that
something
will matter to them. At least, I think that's how Riley's mind works. If someone doesn't care about anything you do, then they don't really care about you. So maybe Rivers was the worse of the two—acting like he cared, not caring enough, and yet stringing her along.

They were in a bubble of implied perfection, and that bubble popped—or maybe it exploded. The majority of the kids in school acted like they were something special.
I
knew they weren't, but then, I didn't exactly have people running up to me asking my opinion on the subject of them either. Determination straightens my spine as I pick up a shirt from the floor and toss it into the laundry basket by the door. It probably hurts Rivers to sit in this room and see what his world used to be like. I don't even like seeing it all, and I have never been a fan of his. In fact, the first thing I would do is take down all of their pictures, which my fingers itch to do anyway. I hate looking at them, particularly
her
.

I go about straightening the room, careful not to look at anything for too long. I feel like I am spying on a life I have not been invited to see. For the duration of my employment here, I have spoken nil to Rivers and that's okay with me. Although, had I immediately known it was
his
house I would be cleaning over summer break, I would have hesitated to accept the job.

I still would have taken the job, but I would have pondered it for a brief moment. I'd already had plans that, strangely enough, coincided with him. Funny how that stuff tends to work out. The despair and hopelessness in Monica Young pulled at my heart and I wanted to help her. I can't stand to see others in pain. Not her, and not even Rivers. I blow out a noisy breath, wishing my stinking inclination to heal everything wasn't so profound. Life would be so much easier if I didn't want to fix every broken thing I come across.

When I was a kid, I found an injured dove in the park near my home. It was in the grass beside a tree, just lying there. I knew something was wrong when it didn't try to fly away as I approached. It was pale gray with white—so exquisitely beautiful. It lay on its side, its eyes blinking, one of its wings broken. I couldn't leave it there, all alone.

With tears running down my face, I gathered grass and leaves, placing them in a notched out part in the base of a tree. I gently picked up the dove. It was still, quiet, and so trusting of me. I knew it was dying and my heart was beating so fast, it was as if it was trying to pump enough life force for me as well as the bird. I held it close to me, wanting to heal it and knowing I couldn't.

I sat against the tree, keeping it warm, waiting. The sky darkened, its chest barely moving with its breathing. "I'm sorry," I whispered. When dusk fell and I knew my mom would be worried about me if I didn't get home soon, I placed it in the bed of green foliage, giving it back to the earth as the earth once gave to it. I turned to go, not wanting to leave it and knowing I had to. Looking back once to see its chest no longer rising and falling, and with grief heavy in my steps, I walked home.

The next day, I went back and the bird was gone. At the time, I told myself it was lifted into the sky by the hands of God, taken back home to live in a dream-like world full of endless blue skies. Now I know it was probably eaten by an animal, but at the time, thinking what I did gave me peace.

Not that I can compare Rivers to a bird, but even so, my impulse to help him comes from the same part of me that wanted to protect that dying creature. In his case, he makes it simple to keep my distance with his silent glares and dismissive nature. His muteness is almost less welcome than his arrogant personality had once been, but at the same time it is a relief to not have to interact with him. I've always been a little nervous in his presence, which aggravated me in school and yet continued all four years anyway. He was just
so much
—his presence took up the school.

I tug the charcoal-toned sheets from the bed and find clean ones in the closet, remaking the bed as quickly and efficiently as I can. Even though he is not here, I can feel his dark eyes watching me from this room that embodies him. The pictures that line the walls, the awards that boast his talents, even in the framed painting of an ocean above his bed—they all remind me of eyes that are dark and layered in ice, as though winter has encompassed his whole being. I hurriedly finish up like the very air is singeing me the longer I am in the vicinity.

I leave my final touch on the room by opening the curtains and allowing sunshine in. It coats the room in streaks of gold, its fire glittering on the frozen banks of a barren climate. I know the curtains will be closed again tomorrow. They always are.

THE STARS FILL THE SKY
with their light as I stare up at them, feeling small and insignificant. I lie on an old itchy blanket I found in the garage, ignoring how the rough fabric abrades my sensitive skin. This is what most of my nights consist of, but I like to do this. My mom has asked me repeatedly why I so often lie on the ground and watch the sky. I never have a real answer. It's peaceful, in a way, but it also reminds me of how majestic the world truly is, and how what happens to me and those around me doesn't alter anything in the sky. One day we will all be gone from this world, but the stars will still be here, no matter what. They are imperishable, even while we are not.

The tree limbs overhead sway with a gentle breeze, and around me are innumerable flowers in every shade imaginable. I love our backyard. It's my haven from the rest of the world. True, there are houses on either side of it, and even one farther behind it, but in the middle of it is a little piece of floral perfection. The uneven lines of trees and flowering bushes form a semblance of a natural gate around the yard, offering seclusion.

Not that I need it—the neighbors are used to my oddities and barely pay attention to me anymore. I don't think I could surprise them, with any of what they most likely perceive as shenanigans, if I tried. We live in an older community. I think the youngest neighbor we have is Mrs. Hendrickson, and she just turned sixty last week. I know because my mom had us take her a potted plant as a birthday present.

I close my eyes as a smile captures my lips. Focusing on my breathing, I draw air in and out of my lungs as my body melts into the lumpy ground beneath the blanket. Memories come to me in the sound of laughter, a feeling of contentment, and the scent of flowers on the breeze. That is what my childhood consisted of, and I miss it.

I may keep my distance from others, but I am in no way shy. I keep my distance because I've found that I am a better person when I have no one looking at me, making me feel like I need to prove something to them, like I need to show them I have worth. I know my worth and the only person I need to prove anything to is myself. I like to dance. I like to sing. I like to talk to birds and squirrels. And I don't care who sees it. I'm not saying I never cared, because when I was younger, yes, I cared. I cared too much and I was hurt because of it, but not anymore. In recent years, I embrace me, exactly as I am, and the rest of the world can screw off.

And isn't it weird that no one wants to change who they are, yet they aren't even trying to be themselves? Just a thought. We're all so focused on being somebody, and it's usually never the real us.

On the wind comes the crisp scent of growing vegetables. If green had a smell to describe it, that's what it would be—a garden of fruits and vegetables coming to life. It amazes me that a seed or a little piece of root can turn into something that keeps us alive. My mom likes that even vegetables and fruits produce flowers. Every summer we plant a garden. I watch it grow, nursing it, caring for it, and am reminded again and again how even something tiny can be needed to live. It's never about how much you have—it's about how much what you have means to you.