28 Healing

Healing

Cael

Massachusetts

End of summer

W EEKS UPON ENDLESS WEEKS HAD LED ME TO THIS. I WAS FINALLY HOME. I placed my hand on Cillian's bedroom door. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply. All of the therapies, all of the daylong sessions with Leo, Mia, and the many psychologists that had guided me through my healing … it had led me here. The unwavering support and weekly visits from my mom and dad, the single hour I got to speak with Savannah for each week drove me to this new place of peace.

I was stronger, now. I breathed easier. I stood straighter. I wasn't angry, and most of all, I understood. I understood Cillian in a way that I never had before. I understood his crippling depression. I understood why he couldn't speak to me. It was difficult, but I understood.

He was my big brother. And I missed him. Would always miss him. But I had to move on too.

I took in a deep inhale, and with my hand on the handle, I turned it and entered his room. The sun shone in through the south-facing window. His bed was made; every inch of his furniture was clean. My mom kept it nice. I breathed in the room's air and could still feel him in here. He had been so vibrant and alive when he was here. It was like he'd left his imprint on this room.

On all of us who loved him most.

His bedroom walls were a shrine to hockey. I ran my fingers over his signed Bruins jersey, framed and protected by glass. Then I came to a stop at his Harvard jersey. The one he'd received on his first start in freshman year. I'd been at that game. I remember smiling so wide my cheeks ached.

Then I stilled when I saw the wall full of pictures of me and him. Months ago, this would have gutted me. I was still sad, seeing these pictures. Of us both happy, the promise of an amazing future in our wide smiles. But the thing that had captured my attention most was the old and age-frayed Bruins ticket that was pinned to his cork board.

The one that matched the ticket on which he had written his goodbye to me.

My stomach clenched. I had ripped it up. I had been so sick of feeling sad and, in a moment of anger, had ripped it up and left it in Japan.

I wished more than anything that I had that ticket now. Months of therapy had made all the bad that I saw within Cillian's death lighter. Seeing him crash, holding him in my arms … I sighed deep when my body broke out in shivers, the memory of that night still difficult. I would always think that way.

But therapy had helped me reframe things. Made me see that I'd had the privilege of being there with him at the end. I had been there with him when he had passed. I had held him in the aftermath as his soul moved on. And that ticket … that ticket was a happy memory that had meant so much to us, and now it was only made more special by his handwritten goodbye. That ticket had been a piece of him too. One that I deeply regretted leaving behind.

In the end, I was glad I was there with him as he left this Earth. I loved him enough to have wanted him to have had me close at the end. A brother who loved him more than life, there beside him as death claimed him. It was better, I thought, to have company as you passed.

I'd held on to that thought when the image of that night had tried to destroy me. I turned away from that wall, proud that I had faced coming back in here, when I came to a stop. Leaning against the wall was the stick that I had shattered all those months ago when Mom and Dad had told me I was going on the grief trip. Only now, the stick, wrapped again in Bruins colors—Cillian's stick—was repaired and gleaming in the sunlight.

I reached out to touch it, lifting it carefully in my hand. I could see where the cracks had been. But just like the plate Aika had made us smash in Japan, and then repair, it was even more special in the aftermath. It spoke of healing and forgiveness.

It spoke of me and Cill.

"I found it by the pond." I snapped my head up in surprise. My dad was in the doorway, Mom hovering close behind. They had been so worried about me. But they were lighter these days, seeing me better too. I couldn't imagine the pain they had gone through.

Dad stepped farther into the room. His eyes glistened as he looked over the walls. Mom let her tears fall. I used to believe this room was cursed. Tainted. But being in here again now … it was all Cillian. It was filled with the brother I missed. It wasn't anything to fear. It was … it felt like coming home.

Dad put his hands in his pockets. He had just come back from work, still wearing his cop uniform. "I had it repaired." He glanced at me shyly. "I thought you'd want it … someday. Maybe. I don't know …"

I ran my hand over the wood. Too many memories had been made with Cillian holding this stick. Me beside him, my big brother, my hero … "Thank you," I whispered.

I sank down on his bed, Mom sitting beside me. She wrapped her arm around me and looked up at the wall of pictures. "You two …" she said, laughing through tears. "I was gray in my thirties thanks to you two and hockey." I laughed and wiped at my eyes. "But I loved it at the same time," she said, holding me tighter. "Taking you both all over the state, getting up at the crack of dawn for practices … watching you both playing on the pond when you didn't know I was there." Mom sobered up. "When it's hard," she said, voice shaking, "that's what I hold on to. And I find happiness there. I can be happy there, in those memories."

Savannah's face entered my mind. It was the mention of happiness that had done it. I missed Savannah like I didn't know was possible. I missed her small hand in mine, missed her flushed cheeks when she was easily embarrassed. Missed her kiss and her thick southern accent.

I just missed her, period.

"Thinking about your girl again?" Dad said, and I huffed a laugh. I'd told them all about her. How could I not? She was all I thought of. When therapy had me on my knees, it was her face and weekly call that stopped me from crumbling. Her quiet strength, the way she had walked through grief with such dignity and grace.

That was my girl.

"I miss her," I said, and my mom held me tighter.

"We can't wait to meet her," Dad said. I liked the idea of that.

We stayed in Cillian's room for another hour. Reminiscing about the times we held closest to our hearts. We smiled and we cried, but as I walked out of the front door of the house, another weight had been lifted. Day by day, the shackles that had held me down had begun to loosen, and then they'd dropped away completely.

It was one day at a time, but each day I felt stronger and stronger.

I drove my Jeep to the place that was once my second home. I knew there was no practice today. And that it would be empty. Now that I'd come home, my old coach had said I could come and practice here whenever the rink was free. He was just happy I was me again and that I'd found my way back onto the ice.

The minute I was through the door, the cold wind and fresh scent of ice invaded my senses. I followed the hallway to the familiar locker room. I threw my bag on the bench and began to put on my practice clothes, then eventually my skates.

When I reached the entrance of the rink, I let the cold breeze bite at my face. Gripping my stick in my hands, I stepped onto the ice and exhaled with ease as I did. I circled the rink faster and faster until I felt like I was flying. I may have had a year of no practice, but this was muscle memory. It was what I was born to do.

You didn't forget that.

I stared out at the seats, picturing them full again, lights shining on the ice and music blasting from the speakers. I saw me and my team lining up, hands over our hearts and singing the national anthem.

I wanted it. I wanted that back so badly.

"Woods!" I opened my eyes and came to an abrupt stop. My heart beat faster as I saw Stephan Eriksson, my best friend skating toward me. Coach had told me no one would be here today. By Stephan's wide, shocked eyes, I presumed Coach had told him the same thing. It was just like him to throw us back together this way.

"You're back on the ice?" Stephan asked, voice laced with hope.

"Yeah," I allowed myself to say and felt that response down to my bones. I was back. "I'm back," I said, and Stephen jumped on me, wrapping his arms around my neck.

He held on just a little too long. "Glad to have you here again, brother," he said, and this time the term of endearment didn't hurt. Stephan had been my best friend for years. He had been my brother—still was.

"I'm sorry," I said, when he moved back. We stood alone on center ice. It was silent but for our breaths. "I'm so sorry—"

"You've got nothing to apologize for, yeah?" Stephan said, and I saw in his face that he meant it. I went to argue. That I had treated him like shit for too long. But he stopped me with his hand on my arm. "You got nothing to be sorry for, Cael. Nothing ."

I nodded, throat thick with emotion. I couldn't speak. Stephan could clearly see that and skated backward. "So, Woods," he said tauntingly, "how about a little one-on-one? I can probably take you now that you're a little rusty."

My chest lifted with lightness and filled with warmth. I smiled wide. "It wouldn't matter if I hadn't played for ten years, Steph. I could still beat your ass anytime, anywhere."

Stephan laughed and brought us back a puck. I stretched out my arms and neck and then I played against my best friend like we'd had no break. For hours we played. We laughed. I smiled. I breathed long, painless breaths.

I won every game.

And more importantly, I had a future to get back hold of. I promised my girl we would meet again.

I wasn't going to let her down.