Then came the tears. There were a lot. In fact, I was pretty sure they’d never turn off. I’m not even sure why, other than it felt like I was a vampire stepping into the light for the first time, and my skin and brain were on fire and nothing seemed to take away the pain.
But then my mom and I started to talk. We talked about my dad. We talked about Landon. We talked about me. We talked about what I did. We talked and talked and talked. She got angry and I cried. She cried and I cried.
“Nova,” she said through tears. “I feel like this is all my fault. I knew when your father died… how he died… that you saw it, that it had to be hard for you, but I never forced you to talk about it with me. I only suggested it.”
“But I couldn’t talk about it with you,” I’d replied, hugging a pillow against my chest, balled up on the bed. “You were sad yourself.”
“I’m your mother,” she said, smoothing my hair away from my forehead, like I was still a little kid, and maybe at the moment to her I was. Maybe we were going back in time and doing what we should have done to begin with. “It’s my job to make sure you’re okay, even if I’m hurting.”
“I didn’t want to make you hurt more.”
“That’s not how it works. If anything we should have hurt together.”
We started to cry again, and it seem like we were never going to stop, but finally, like almost everything always eventually does, our tears faded.
It’s been over a month since I ran away from the concert, and my head is a lot clearer than it’s been in a very long time, maybe even since my dad died. It’s strange, but it took all this time for me to realize just how hazy things had gotten. Somehow, through Landon’s death, through wrangling the mourning, through life, I lost my way. I’m still working my way back from it, one baby step at a time, trying to heal myself correctly this time.
I managed to take out the sketches Landon’s parents gave to me and let myself cry without running away from them. They really were beautiful sketches, and it hurts to think that his talent doesn’t exist anymore, but I have a piece of his talent still—a piece of him—and I’ll always hold on to it. I’ve finally accepted his death, and it’s good to remember him in healthy doses. I’m learning that it’s okay. It’s okay to hurt. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to admit when we need help. It’s okay to let go.
Not everything is easy and perfect, though. I still need my anxiety medication. I still find myself counting sometimes. I still get lost in memories of Landon. The key is letting it pass instead of searching for a quick Off switch. I feel it, I move with it, and then I move past it.
And I don’t have to move past it alone. I’ve been going to a group where people can talk about loss, specifically related to suicide. It helps to hear stories, to know I’m not the only one to wonder so much that it nearly cracked my head open. I plan on going to one when I’m back at school. I’ve also finally picked a major. Film. I’m still not one hundred percent sure if I want to stick with it, but it’s a start to working on some of my goals or at least setting them. I also might do a minor in music, but I’m taking it one step at a time now. I’m focusing on moving forward and slowly accepting the past, getting better, and trying to create a future. And I know I’ll be able to because I want to. And just like my dad told me once: if you want something bad enough, anything’s possible.
I haven’t talked to Quinton since I left. Delilah stopped by my house a few times, but we’re no longer on the same page, and I’m not strong enough to bring her up with me, nor can I fall with her. She’s not going back to school, something she disclosed during her third visit.
“I’m happy here,” she’d said while we sat on the living room couch. My mom wouldn’t let us go into my room, afraid of what we’d do behind closed doors, and I was okay with that. I’m afraid of closed doors, too.
“I don’t think you should stay,” I’d said, noting how thin she was starting to look. “There’s nothing here, really.”
“There’s Dylan. And my life,” she replied snippily. “And that matters to me.”
Her pupils were wide and shiny, and she had this funny smell to her. She’s also chopped her hair off and her skin was a little pallid. I could tell she was on something, and that the person sitting in front of me was not the Delilah I met back in high school. This was her alter ego. A darker side of her. A reflection in a cracked mirror.
“Okay,” I said, knowing I had to let her go, but it was hard. “But if you change your mind, I leave on Friday and you can come with me.”
“I won’t.” She got up from the couch, left my house, and I haven’t seen her since.
“Are you sure you just don’t want to stay home for a semester?” My mom asks, carrying out the last of the boxes, the one that carries my drumsticks. I’m taking the pink drums back to school with me, even though I haven’t played them again yet. I’m planning on it, though, when it feels right.
“Are you seriously trying to talk me into dropping out of school?” I joke, tossing a section of my drums onto the leather backseat of the cherry-red Nova. I’m driving it back to school, which is scary, but it’s one of my goals. Besides, it’s what my dad wanted.
She sighs, pushing the trunk closed. “No, but I worry.” She walks up to me, with her arms crossed, like she’s resisting the urge to grab me and haul me back into the house. “I feel like I just got you back and now you’re leaving me again.”