He plants a hard kiss to my hairline, then bolts.
Parker leaves me there, just outside the entrance, and I watch in bafflement as he makes a hurried escape to his pick-up truck and hops inside, careening out of the parking lot with screeching tires.
My eyes water. I needed him today—I needed him to get through this first meeting without Amelia. I can hardly stand the thought of two empty chairs beside me.
Chest rattling, stomach spinning, I suck in a breath of courage and push through the main entrance, weaving down the hallway until I come across the familiar double doors.
I’m the last to arrive. Everyone is sitting, stoic and silent, while heads turn to face me as I quietly enter.
Alone.
Without him.
“Hello, Melody,” Ms. Katherine greets, and even her dazzling smile has dimmed. Mascara streaks paint her cheekbones, evidence of her grief, while plump fingers tighten around the journal in her lap. “Have a seat.”
Realizing my shoes have frozen to the squeaky floor, I find my footing and glide over to one of the three empty chairs, all in a row. Agony grips my heart.
“As most of you know, we lost a member of this community last week. A precious, valued member. A unique human being with a big heart and bright mind,” Ms. Katherine begins. Sweat dots her dark eyebrows as her focus lands on every one of us. “The one thing that brings us all together each week is the same thing that can easily tear us apart. I’d be lying if I said I felt no responsibility for what happened to Amelia—I was entrusted to help guide her, to keep her safe and protected from the ugly burden that weighs us all down. My duty is to show you the light through the dark tunnel we walk through together. To show you the beauty of life when the allure of death consumes you. It’s hard not to feel like I failed.”
My timid voice interrupts, unsteady and unplanned. “I was her Lifeline,” I squeak out.
A heavy plume of guilt hovers in the air, so thick I could cut it with a knife.
I wish I could. I wish I could slice it to shreds, cleave and carve it, sever it from my bones and bleeding heart.
But guilt is a stubborn invader, and it can’t be forced out.
Ms. Katherine’s expression is etched with tender compassion as her focus settles on me. “Lifelines are there for those who choose to use them, Melody. These meetings are a choice; this outlet of support is a choice. This weight is not yours to carry,” she says gently. Ducking her head with a sigh, she finishes, “Just as it’s not mine. It’s hard to see these things objectively when emotions overpower.”
My eyes sting with fresh tears.
“We are not responsible for the choices that others make. It’s human condition to latch onto the whys and what ifs because that gives us power when we feel like we have none. But we’re looking for power in the wrong place,” she explains. “The power is not in the past—it’s in the present. It’s in how we choose to move forward, and how we can mold our grief into something useful. Something beautiful.”
I drink her words in like sustenance. I never thought to look for beauty in grief. How can there be any trace of goodness in something so ugly?
At the end of the meeting, I stay rooted to my plastic chair as fellow members file out the double doors. I remain seated and still until the room is empty, save for only me and Ms. Katherine. She studies me fondly, almost as if she anticipated this engagement—this one-on-one interaction.
Swallowing a biting breath, I whisper, “How did you mold your grief into something beautiful?”
Ms. Katherine’s smile stretches her round, flushed cheeks, and she pats the leather-swathed journal that rests atop her thighs. “Can I tell you a story?” she wonders softly.
My nod is instant. Eager.
“I used to be a fourth-grade teacher,” she begins, dusting a patch of dark bangs from her eyes. “My students were my entire world. My saving grace. My friends and family called me Katy, but nothing sounded sweeter than Ms. Katherine.” Her eyes glint, turning wistful. “It’s against the rules to have a favorite student… but there was one. A boy. His name was Daniel Augustine, and he was a quiet little boy. He kept to himself most of the time, stoic and introverted. Invisible to most, but to me… his spirit shined bright.”
Goosebumps prickle my skin, my instincts already telling me where this story is going. My lungs burn, stinging my chest.
“Daniel came to me on the last day of class with a gift. He told me I was important to him—that my lessons were valuable, and my classroom was an escape.”
“What was the gift?”
She holds up the journal. “This.”
My eyes case the worn leather, a somber smile lifting on my mouth. “How thoughtful.”
“Yes,” she says, her gaze drifting to the floor, posture stiffening. “When I returned to the classroom that fall, I was given terrible news. Daniel had passed away over the summer. He’d found his father’s handgun and had taken his own life.”
A gasp breaks through, and tears slide down my cheeks. “He was so young…”
“He was. It was a horrible blow that threatened to take me down. I hardly slept for months, wondering how I missed the signs, wondering what I could have done to help him… to change his grisly fate.” Ms. Katherine’s eyes glisten beneath the recessed lighting, her voice wavering. “I finished out the year, and then I quit teaching altogether. I didn’t see the point.”
I swipe away the gathering tears with my wrist as I await the rest of her story.
“Eventually, I began to see things differently. I knew I could stew in my guilt, my regret, my grief, knowing the outcome would never change… or I could manifest those feelings into something good. Something commendable.”
“Something beautiful,” I finish with a sniffle.
She nods. “I created this group so I could reach other troubled souls. So I could make a difference. Even if I only touched one person—if I could only change one person’s fate, if I could help them see the good in life, the beauty in living and surviving, then it would all be worth it. Daniel’s death would not be in vain.”
Hot tears continue to fall, and I feel her words as much as I hear them. Glancing at the journal still clutched between her fingers, I lick my lips and inquire, “Can I ask what’s inside your journal? You bring it to every meeting, but I’ve never seen you open it.”
Ms. Katherine’s smile breaches her sadness. “It’s my starting points.”
“Your starting points?”
“Yes.” She rises from her chair, hesitating for a moment before she hobbles over to me on shaky knees. Taking her place beside me, where Amelia used to sit, she hands me the journal. “Here. Have a look.”
Faltering at first, I blink at the offering, eyeing her outstretched palms holding the beloved journal. It feels invasive somehow, like I’d be intruding on her privacy. On her secrets. But Ms. Katherine doesn’t appear apprehensive, and she continues to hold it out with assurance. With a hard swallow, I take the heavy booklet made of leather and paper, and bring it to my lap. Tracing curious fingers down the spine and over the front covering, I inhale sharply.
Then, I open it.
I’m startled at first, taking in the names at the top of each crinkled page. Familiar names. Robert, Jane, Nancy, Kevin, Stacy… Amelia.