The Healing (The Things We Can't Change Book 3) (37 page)

“Anyway,” he continues significantly, though in too-calm of a voice, “it makes me feel like a, a traitor to her. I was her big brother. I was supposed to protect her, especially since my dad pretty much wouldn’t give either of us the time of day. Instead, I made her use the freaking crosswalk to keep her ‘safe,’ and she died. I failed her. Over and over and over again. And now I’m failing her just as much, if not more, in my dreams.”

He falls silent, taking a swipe at his eyes, though he tries to disguise it as something else, scratching at his head in the same movement so it looks more natural.

I take a deep breath, because if he has enough energy left, I know Zeke will protest this hotly, even though I know it has to be said. “Did you ever think that these new dreams are, are a way of you telling yourself that it’s time for you to let Cindy go? That there was nothing you more you could have done?”

Just as I’d thought, Zeke’s head pops upward and he stares at me incredulously. “What? What do you mean, let her go?”

I pause for a moment, praying for the right words to explain, not upset him more. “You’re… clinging to her, Zeke,” I finally begin slowly. “So hard. Keeping her floating over you, allowing her to influence and dictate every decision you make, how you think, what you do with your time. You don’t draw in order to honor her memory, even though she
wanted
you to do it. That’s
dis
honorable to her. You need to let her go. To accept that she’s gone and never coming back, and then once you do, you move on.”

“No!” He jumps up once more and starts pacing in front of me again, swinging his arms back and forth as he shakes his head.

“
Yes
,” I say vehemently. “You need to
feel
it, Zeke. You need to cry your eyes out, to grieve and feel the loss and pain and everything you’ve been pushing away. You need to find a way to let her go and then
do
it.”

“I don’t want to feel
anything
!” he shouts the words, but when he whirls around to face me, I see the betraying wetness in his eyes. They’re bright and shiny against the yellow streetlamps, and I know I’m getting to him despite himself.

I stand up to even the playing field, even if he still has a head and shoulders on me when we stand side by side. Every inch counts.

“You can’t live like that,” I say softly, cajoling. “No one can live like that, Zeke. Not for very long. Grieving is natural. It’s part of life. People come and go from our lives, and you shouldn’t let that keep you from
living
life. From loving other people and feeling things.”

He doesn’t say anything, and I venture a few steps closer, taking a deep breath. Then I say firmly but not unkindly, “Cindy is
gone
, Zeke. I know that it’s terrible. I know it’s awful, and it’s like a piece of you is missing. A piece of your body, a piece of your heart. But you need to feel it and let her
go
, Zeke.”

“I can’t!” It’s a sob, a broken one that makes my own heart hurt and without thinking, I take the last step to him and throw my arms around Zeke, standing on tiptoe to reach around his shoulders.

I pat his back, going on instinct more than thought as he begins sobbing into my shoulder. “I don’t want to let her go. I like having her around. I can’t leave her for good, Evie, I can’t.”

“You can,” I whisper. “You can, Zeke. You just have to feel it, and figure out how to let go.”

“I don’t… want… to lose her.” He’s hiccupping because he’s crying so hard now, and I take a few steps back, guiding Zeke along with me so we’re back at the porch steps, and he takes my lead as we sink down to the steps.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, over and over again as I keep one arm around his shoulders and guide his head to my lap. “It’s okay, Zeke. It’s okay.”

Twenty minutes later my left leg is tingling and numb and I have a crick in my neck. The top step is digging into my spine but I refuse to move because Zeke is still crying in my lap and I’m still rubbing circles on his back, making soothing noises to him. I hold him until he falls asleep, and I don’t let go, even as the sun comes up.

Ezekiel

76

I wake up to find my body stiff from sleeping hunched over for almost two hours, and a bleary-eyed Evie right above me, mechanically still moving her hand comfortingly over my back. If she didn’t already look half asleep, I would have felt a lot more embarrassed about the whole night, but she just waves to me that it’s all right and I wipe my eyes and go get her keys and shoes, since she’s swaying even as she stands.

I worry a little bit as I watch her get into her car, wondering if she’s all right to drive, but she pulls away sedately, waving goodbye through the darkly tinted windows of the Charger and saying she can go to her Uncle Greg’s to sleep, since he should be home soon. It’s not far, just in Dublin near her dad’s office, so I don’t worry for long.

After she leaves and I take a nap, I spend most of Saturday and all of Sunday morning thinking about everything she said to me, the words she delivered firmly, wanting me to believe them. I have to admit, now that I’ve been on the receiving end of this, all her reactions when I did the same to her make more sense. It’s the same infuriating catch, I
know
everything she said is true, but that doesn’t mean I can make myself believe it all.

She keeps telling me that I need to let Cindy go, accept that she’s gone and just
deal
with it. I do feel like I’ve dealt with it. I cried my eyes out, and I’ve never done that before, not even when my mom left because I was too busy holding Cindy while she cried. The problem is that all summer, I’ve enjoyed have Cindy’s ghost hanging over me. Not enjoyed, really, but… kept her around. Just like someone being haunted, refusing to let go because I still wanted her around, I allowed her to hang over me and affect everything I did and said, how I felt and reacted.

And Evie is right. It’s not good, it’s not right, and it’s not fair, to me or to Cindy’s memory. For the first time, I allow myself to consider that ridiculous question that is asked every time someone is suffering from loss;
would they have wanted you to be like this? To mourn and be sad and refuse to let go or move on?

No. Cindy would have hated to see me like this. She would have. She didn’t like that I stopped drawing; hated it, in fact. She always wanted me to draw, was just as fascinated with my ability to create pictures as I was with her dancing. We’d both been in awe of each other’s talents, and for the first time, I smile as I think of how far the two of us could have gone together. For two people who always had nothing, we were rich in our abilities and in the fact that we had each other.

Evie is right; drawing doesn’t betray Cindy. It honors her and her memory. And I need to learn how to make peace with that, to accept it and move on from the guilt, the way that Evie had to learn to escape Tony’s control.

I sit there on the edge of my bed, stunned at the decision, at my own thoughts. Maybe Evie is right. Maybe it finally is time to move on and start living again, the same way I’ve been urging her to do. Once again, I’m struck by the similarities in what we’re going through, just as Evie said once, how it seems to be fate. Fate that we keep getting thrust into each other’s lives at the exact moment when we need each other so badly.

It doesn’t seem enough to just calmly accept the fact that I need to move on. I feel like I need some symbol of it, some word or deed that will affirm it. I think to how Evie told me she published the post I had read, about the darkness inside of her, and how much better she felt afterward, and how she threw out all of the clothes Tony had liked, or held bad memories for her. All symbolic, outward gestures reflecting what was going on inside her, cementing it all, making it real.

And all of the sudden, it comes to me. I quickly turn and reach over the bed for the small sketchpad and set of charcoals that Evie got for me and set to work, fingers flying over the page before the idea loses its hold on me and its vivid imagery in my mind. It’s hard; I have to force it out of my mind and onto the page, fight back more guilt, and I’m reminded, again, of what I told Evie:
I know it doesn’t feel good, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t good for you.
I hold onto that, because I know it’s true.

Finally, it’s done, and even though my breath is coming quickly, even though I’m feeling every damn thing—guilt, sorrow, despair, loss, anger—I let it happen. I let it all course through me, close my eyes and
feel
it. And then I get up and leave the house, heading down Grandview Avenue toward Fifth, just like I’ve been doing every single day this summer.

I have to stop at the bridge where I used to hang out nonstop with Cameron, because it gives me another idea. I sit there for half an hour, struggling to get it just right on the page. I want it to be perfect when I show Evie, because I know she’ll be nervous at the idea, and this is going to be what sells her on it. It’s been years since I’ve done any kind of cursive writing, but I finally get warmed up with the style and come up with something I know she’ll like. Then I continue on down Riverside Drive until I get to her house. I’m relieved when I see the Charger parked in the driveway—Uncle Greg must have already been by to take care of the lock situation.

It takes almost a full minute for Evie to answer the door after I ring the doorbell, and her face is surprised when she’s see me standing there, though it turns into a puzzled smile when she notices the sketchbook in my hand.

“Hey,” she says, swinging the door open a little wider. “A little early for work, aren’t you? You have like, sixteen hours, you know.”

“I know,” I say quickly, and all of the sudden my palms are sweating, because it’s still weird to talk about all of this so openly and it makes my heart race. I also don’t know what she’ll think of this idea but I’m determined. “I just have something I need to do, and I was hoping you would come with me. I need some… moral support.”

“Of course.” She answers without hesitation, smiling reassuringly at me because I think she can tell that I’m nervous. “Where are we going?”

“Easier to show than tell,” I say, because I don’t want her to back out, especially when she so readily accepts the idea. “But it’s too… I figured out how I want to say goodbye. To Cindy.”

Evie doesn’t say a word, just studies me for a moment and then disappears from the doorway, returning a moment later with her purse and a pair of car keys, which she hands to me. She steps out onto the porch, pulling the front door closed behind her and then gestures.

“Lead the way.”

Evangeline

77

I don’t know where we’re going, but I know the look on Zeke’s face is serious, and if the sketchbook in his hands means he’s been drawing, then I know it’s very important and so I follow him without question. I begin to have second thoughts, however, when he pulls into a parking space directly in front of a tattoo parlor in Hilliard, another neighboring suburb to Grandview.

“Um,” I begin cautiously, as Zeke unbuckles his seatbelt and looks over at me. “Not that I’m protesting, but this…”

“Isn’t really your scene?” he asks with a grin, and the air of nervousness that surrounded him earlier is gone, replaced by teasing at my discomfort, and also a strange air of excitement. “Don’t worry, I won’t let any of the big, bad biker guys kidnap you. It’s just a tattoo parlor, Evie.”

“I know that,” I say, scowling, and get out of the car when he does. “And I know it’s not all Harley-riding guys that get tattoos. Jeez. I’ve just… never been inside one before.”

“Well, this is the time in our lives when we start to experience new things,” Zeke says prosaically, and I glare at him.

“Thanks, Ghandi,” I snap, and then look nervously at the door he’s holding open for me, and at the dim light within.

“Oh, come
on
.” Zeke sighs in exasperation and yet again, pushes me through the doorway, though he keeps a reassuring hand on the small of my back and enters right after me.

My eyes take a moment to adjust from the bright sunlight to the dimness within, and before I can catch my bearings, I hear two deep male voices call out Zeke’s last name, and he disappears from my side and crosses the room. Blinking rapidly, I watch as he exchanges bro hugs with two guys, one as tall as he is with the same dark skin, though soft brown eyes opposed to Zeke’s ghost-like green ones.

The other guy is Asian and I get a small feeling of comfort that there is someone else in the room nearly as small as me, opposed to these tall, strongly built boys. The difference, however, is that the Asian guy is covered in tattoos, arms completely inked and from what I can see underneath his white v-neck shirt, his entire chest as well.

I stand awkwardly in the doorway, waiting to be noticed once again and watching as Zeke exchanges greetings and news with the two guys. He looks more excited and alive than I’ve seen him in a while, and even though I’m feeling extremely out of place, I’m glad to see him so relaxed and
happy
for a change. Finally, he seems to remember me and tows both the guys in my direction, and I summon up my country club smile to cover up the awkwardness I’m feeling.