I take the picture with me, passing Brandon’s room on the way to mine. My mom converted it into a guest room years ago. She said it was too difficult to see his room set up like he’d be coming back one day. It makes me sad to see all of his things gone, but I understand why she put them away. I walk into my room, which, much like the rest of the house, is exactly the same as it was when I left. It’s like I’ve gone back in time, as if the last seven years never even happened.
I fall onto the bed, eager to feel the comfort of my old mattress, and the white wooden headboard smacks the wall, just like it did all my life. It’s still just as comfy as I remember. I sit up and look around my room. The only thing different now is that all the pictures I left taped to the dresser mirror are gone. They were mostly of me and Gabe, so I know why my mother took them down.
I wonder where she put them.
Part of me hopes that she threw them away, but another part of me prays that she didn’t. I stand up and walk around the room, looking at my old knickknacks and the empty frames that once held pictures of me and Gabe. The only picture she left in the room is a framed five-by-seven of me and Brandon. I pick it up and touch the glass. He’s holding me on his back at the beach. My arms are wrapped around his neck and my legs are hanging down on either side of him. We’re both pink-cheeked from the sun, making goofy faces. We must have been about fifteen.
I miss you so much, B.
Being back in this house makes me feel closer to him, but it also magnifies the fact that I’m missing my other half. I inhale an uneven breath and put the frame down next to the picture of Brandon and Gabe that I relocated to my room. I need to unpack and find my running shoes so I can go work off the cake, and the sorrow I keep pushing down.
After hanging up all my clothes, I stand on my tiptoes and push a stack of blankets aside on the top shelf of my closet, and a small wooden box comes tumbling down, missing my head by mere inches. It lands on the hardwood floor, cracking open and sending pictures scattering across the room. I kneel down to pick them up.
I guess I know where all my pictures went. I stare at each one for a few seconds before stacking them in my hands. When I see Gabe’s smiling face...when I see him kissing me and hugging me, I get an odd feeling in my stomach, not unlike the feeling I get when I look at pictures of Brandon. I see a person who I loved, who loved me, who’s gone.
Except that he’s not gone. He’s still here. I don’t know what’s worse.
I put the pictures back in the box before the grief takes over, but then I see the ring Gabe gave me for my eighteenth birthday and I find the letter that went with it. I rub my thumb over the little compass that’s engraved in the gold and unfold the faded piece of notebook paper.
Liv,
Tomorrow you will turn eighteen. You will legally be allowed to vote! You can buy cigarettes (but please don’t). And you can even join the military (but please don’t). You will officially be an adult!
None of that really matters to me, though. I will love you the same tomorrow as I do today. And I love you the same today as I did when I was sixteen. I’ve been privileged to watch you grow into the beautiful woman you’ve become and I thank my lucky stars every day that you chose me.
The coming years will be a challenge, no doubt. But as long as we’re together, I know we can navigate whatever comes our way.
I promise to be your compass when you start to feel lost. I’ll be your beacon home when the world gets too big. No matter what path life chooses for us, I will always be your true North.
~ Gabe
Whether or not I want to cry no longer matters. The tears leak onto my cheeks. I pick up the delicate gold ring and rub my finger over the little compass again.
I slide it on my right ring finger where it used to belong and, for just a moment, just a split second, I allow myself to pretend I’m still his.
My mom knocks on my bedroom door. “Honey, I found a pair of your shoes.” She walks in and sees me crumpled on the floor over the note and the box and the pictures. “Oh, Liv.” She kneels beside me and wraps her arm around my shoulders. “I’m so sorry. I forgot that was up there.”
“It’s okay.”
“I just couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it, so I stuck it up on top of the closet. I don’t know why. I didn’t mean for it to upset you.”
“I would have been upset if you had gotten rid of it.” I wipe my face, and she nods with understanding. “You found my running shoes,” I say, eyeing the shoebox in her hands.
She smiles and stands up. “Might not be a bad idea to lace them up. I hear that running has magical healing powers.” She winks and reaches for my hands. She knows that I use running in place of clinical therapy.
“I think you might be right.”
She pulls me to my feet. “Go for a run, honey. You’ll feel better.”
* * *
I stand in my parents’ driveway, looking out at the familiar view from the house. The yard is lush and green and perfectly manicured. My father has been on a quest to have the best yard in the neighborhood for as long as I can remember. I pull my heel up to my butt and stretch my quad, then I alternate to the other side. My muscles are tight. I need this run. I bend over and grab my ankles and stretch my hamstrings. Ow. I really need this run.
I stand up, shake my legs, and push my ear buds in. I turn my music up and start down the driveway toward the street. I begin with a slow jog. I’m sore at first, but after a few minutes, the ache in my muscles goes away and I’m able to keep a steady pace. I breathe in and out, letting the fresh air fill my lungs and clear my head. All I have to do is focus on my feet hitting the pavement. Everything else just falls away.
Left foot.
Right foot.
Breathe.
Left foot.
Right foot.
Breathe.
I run for a long time. I’m not really sure how far I’ve actually gone, but I must have covered a few miles because I can see the cemetery just up ahead. I stop running, turn around, and head back to the house.
Chapter 4
Gabe, Eight Years Ago, August 18th
“He should be waking up soon.”
“How long will it take?” my mother asks the man, whose voice I don’t recognize.
“Not long. But remember, this is going to be extremely confusing for him. We won’t know the extent of his injury right away.”
“But you said–”
The man interrupts my father. “We think his brain injury is moderate, from what we can tell. The surgery went well and the swelling in his brain is coming down. Those are all good things. He’ll most likely regain normal functions over time, but the cognitive and behavioral impairments he might experience could last from a few weeks to a few months. Some might even be permanent. You need to be prepared.”
My mother squeezes my hand and whispers, “Tu êtes fort, Gabriel. You’re so strong.” Her southern-French accent is something that’s uniquely specific to her, and comforting to me. “You have to fight this,” she says firmly. “Fight for me and Daddy. Fight for Liv. She needs you now.”
Liv. Where is she? I try to ask, but my tongue won’t move. My mouth won’t open. I can’t move anything. It’s like a lead blanket has been shrink-wrapped over my entire body. I try to swallow, but my throat burns. And my head is throbbing.