Pearls of wisdom by Ms. Hove:
Feelings are tricky! Sometimes the most difficult thing about feelings can be the act of sharing them with others. The first step is to figure out what your emotions are. If something is bothering you, write it down, draw a picture, identify when it is you feel this emotion. Then, when you’re ready, talk with someone who cares about you.
Keeping your emotions bottled up inside is unhealthy! And in some cases, it can even cause physical harm.
The snow fell soft as fairy dust outside her window. Underneath, bright green blades of grass poked through defiantly.
Her mother had only just left with strict orders to rest. She’d also delivered yet another gift, an oversized stuffed panda holding an equally oversized rainbow-swirl lollipop. Naps and candy; was it possible her mother still thought of her as a pig-tailed, sugar-addicted four-year-old?
The panda was cute, though. Who didn’t like pandas?
The irony of the current situation was not lost on her. A few short months before, it had been Ramona’s mental health that was in question. Now her mother was forced to assume the role of parent, nursing her daughter back to health. Oddly enough, she appeared to be enjoying it, showering Vivien with gifts and spending nearly every minute at her side (the law firm could live without her; her only daughter could not).
Even now, flowers filled her bedroom, the smell luring all who entered into hopes of an early spring. Her favorite was from Declan, a small bouquet of dried orange blossoms, which smelled heavenly. He’d been apologetic about not giving her the real thing, but maintaining an orange tree in a northern climate had seemed rather impractical.
Gift bags lined the window seat: a pink striped Victoria’s Secret bag full of cute and sexy lounge wear (absolutely essential during a convalescence) and five brightly colored thongs (they were on sale, five for twenty-five); a black-and-white Sephora bag full of makeup (because when you’re feeling blue, nothing’s better than a gold bronzer compact and lip gloss that actually plumps your lips—it did, Ramona attested, she’d sampled one at the store). And the gifts went on and on, spilling over the ledge and onto the paisley recliner that had been delivered by Pottery Barn last week.
Months of recuperating had brought with them a vast library of books, crafts, and CDs. Her bed was littered with every available gossip magazine, and often, in the evenings, Ramona would plop herself down, eager to discuss the ramifications of so-and-so’s recent split or a young starlet’s unfortunate cellulite bikini photos. Vivien would lie next to her, only half listening but relishing her mother’s newfound interest in her. Ever since her little mishap their relationship had been conflict-free, steady—pleasurable even. Of course, she realized part of this was due to her “fragile state,” but she liked to believe that this would be a change that would carry on indefinitely.
Change was in the air, in fact, with Ramona’s spur-of-the-moment engagement to Ricardo and the hasty departure from the apartment on East Hollow into the giant custom-built house on the outskirts of town. A wedding date had yet to be announced, but Ramona was already pushing for June. In addition, they’d pulled Vivien out of school. She needed to be in a calm environment, and Eastbrook had proven to be anything but.
“The school’s standards have dropped considerably,” Ramona had declared.
Now Vivien had a tutor and would be homeschooled for the remainder of the year. But her main assignment was making a full recovery. What her exact diagnosis happened to be was currently under debate.
“I am hesitant,” the doctor had explained to Ramona and Ricardo, after the initial tests had been run, “to say what her prognosis will be at this juncture. The majority of our patients who suffer mild to moderate head injuries tend to do very well. And of course she has youth on her side, which is always a considerable advantage. What worries me a bit is the rather significant presence of memory loss. This could be due in part to the violent nature of her injury—the psychological aspect of the trauma, if you will. We’ll keep her here for observation over the next few days, a week at the most, but I highly recommend beginning a rehabilitation program immediately.”
The brief synopsis was that Vivien had sustained a moderate TBI (traumatic brain injury), scoring a 12 on the Glasgow Coma Scale, a number that was just on the border of moderate to mild. Skull and neck x-rays revealed several small linear bone fractures but no spinal instability. A CT scan had been ordered within hours and she was found to have what the doctor referred to as an intracerebral hematoma (bleeding within the brain tissue). Fortunately the collection of blood was not significant and surgical removal was not required.
Ramona had chosen to reveal only the bare minimum to her daughter, keeping the amnesia hidden for fear of upsetting her. Vivien had merely been told that some memory loss was normal after a concussion, and soon enough she’d be back to normal. Of course, they’d had to fabricate a story to explain how the injury had occurred in the first place. In the end they came up with a plausible tale about crossing the street at night. In order to dodge a cyclist, Vivien had mis-stepped, hitting her head on the curb as she fell.
Vivien had accepted this story without question, and although she was aware there were things she could not remember, she did not feel overly anxious about it. Dutifully she attended all her outpatient rehab sessions and never missed a single homework assignment her speech and physical therapists gave her.
Carefully Vivien extricated the lollipop from the panda’s paw and scrunched the bear up behind her. Not only was it adorable, it made a pretty comfortable pillow.
She lay back and stared up at the ceiling. No matter how exhausted, she never could fall asleep in the middle of the day. But naps were a good time to think. And lately she’d been doing a lot of thinking.
Three months had passed since her fall. And she had to wonder if she was making any real progress. She was still having headaches, and oftentimes food had a strange taste, or no taste at all. More frightening were the times she felt disoriented and had trouble finding the right words. She bumped into things a lot (way more than her former, klutzy self had) and often dropped objects for no apparent reason. Sometimes she would forget an event that had happened only a half hour ago, and her mother and Ricardo would have to repeat themselves constantly. These episodes made her feel stupid and embarrassed, and she was thankful that she could experience them in private rather than in front of her classmates at Eastbrook.
Thank goodness she had Declan. He was a natural caregiver—whenever Ramona let him come over, that is. Her mother had been vigilant to the extreme at first, allowing no one to see her in the hospital save Ricardo and herself. Even now Ramona was basically keeping her sequestered, save the biweekly trips to the therapist. She’d even changed Vivien’s cell phone number and cancelled her Facebook account, all in the name of caring for her mental health.
“The doctors said to ease back into things,” Ramona had told her, “And that’s exactly what you’re going to do. I don’t want any of those Eastbrook kids coming around and upsetting you.”
Luckily for her, Declan had other plans and he, Nathan, and Lauren would sneak in on a regular basis whenever her mother was out. At first, the visits had been awkward, for Nathan and Lauren especially. They seemed to have trouble knowing just what to say. This had surprised her, for she hardly considered her condition serious. Nathan always had an opinion and she’d grown accustomed to hearing it whether asked for or not. Eventually, however, everybody had loosened up and the conversation flowed more naturally.
She was forced to admit that Nathan was growing on her. They were able to talk in private one afternoon while Declan and Lauren went downstairs to make popcorn. He’d come right out and apologized for acting like a jerk around her, explaining that he’d never hurt Lauren or take advantage of her in any way and had no intention of doing so in the future. He said this earnestly and with an uncharacteristic trace of humility and she’d had no other choice than to take him at his word. She, too, apol
ogized for jumping to the wrong conclusion. She’d been shocked and unnerved by what she’d seen at Riley’s and she supposed she’d let her imagination run away with her. She hadn’t acted fairly. Declan and Lauren had returned to find the two laughing over one of Nathan’s crude anecdotes and both were noticeably taken aback by the newfound chumminess.
Through long talks with Lauren, Vivien had learned that Nathan did in fact hold her purse for her while she shopped her weekly circuit around the mall. Not only did he hold her purse, he was quite verbal in her selections and was not above roaming the racks himself to bring her the perfect killer outfit.
These were her favorite times, the times when the four of them were together. She got sad when she suddenly remembered that graduation was just around the corner and soon they might be going their separate ways. Both Declan and Nathan were waiting to hear about lacrosse scholarships from several colleges. And of course, Lauren would finish her senior year at Eastbrook. But what did the future hold for her? Both her mother and Ricardo were dead set against her going back there.
When she really thought about it, she couldn’t escape the sense that something wasn’t right. And to make matters worse, whatever it was would give her the slip just when she was on the verge of grasping it. Completely innocuous things would bring it on, like the time Ramona had brought home sushi takeout and, despite being ravenous, she couldn’t eat a single bite. Or the fact that she had absolutely no tolerance for smoking. The smell brought on waves of claustrophobia.
She didn’t know what to do about this. So far, she’d kept these episodes to herself, but they had begun to weigh on her and she’d decided she was going to tell Declan when the chance came up. She might, if she was patient, catch that ghost all on her own. But facing life’s challenges by herself was something she’d had to do in the past. Things were different now. Why go it alone when she had Declan?
Holed up in his room after dinner, fingers poised over the keyboard, Declan found his mind wandering. He had a three-page government paper he needed to crank out in the next couple of hours. But he couldn’t concentrate.
He was always thinking. Of her. Of…him. Of everything that had happened.
The weeks immediately after had been nothing short of pure hell, thanks to the screwball mom. She’d forbidden him or any of Vivien’s friends from seeing her in the hospital, acting as if it was somehow their fault she’d ended up in there. Then, when she was finally out, the two of them just packed up and left—no goodbyes, no forwarding address, nothing!
He’d nearly lost his mind. Pacing his room, ranting and raving until his parents suggested he might want to see some kind of counselor. That settled him down. A little. He wrote her letters, poured out his heart and soul, ripped the letters up and then taped them back together. Even weirder, he slept with her sweatshirt. Since he’d literally been barred from seeing her, he hadn’t been able to return the suitcase she’d left in Patrick’s room. So he’d emptied it, sifting through her things like a thief. The sweatshirt was soft. It smelled like Vivien and vanilla cupcakes.
At last he’d been able to get through to Mrs. Allen and talk some sense into her. She’d only been scared, she told him. She wanted to protect Vivien. Understandable, all considering.
The first time seeing Vivien, he’d been so nervous he could hardly speak. Had no idea what to expect, didn’t want to upset her, accidentally say the wrong thing. Their conversations were excruciating. She remembered nothing. For her, Christophe Laval had never existed; she’d simply repressed the whole thing. Apparently this was normal in cases of severe trauma, he’d been told. He’d also been told—make that warned—under no circumstances was he to bring it up. It was imperative to Vivien’s mental well-being that nothing was forced. She had to remember all on her own. When the time was right. If ever.
And he had to admit, he’d struggled. He liked things neat and tidy. All this not knowing, this tiptoeing around, it was a stretch for him. How were they to move forward when they could never go back? How was it possible to build a relationship with those nagging loose ends? It seemed reckless, like crossing over freshly frozen water. While the ice looked solid on the surface, every footstep left you wondering if you might just crash through. Some days he could barely stand it. He could feel himself unraveling and he’d have to make some kind of excuse to leave. This always seemed to confuse her. It was torture.
Nights of tossing and turning brought little relief. He couldn’t stop it, just replayed that horrible night over and over again in his head. He never even got to hear her side of the story. She’d tried, that night in Nathan’s car. But he’d stopped her. Unable to listen to anything but the voice inside his head, the one that had screamed bloody murder. He’d felt on the verge of losing control, like a killer himself. And the feeling had terrified him, made him question his faith and everything he cared about. What kind of doctor wants to end a life rather than save it?
The whole episode had brought all kinds of ugly feelings to the surface. After reading Lauren’s note, he’d been furious. And then, discovering that Vivien had been seeing that sick-o on a regular basis, sharing a part of her that she’d consciously kept from him, he’d been crazy jealous. But those feelings had faded with time and hours of somber reflection, and he’d finally regained his senses. Why be jealous of a twisted relationship? Christophe had used her love of music to get to her. He’d preyed on her soft spot, the gaping hole left by her asshole dad as a parting gift. And then he’d made that hole deeper by filling her head with nonsense, telling her love was longing without end. Love was death.
Pure crap. The intensity they’d shared was the wrong kind. Need fueled by fear was not love.
What truly haunted him was imagining what had gone down in that cabin. Before he and Nathan got there. He prayed to God Looney Tunes hadn’t done anything worse than smashing her on the back of the head. If he so much as touched her…
He wished with all his heart that Christophe Laval—or whatever the hell his name was—had never set foot in East Lake Pines. It was almost as if the guy had had a personal vendetta against him, stealing his girlfriend and then…there was Cocoa. They’d finally found her—frozen stiff, poor thing—under a row of snow-covered hedges in the corner of the backyard. It was unclear what had killed her. But he knew.
Unfortunately, they’d never found him. His truck, yes. Some old lady came across it, abandoned, in the middle of her husband’s cornfield. There’d been a significant amount of blood inside, the police had said. All medical facilities in the area had been thoroughly searched, in conjunction with a door-to-door manhunt. Nothing. The only plausible conclusion was that the psychopath had crawled off and died in the frigid temperatures. If this was so, he hoped it had been a slow and painful death.
All the same, he would’ve preferred to see the body for himself—one hundred percent dead. The possibility that he could still be alive was so objectionable he could only consider it for the briefest of moments.
With a yawn, he arched his back and stretched. The blank screen stared back at him. Shit. He pulled out his phone and checked his messages. Now he remembered. There’d been a call earlier. Some detective guy wanting to talk to him. But enough was enough; he didn’t want to answer any more questions about Frenchie.
Yet now he suddenly changed his mind. If nothing else, it was something to do besides writing a paper.
“Detective Finch,” the voice barked in his ear.
“Hello. This is Declan Mieres. You left me a message?”
There was a pause. “Yes. That’s right. I did. Listen,” he said, clearing his throat, “I have something here. We found something…in the cabin.”
Declan stiffened.
“The cabin up in Whispering Pines,” Finch clarified needlessly. “My partner came across a letter. I believe it was meant for you.”
The news startled him and he could think of no reply.
“It’s of…ah…a personal nature,” the
detective continued. “Nothing to do with the case, really. So I thought you might like to have it.”
“Yes…OK. Should I come up there? For the letter, I mean?”
“That won’t be necessary. That’s why I called. I’m in town—about to head out in the next few minutes, as a matter of fact. But I can drop by and give it to you in person if you’re home.”
“Yes, I’m home. You’re sure it isn’t any trouble?”
“Not at all,” he chuckled. “I remember what it was like to be young. Believe me, there’s nothing quite like the first one. You’ll remember her forever.”
Declan hesitated, the unsolicited wisdom hitting a nerve. He wasn’t about to forget her. When he thought of his future, he always pictured her right there with him. He hadn’t told her yet, but Notre Dame had come through with an offer too good to refuse. Needless to say, his parents—his dad especially—had been ecstatic. It was what he’d wanted since he was a kid. But things were different now. And he found himself holding out hope that the local university would come up with an equally competitive offer. Even three hours from Vivien was three too many. “Well, thanks. I’ll give you my address.”
“No need. I’ve got it already.”
“Oh. Right. I didn’t think of that.”
“Give me fifteen minutes,” the detective said. There was a click and the line cut.
True to his word, within fifteen minutes, the detective had the letter safely in Declan’s hands. Not much of a letter, as it turned out. More of a note. A lengthy scrawl slanted across a page ripped from the bible, of all things.
The handwriting was Vivien’s. When had she written this? His heart was racing before he could even begin. He took a deep breath.
Declan,
You may not ever get the chance to read this, but I have to get it down on paper anyway. My head is spinning. And the circles keep taking me back to you. I wanted so much to be perfect for you—even though you told me not to. Sometimes, I’m not the best listener. I was so afraid of losing you that I never let myself have you in the first place. If that makes any sense. Anyway, I see your point now. I finally get it. The sad part is that it’s too late. I’ve messed things up way beyond repair. So I want to tell you how sorry I am. I never meant to hurt you like I did. I also want to tell you that you are and always will be the only one for me. It’s going to look bad, when you find out everything. But would you believe me if I said I made a mistake? Sort of a big one, I know. If I could just go back in time and do it all over again…Well, I’m paying for it now. I’m so scared. If I had one last wish, it would be for you to hold me in your arms. From the very beginning, the only thing you asked for was the truth.
I love you.
Now you know.
Declan had to read it three times as some of the writing had bled into the print underneath. When he was finished, he let his hand fall, the page dropping to the floor. He stared off at nothing, picturing her frightened, desperate, the distinct possibility that she wasn’t going to make it out of there alive running through her mind as she scribbled down her thoughts. And those thoughts were of him.
He broke into a foolish grin. He felt giddy, like the time he’d gone around emptying every last swallow from unattended champagne glasses half a dozen Christmases ago. Before he could stop himself, he was dialing her number.
“Hey,” she said sleepily.
He frowned and glanced at the clock. “Did I wake you? The head nurse will not be pleased.”
“My mother?” She stifled a yawn. “No. I’ll talk quietly. What’s up?”
“Listen…I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“But you called after practice today, remember?”
There was a moment of confusion as both spoke at once: “I remember—”
“What’s wrong—?”
Silence.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he assured her. And nothing was. Everything was finally right. All at once he was tongue-tied. Telling her about the letter was out of the question. How could he explain what he was feeling at this moment?
“I love you,” he said suddenly, and held his breath. He’d never just put it out there like that, those three words, left to stand all on their own. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard her gasp.
“Are you sure you’re OK?” She laughed nervously.
“What, I’m not allowed to say that?”
“No. Of course you are. I love you too.”
The conversation stalled. He could hear her breathing on the other end. She felt so far away. He wished she hadn’t moved to the middle of nowhere. More than anything, he wanted to curl up next to her. Keep her safe.
“Go to back to sleep,” he said at last.
She yawned once more. “All right.” She paused. “Declan?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. Your second call was even better than the first.”
He laughed. “You’re welcome.” Then his voice dropped to a near whisper, “Now you know.”
About the author:
Leslie J. Portu is an avid reader of YA fiction. She graduated from the University of Wisconsin (Go Badgers!) with degrees in Political Science and International Relations, and later returned for French education. Writing came late into her life but she can think of nothing else as rewarding, and is already hard at work on her second novel. She lives in Ann Arbor, MI with her husband, four children, and two dumb dogs.
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