Living With Regret by Lisa de Jong Read Free Book Online Page A

“Hello.”
    “Hey, Rachel. It’s so good to hear your voice,” Kate says. She sounds like she could cry.
    “It’s nice to hear yours too.” I mean it. Kate reminds me that some of the better parts of life still exist. I met her before college started. Our friendship didn’t get off to a great start because she initially thought I was dating the guy she loved. After we cleared the air, we became great friends. She’s kind and doesn’t get into all the bullshit that some girls our age get into. She’s also the only person who might get what I’m feeling right now.
    “I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner. I talked to your mom right after the accident. She’s been keeping me up to date.”
    “It’s not a big deal. I haven’t felt much like talking anyway,” I say honestly.
    “I’d ask how you’re doing, but that’s probably a stupid question.”
    “Thank you for the flowers.” I stare at the purple flowers she sent me. They’re different than the daisies that fill my room.
    “You’re welcome. I’m just glad you got to see them finally.”
    Just like that, a new idea hits me. Maybe Kate was with me that day … before I left school. Maybe she can tell me something that would help explain how I got here. “Did you see me that morning?” I ask, feeling a little hope. If someone could just fill in some of the missing pieces.
    “No,” she replies, sadness etched in her voice. “I wish I could help.”
    “It’s okay. I just feel like I’m sitting around waiting for something that may never happen. It’s so frustrating.”
    “It’ll come with time.”
    “I hope so.”
    We talk a few more minutes, about my prognosis mostly. I can tell she’s purposely avoiding anything that has to do with Cory, and for that, I’m grateful.
    “I need to get ready for work, but I’ll call again soon.”
    “Thank you … for everything, Kate.”
    “I’m here no matter what. You’d do the same for me.” And I would.
    After I hang up, I look around the room for something to do, to keep my mind off things. This morning, Mom brought me the pink notebook I asked for yesterday. It’s setting on the table beside my bed, begging to be picked up.
    After she left to go run a few errands earlier, I flipped through it, reading old poetry I’d written years before. I see now that I wasn’t very good at it, but it always made me feel better, a way of healing my heart in the privacy of my bedroom. At times when I felt like I had no one, I could arrange words on paper and feel like someone was listening.
    I’d written them after fights with my mom and dad.
    When Sam was grounded and couldn’t meet me on our days in the field.
    The day Toby ran onto the road in front of our house and was hit by a truck.
    A lot of pain and bad memories are held in this notebook.
    Finding an empty page, I pull my pen off the table and stare at the thin blue lines. I write one word then cross it out. It’s hard to find the starting verse for this one. This isn’t just another situation I need to sort through … it’s a turning point, a life changer.
    Closing my eyes, I try to pull my thoughts together. They don’t come—only tears. I remember the way Cory smelled of spice and citrus. I used to nestle my nose in the crook of his neck and breathe him in. He had this thing he liked to do where he lightly tugged on my hair to get my attention. I’ll always remember the little things. He made me feel cared for and loved. Always teasing. Always smiling. That was my Cory.
    When I hear the door open, I don’t bother opening my eyes. So many people come in and out of my room every day that I’m immune to it now. It’s usually Mom or one of the nurses. Dad was just here yesterday so I know it’s not him; he fulfilled his obligation for the next couple days. I feel a cool brush of air against the tearstains on my cheeks as the sound of rubber soles on the floor becomes louder—something else I’m used to now. Maybe I should wipe my tears