CHAPTER 5
In the beginning his lips were warm, supple yet firm, as they pressed against mine. But his mouth became steadily more demanding, and his hand became more forceful upon me as he pulled me closer to him. I was caught up in the warmth and pleasure of his kiss, ensnared within the whirlwind of emotions and passion that sprang forth. Engulfed by the tempest his exquisite, desperate kiss created as his tongue entwined with mine.
I didn't know what he was desperate for, but I sensed the full force of his desperation beneath the rolling joy and passion swirling rapidly between us, escalating higher and higher until I was certain it was going to consume us both. I found I didn't care if it did. I only wanted to ease the passionate need I sensed simmering so fiercely beneath his calm facade.
Why he would need or desire me, I didn't know and I didn't care. Not right now. I was too entangled in the astonishing sensations encompassing me to care. His arm encircled my waist as he lifted me against him and held me firm against his chest. I had never felt like this before, never experienced something so fantastic, and joyous, and right. And it was so very right; it was as if everything in the world, no matter how awful and horrible it was, would be ok. I had found a place to belong, a place of safety within his arms. As long as I was here, and he was here, I would survive. We would survive.
Then something else began to happen. Something within my mind began to unravel, opening before me like a morning glory to daybreak. Memories spilled forth, engulfing me as they spiraled rapidly beyond my control. Memories I’d buried years ago, because that was where I preferred them. Memories of that horrible day. A day that, until this one, I had never thought could be topped as far as terror and devastation went.
I had been trapped, upside down, pinned by the twisted metal of the car. Stuck within the backseat I could do nothing more than stare at the broken body of my father in front of me. In the beginning he’d been awake, he’d asked about me and tried to calm me, but as time dragged on, and more blood was lost, he'd stopped speaking.
It had been awful, horrendous. So awful I’d been too numb to cry, too engulfed by melancholy to understand what was going on. I was only nine, the most I knew of death was the small ceremonies we'd held to bury our pets in the backyard. I didn't know much of death, but I knew the exact instant when my father left me. I knew the man I loved more than anything was not coming back to me, and I still didn't cry. I'd been trapped within the wreck for hours, unable to break free no matter how hard I tried before they found us.
It had taken another hour for the rescuers to free me from the car. During that hour they’d draped a sheet over my father, not to protect me from seeing him, it was too late for that. They’d done it because they were unable to handle the sight of his ruined body, especially in front of his eerily composed and somewhat unnerving young daughter.
I didn't cry that day, or the following three. I didn't speak either. I didn't talk about what I had seen, what it had been like to be imprisoned, unable to break free, while I listened to the sound of my father's blood dripping against the roof. I didn't talk about the how his small moans of suffering, moans he’d tried to stifle from me, haunted my every moment.
I didn't mention the awful silence and desolation that had engulfed me when those moans had stopped. I was left with only the endlessly dripping blood, and the horrifying realization my father was gone. I had been unable to tell him I loved him just once more before he left me. I told no one about any of it, not even my mother, who even through her own grief was more concerned about my wellbeing than her own.
That was the main reason I didn't cry. I didn't want her to know how badly I was damaged, how haunted and tormented I was. I wanted her to believe I was strong; I would be ok. I wanted her to believe that no matter what had happened she wouldn't have to worry about me too. I was fine. I was brave. I would survive, no matter how distraught and broken I really was.
It wasn't until the day of the funeral that I finally cried, and thankfully my mother hadn't been there to see it. But Cade had.
The funeral had been over but I was still wearing the small black dress my mother had picked out for me. Abby and Aiden, also dressed in black, hadn't been as stoic as me throughout the ceremony. They had wept openly. My lack of crying wasn't missed by the people and at the reception after I was the main topic of conversation. Though they whispered, and thought they were keeping their words from me, I wasn't as gone as they seemed to think.
I didn't catch it all, but I caught enough to know their hushed words weren't truly heartfelt, but merely more gossip for them to banter about. Was there something wrong with me? Had the accident ruined me? Had I always been a cold child? Had they somehow managed to miss my oddness until now, when it was so blatantly obvious?
I'd slipped out of the house, eager to escape the oppressive heat of our home and their phony concern. There was a large, beautiful garden to the right of the house that my mom had been forced to sell the following year. The garden had been my mother's pride and joy, filled with flowers, strange plants, and the enticing scent of roses and lavender. In the far back corner there had been a wooden bench tucked beneath the drooping boughs of a giant willow. I made my way to that bench.
I sat there for hours, my hands folded before me as I watched bees buzzing lazily about, and butterflies flitting from here to there. I tried not to think about anything, tried not to break under the weight of my mourning as it threatened to consume me. I don't know how long I sat there before I felt the presence of someone else. I lifted my head, blinking against the sun drifting lower in the sky. It took a few seconds to spot the young boy who had wandered into the garden; astonishment filled me when I recognized Cade.
Up until a couple of years ago, Cade had been good friends with Aiden and I had always liked him. Unlike Aiden's other friends he had never tried to push me away, never called me names, and had not found me annoying, or tried to ditch me. He'd always invited me to play with them, always been kind and gentle. He'd exhibited endless patience with me, even when he'd taught me how to fish and I had insisted on throwing them all back. Aiden had vehemently protested it. Cade had simply done as I'd asked without a word of complaint and an understanding smile that had melted my young heart.
Then, when I was seven and Cade was eight, his parent's were killed in a home robbery gone wrong. Cade had been fortunate enough to be at a friend's house when the murders occurred. He was placed into foster care after, and though he still lived in our town, he didn't live near us anymore. His friendship with Aiden ended abruptly after, and he'd stopped coming to our house nearly every day. He became distant and unfriendly toward us as he took to moving callously, and methodically, through his life. At his parent's funeral the caring friend I'd known, and loved, had ignored me when I tried to convey my sympathy over his awful loss. I'd tried to speak to him twice after, but he'd walked right past me. Rejected and confused, I had given up trying to reach out to him.
And then, two years later, Cade with two parents gone and me with one, he was suddenly standing before me again. He was taller than the last time he'd been at my house, lankier, and already becoming one of the most handsome and sought after boys in school. Yet, that wasn’t the person standing before me in the garden. This person was different. This person wasn't just a mere boy, not anymore. I now understood that though Cade still looked like a boy, he’d already stopped being one. He had become a man two years ago when his parents were so viciously taken away from him. Fate had seen fit to spare him, but longing and sorrow remained in his surprisingly wise eyes.
For the first time I understood why Cade didn't smile, laugh, talk and play with us anymore. I understood that though I may do those things again someday, I would never do them in the same way I’d done them just four days ago. For the first time, I understood that though Abby and Aiden had also lost a parent, they didn't share what Cade and I did. They didn't have to live with the burden of having been spared, when they should have died.
My siblings would never wish
they’d been home too, so maybe they could have done something to stop it like Cade did. They would never wish they had been able to warn our dad about the deer sooner, before it had been too late to stop the car. They would never feel guilt over being the ones to survive, when they shouldn't have. When we shouldn't have.
Cade sat beside me in the fading light of what had been a beautiful early summer day. We didn't speak as an hour, and then two, slipped by. The sunset lit up the sky with a myriad of beautiful colors that should have been uplifting, but somehow only made me sadder. My father would never see such a beautiful sunset again. I shouldn't have been there to see it, but I was.
Seeming to sense my growing distress, Cade's fingers slid into mine and something began to ease inside of me. I felt at home, I didn't feel so ashamed and devastated with him beside me, holding me. For the first time in days I didn't feel guilty, I wasn't consumed by self-hatred. I didn't close my eyes and see the broken body of my father. The nightmares causing me to wake, screaming soundlessly every night, didn't even seem so bad right now. With him holding my hand I didn't feel like I was going to fall apart, shattering like a dropped piece of glass if I moved the wrong way. For the first time, I almost felt a small measure of peace again.
"It's ok to cry." His voice was soft as the sun slipped beyond the horizon.
And for the first and last time, I did. I didn't sob loudly or completely fall apart. I didn't scream and rail against the heavens, or fate, as I had worried every second of the past few days I would. Instead, I wept soundlessly as all the anguish and shame steadily poured from my broken heart. He wrapped his arm around me and pulled me against his side. Cradling my head, he didn't tell me to stop, didn't tell me it would all be all right, didn't offer me the same false words everyone else had over the past few days. He simply held and comforted me in a way I’d never been held, or comforted, before.
It was nightfall before my tears finally subsided and I lay spent against him. I could feel the rigid press of his ribs against my cheek; hear the solid beat of his heart. The crickets were out, an owl hooted somewhere in the distance, and though it was growing cooler neither of us moved. I needed him and his understanding. I had to know I wasn't as hated as I felt. In those moments, I needed him more than I had ever needed anything in my life. I was not going to be the first one to pull away.
It was another hour before my front door opened and light spilled across the large front porch. People had been steadily leaving all day, but no one had noticed us under the shelter of the willow tree. There were still a few cars in the drive, but I knew it wasn't one of their owners stepping outside now.
"Bethany! Bethy are you out here?" I longed to stay hidden away and remain secure in Cade's arms all night. The last thing I felt like doing was returning to that house, with all of its loving memories, and reminders of things lost, with all of the enclosed spaces that seemed menacing to me after the car accident. "Bethany where are you?"
The edge of hysteria in her voice roused me from my cocoon of understanding and support. She had just lost her husband, and she was terrified she was losing me. I hadn't understood it at the time, but my mother had known I was standing on a thin precipice about to crumble from beneath me. She had worried she would lose me forever, and she hadn't known how to stop it from happening. Only Cade had.
"Bethany!" Her voice broke, the 'any' part of my name came out as more of a sob then a shout.
"Here mom!" I called, unable to bear the thought of her crying again, at least not over me. Though, she had already cried plenty of times for me. "I'm right here!"
"Where?"
"The garden. I'll be right in!"
She didn't call for me again, but she didn't go inside either. She stood in the doorway, waiting patiently for her wayward, broken child. Cade squeezed my hand; I sensed the loss filling him, the regret and sadness holding him captive. He wrapped his hand around the back of my head. Pulling me to him, he kissed my forehead with a note of goodbye that caused the last of my tears to fall.
"One day Bethany the nightmares will not plague you, the hurt will not be all encompassing, and you will be able to breathe again. It does get better, I can promise you that much."
I nodded; he was the first person who had told me this that I actually believed. I put faith in his words because he knew; he understood how I felt more than anyone else possibly could. Over time, through the therapy my mom forced me into, and because of the enduring love of my family, friends, and my own growing understanding of the world and myself, things had gotten better. Just as he had promised they would. But back then, his promise was the only thing I had to count on in those early hours, days, and weeks. The only thing I had to cling to in order to keep some grip on the world surrounding me, in order to keep on breathing.
"Bethany!" my mom called again, impatience and anxiety evident in her voice.
"I have to go." He nodded, pulled me close to him and kissed me ever so tenderly again but this time on the mouth. I stared at him in awe; my lips trembled as I was jolted by the impact of his warm lips upon mine. I had just received my first kiss, and it had been so delightfully sweet and uplifting. It had been everything I’d ever dreamed it would be, even on that hideously bleak night, and it had been with him. "Goodnight Cade."
He managed a small smile; his black eyes gleamed in the increasing moonlight as he released me. My legs were shaking from his lingering effect on me as I made my way out from under the tree. "Goodbye Bethany," I thought I heard him whisper.
When I glanced back I could just barely make him out on the bench, watching me as I walked to the house. Over the next few weeks I kept expecting him to reappear, I would even go to the garden and wait for him, but he never did. I would see him in school, but I was too shy to approach him after being rebuked before, and he didn't approach me. Then, as time slipped by, and the normal routine of life once again took hold, I stopped waiting for him to reappear, and eventually forgot about that night.
Until now.
Now I was swarmed by the memory, the emotions, the loss, and the peace he’d given me on that long ago night. And once again, I was crying.