35. Utterly Broken

THIRTY-FIVE

UTTERLY brOKEN

When September Ends, Green Day

Saint

“You don’t understand, Saint. I am utterly broken. Way beyond repair. There’s no kindness, no tenderness, no love that will fix it. That will fix me,” she urges with tears rolling down her face. It’s the first time that I’ve ever seen her show an ounce of emotion beyond anger, happiness, and lust. It breaks my heart to see her like this, but I’m finding it hard to move past my thoughts of how lucky I am that she’s opening up to me. That she’s letting me in, and her trust will mean more than words could ever explain.

She tries to get out of the hold I have on her. My arms are wrapped tight around her, my hand rubbing her back. Where she would shy away to the slightest touch when we first met, now she melts into my arms, her body speaking to mine before her brain can catch up. This is what she needs. My body knows it and my heart knows it, too.

“Don’t run away anymore,” I say carefully, my voice barely above a whisper. I need her not to flee. I need to be the one thing that grounds her in this moment, even if that means reassuring her that she’s safe with not only my body but with my voice. “This, what you’re feeling right now, give yourself the permission to feel it. Let me hear it.”

She lets out a sigh and her shoulders drop. I can hear her soft sniffles and feel her shaking her head. When I think she won’t say anything again, she speaks.

“I got tired of feeling. Feeling lost, feeling sad, feeling abandoned. I got tired of wondering why me and what I could have done to make them stay .” She pauses, taking another deep breath and wiping her tears with her hand.

“I was eight when she died. That’s when I started wondering what it would take to have my mom back. What it would take for the big bad wolf named cancer to be a nightmare and not the reality that took my mom from me. And guess what I learned? That nothing would make it happen. Not wishing upon stars. Not blowing out the candles with my eyes closed. No wanting with all my heart. Not eating my vegetables. Not blowing on dandelions.” She sniffs and rests her head against my chest, finally stopping her fight in this embrace. Finally letting me be the support she needs but has been too afraid to ask for. Too afraid to show.

“I used to hunt those down, you know? I would run across fields, gathering them in my hands and wishing one at a time to just have my mommy back. But we all know that life doesn’t work that way. Good things only happen in movies and real life is haunted. My rose-colored glasses had to come off.

“My dad tried his best. But he was also mourning the love of his life and trying to raise a child whose brain didn’t work the same as other kids. A child who forgot her homework on the bench outside of school. A child who was so in the clouds trying to think of ways to bring her mom back, that she started failing school. A child who would cry herself to sleep every night. He tried his best but he was also broken beyond repair. Have you ever heard of broken heart syndrome?” she asks and waits a beat for me to answer, but I can’t find words to talk right now without my voice breaking. She doesn’t need sympathy right now. She needs strength. So I just shake my head, hoping that she can feel the movement and continue.

“It basically means that the heart is hurting so much that it weakens. People supposedly recover from it after a while, but I don’t think he ever did. We were both in a hole of despair together, both mirroring each other’s sadness, slowly drowning in sorrow and grief. Except I was a little kid and he was an adult and we entered this vicious cycle together, both without the proper skills to cope. Me because of age and him because he never thought he would have to face life without his other half.”

Her skin is sticky with sweat but I refuse to let go. I pull her soft gold strands up and hold them away from her face. Now that I can see her face, I notice her eyes are closed and her cheeks are flushed. She’s letting me in and it seems to be the hardest thing she’s ever done.

“After a couple of years, my teachers were seriously concerned and my dad finally sent me to therapy. I was diagnosed with ADHD and a sensory processing disorder, on top of grieving for my mom and my dad, all at once. He wasn’t dead yet but he wasn’t himself anymore. Therapy worked for a while, until my hormones kicked in and I hated the world, including the therapist. By fifteen, I was barely tolerable. My dad had healed as much as he was able to but he didn’t want to parent me, he wanted me to like him. He wanted me to have the same relationship with him that I had with my mom. But I was not that little girl playing with dolls anymore. I was an angry teenager ready to give him hell. But here’s the thing, Saint, I didn’t need a friend, I needed him. I needed him to see how much I was suffering and how much everything hurt, all the time.”

Roe stops suddenly and wiggles out of my hold. This time, I let her. She sits on the couch, placing her hands on her lap. She dries her hands on the fabric of her shorts before bringing them up to her face, then brings her knees up to her chin. I move but she raises her hand, signaling me to stop.

“Please, Saint, let me finish. If you hold me for the next part, I might not be able to tell you everything and I really want to. I think I really need to. I need to let you know why you can’t love me. I can’t be the one to hold your heart when all the hearts I’ve held eventually stop beating.”

Just like her emotions pouring out of her, the rain starts to fall, tapping on the porch windows. Gently at first, and then like drums of war.

“One day, I was yelling at him to get a grip and to understand that his little girl was never coming back. He got so upset, Saint. You should’ve seen his eyes. I could feel the disappointment and the guilt behind his eyes. He started coughing”—she lets out a deep breath and peeks at me with her storm-filled eyes—“and there was blood, so much blood. I started losing it, called 911, and after the longest ride to the hospital and days of tests and doctor’s appointments, he was diagnosed with cancer. Unlike my mom, there was nothing they could do and they said he could live for another four weeks to four years. He lived for nine weeks. Eight of those he was at home with me, basically living the fullest bucket list life you could imagine.”

She tilts her head to the side, closing her eyes, letting the tears fall.

“Those eight weeks were the best of my life. I didn’t complain once. I was the perfect child for him. Whatever he wanted I said “yes” to, because the little girl in me still believed that if I truly tried my best, maybe he wouldn’t be taken away from me too. But we both know it’s only in books that the girl gets the happy ending, and in the end, he left me too. He didn’t really leave me though; he took the rest of what I had left in me with him. The sliver of hope. The little pocket of happiness. I have been this shell of a human ever since.”

She gets up, walks to the front door of the house, and turns to look at me.

“What are you doing, Roe?”

“And this is why I can never give you what you’re asking. I can’t let you in, because everything I love dies. My parents died, my grandma died, and I refuse to kill anyone else. It should’ve been me, Saint. It should’ve been me instead because you think they had cancer but no, the cancer is me. Turning everything I touch into sickness and darkness. Making everything I let in die and suffer. And you don’t deserve this fate.”

Her eyes finally snap up to mine, to deliver the last sword straight in, leaving me without wondering if she means these words or not. She does, and her eyes are the proof.

“You’re so good Saint, so fucking good. But this is not the trail I often cross. This is the one I’m in all the time. The one that will lead me to my grave and I refuse to take you with me.”

She walks out into the rain and starts running. And like the man in love I am, I run after her, again.