** Published in the Metro Spirit on December 23, 2009, 3rd place winner of their annual Short Story Contest **
I have gotten used to those random thoughts of my first love that happen in everyday life. It has been awhile since William has been gone, but the memories still float in and out of my head daily. I wonder if it is still normal to think about him that much. I remember when memories used to bring tears and then smiles. Now, they are just there. They creep up on me without warning and come and go as they please. It is not often that I allow myself to become immersed in the sadness of it all. But, every so often, I do. I allow myself to delve into the memories of that day in June 10 years ago when I got the phone call from my dad that changed everything.
My father spoke through tears with words that he knew were going to break his daughter’s heart.
"Sweetheart, it's William," he whispered, "He crashed in his car. He's dead."
One of the only things I remember from the aftermath of that phone call is sitting outside looking at the stars, like William and I used to do, trying to let it sink in that he was gone. I say “gone” because it is still hard for me to use the word dead when it comes to him. I could not say how long I sat there, tears burning my eyes and making the stars look hazy.
Every memory we ever shared came crashing back to me as I tried desperately to remember all of them. I was afraid if I did not think of every moment he and I spent together right then, I would lose them. The rest of that night is all a blur to me. I can only remember bits and pieces of my grief. I guess that is what shock feels like.
I stayed up all night going through every piece of us that I kept in a pink and white striped Victoria's Secret box. The box first contained a Christmas present from William, but now held countless notes, cards, movie stubs and keepsakes from our life together. In the weeks following, his mother, Dorothy, would discover a box just like mine in his closet that he kept on the top shelf behind shoe boxes.
"You should have it," Dorothy said, smiling gently and pushing the box into my hands.
"No, it should stay right where he left it. That way I can always know where to find it," I said, declining her offer and lifting up on my tiptoes to put the box back in its place in William's closet.
I never knew about that box until then. William never said a word. Then again, he was always full of surprises.
The day after the tragic phone call, I drove to William’s house. I wanted to see Dorothy. I knew she would understand my pain, even though I was nowhere close to feeling what she must have felt, as a mother losing a child.
As I stepped out of my car, two girls who went to high school with us were leaving. They stopped to hug me with tears in their eyes.
"Oh, Lindsey, it's so terrible! You must be so upset!" one of the girls gushed, throwing her arms around me.
I did not hug her back. These same girls used to talk trash about me when William and I broke up. They had said I did not deserve to be with him and he was too good for me. All these things were true, but obviously none of their business.
"I'm doing okay," I said, stepping back awkwardly from the girl's embrace, "Thanks."
I gave a small wave goodbye and started towards the back door. I realized there was something wrong about entering that way today. So, I walked through the front door of William's house for the first time. I signed the visitation book like you’re supposed to do and walked into the living room. I will never be able to erase the look on his mother’s face when she saw me, and how she fell into my arms. As we cried together, I realized the woman I had come to for comfort was finding comfort in me.
Dorothy whispered into my hair over and over, “All I saw was him... all I saw was him when I saw you."
We held each other for awhile sharing soft sobs until she pulled me down the hallway to see William's sisters and then, into his bedroom. I sat in William’s room on his bed for an hour after that.
I laid my head on his pillow, remembering all the naps we took in his bed. I opened his closet and smelled his shirts. I thumbed through them, pulling out the red polo he was wearing the first time I met him and the green sweater he always let me borrow. Being surrounded by his smell was comforting. I did not want to leave, but it was the polite thing to do.
I never was one for crying. I think William cried more in our relationship than I did. I had too much pride back then. All our close friends knew that about us, especially his boys. At the visitation the following day, I walked through the line just like everyone else. I looked around at all the girls who cried and found myself numb and unable to just let it out. I stood beside Brett, one of William’s best friends, as he broke down in front of his coffin. I could not really bear to look at William like that, in a wooden box in the middle of the high school cafeteria. So, I hugged Brett until he got a hold of himself and we continued on to the family.
I hugged both of William’s sisters, telling them how sorry I was for their loss. His older sister told me that I was his world. It was something I always knew, yet took for granted. Dorothy looked relieved to finally see me and wrapped me into her arms.
She shook as she cried and said, “It looks like he’s asleep, doesn’t it? Remember how much he used to love to take naps? He’s just taking a nap.”
I knew she had been waiting for me to greet her because she knew I was one of the few in that room who did actually know how much William enjoyed taking naps. She held onto me tightly and it was me who had to break away from her. I didn’t want to, but there was a line of another hundred people who needed to greet her. I had to follow visitation etiquette, doing the “polite” thing once again.
William’s father had been waiting patiently. He gave me a gentle hug and grabbed both my hands in his. He squeezed them tightly and looked directly into my eyes.
“You were the love of his life. You know that, right?”
I nodded, pressing my lips together tightly to keep from losing it. I could not break for him. William would have wanted me to be strong, especially for his father if no one else. I hugged his dad again and turned to walk away.
I found myself alone in a crowd of mourners, not seeing anyone I had come in with. I stood there for what felt like hours and it felt like all eyes were on me, waiting and watching. Then, someone gently grabbed my arm from behind and led me over to the group we had walked in with. None of us quite knew what to say. Someone broke the silence by suggesting we go out to eat together and then maybe hang out at someone’s house. I tuned all of the chatter out and waited to be led wherever.
It was another one of William’s boys, Lance, who noticed my silence. He pulled me a little to the side.
“You alright?” he asked.
I nodded, still keeping up appearances and not letting it go. I did not want these other people to see my hurt. These hundreds of mourners who did not even know us. I am glad William touched their lives, but who do they think they are? Crying and sobbing as if they loved him like I did. They did not deserve to see my love for him spilled out in tears. They would not understand. They would think I was just trying to get attention, which was a rumor I had already heard was being passed around about me. Lance did not buy my act and said the thing that finally broke my strength.
“Still aren’t going to let him see you cry, huh?”
In a second, the reality of that statement hit me like a ton of bricks, just like William always said it would one day. The tears came before I had a chance to stop them. Lance pulled me into a hug and told me to let it out. And I did. I do not know how long we stood there, but I know his shirt was a mess when I was done.
The next day I watched them lower William’s coffin into the ground and cover it with dirt. I was one of the last ones to walk away that day. For many months after he died, I could not ride past the cemetery without stopping. Sometimes that would mean I would stop more than once a day to visit his grave. I ignored what everyone said and kept telling myself that everyone grieves in their own way. As time went on, my visits became less frequent and I realized that I was starting to heal. I used to curse the saying that "Time heals everything," but now I am living proof that it does.
I have returned to his grave every June for the past 10 years to pay my respects. I kiss my fingertips and press them onto the ground where I imagine his lips would be. I sit on the bench that his family had placed at the grave site instead of a tombstone and tell him about my life. I do not cry when I visit his grave now. I reminisce about the first boy I ever loved and then I take the long way out of town to drive past the place where his car crashed. I blow a kiss to the heavens at the exact place where the angels took him away.
Then, I go back to my life. I go on living without regrets because that is what he would have wanted for me to do. I go on searching with the hope that one day I will find that kind of love again. It was William who taught me how to love and the only way I know to honor him is to do just that.
