Changing Lights

They say you should just rip the Band-Aid off. Gradually peeling it away each fraction of an inch is more painful. Perhaps. Of course, you could always just leave the Band-Aid on and hope that the glue will naturally dissolve, freeing you from the need to make any decision. Sometimes there's no choice and the Band-Aid is ripped away for you. You'll either discover you healed or you'll bleed all over the place.

Three years after my accident, I'm certain I've healed. The scars are minimal, hidden away, mostly forgotten. Life has progressed into comfortable, predictable routines, creating the illusion of safety and security.

I no longer lash out at people, irrationally funneling all my fear and anger at those who love me the most. My family is certainly happy about that. I've secured a couple of jobs that pay the rent on my apartment. Friends to grab a drink or a manicure with. Life is good.

So why am I so damn restless? A snake itching to crawl out of her own skin.

I don't know.

Until the band aid is ripped off...

It's the first weekend of December. The winter wind is just starting to sneak in, whistling around the eves of the attic of my parents' house. Christmas music drifts through the open attic door. Occasionally, my father bursts out in song, joining in with Bing Crosby and Andy Williams. I’m climbing over boxes of Christmas decorations that had been pulled out to find my suitcase.

Two days ago, my supervisor had called me.

“Your grandmother was an opera singer, right?”

Random start to a conversation.

“Uh, yes. She was.”

“Great. ‘Opera News’ is looking for a young writer. Trying to bring in the next generation of opera lovers. They need social media, a blog posting, and a featured article for their magazine. $20,000 plus travel expenses. If they like what you give them, this could become a permanent gig for you.”

“Are you serious?” I whispered, not sure if it is the $20,000 or the mention of travel that captured my attention more.

And so, I need my suitcase.

The attic is relatively organized as far as attics go. Each container and box stacked neatly with their labels facing out. Usually, all the Christmas decorations are to the left and everything else on the right, but when repairs were made to the central air this past summer, boxes were moved around, and my mother never got around to reorganizing everything.

As I shift through the boxes, I make some attempt to slide them back to where they belong, making sure the labels are facing out. Boxes of baby clothes, old photo albums, a record collection, Halloween decorations - all go to the right. I find the boxes labeled 'Stockings' and 'Holiday Linens' and push them to the right. I'm carefully lifting a box labeled 'Holiday Spode' when I catch sight of my suitcase.

I place the box of Spode down near the stairs and grab the suitcase only to discover it is heavy. What on earth could possibly be in there? Setting it down on the floor, I unzip the top and flip it back. And my heart seizes in my chest at the sight of the sweatshirt sitting on top.

Emblazoned across the sweatshirt is the name of the university I once attended. A place that means nothing - and everything. The broken-in softness of the sweatshirt tells me it had been worn many times. By me.

I press my index finger to my thump and inhale deeply, hold my breath for a moment, and slowly exhale. You can do this.

Underneath is a stack of journals, the sight of which terrifies me. Each different. Different colors. Different textures. All containing words I once wrote.

The one on top is black. It is thicker than the others. Papers stick out of it at all different angles. Daringly, I pull one out. It’s a ticket stub. A train ticket. ItaliaRail. My thrumming hearts abruptly halts. Departure from Rome. Arrival in Venice.

“We left at dawn,” he tells me. His fingers stroke my hand. It irritates me so I pull my hand away and pretend to itch at the bandage wrapped around my head, the only thing more irritating than that unrelentingly hopeful look in his eyes. He notices when I purposely place my hand on my belly – away from his. I can see the hurt flicker in his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything. “We did all the things you are supposed to do in Venice – St. Mark’s Square, Doge, Bridge of Sighs, gondola rides. The Rialto Bridge. You said it was like being in a fairytale, which naturally made me your Prince Charming.”

His lips curl up into a wistful smile, his eyes glazing over as he imagines something in his mind – something I can’t because I have no idea what he is talking about.

And here is the evidence. This tiny ticket stub. Proof that his stories weren’t just stories. I grab the black journal and plop down on the box behind me. For a long minute, I simply hold it, rubbing my thumbs against the smooth cover. This is it. All the answers, all the proof. Everything I lost. Everything I threw away.

“Mia! Did you find it?”

The book slips from my hands as my mother’s voice jolts me out of well of shock. The journal’s contents scatter across the wooden boards. Frantically, I drop to my knees and gather it all up.

“Not yet!” I call back, my voice crackling as I struggle to swallow the swell of emotion logged in my throat. “Still looking!”

Frantically, I stuff each piece of paper back into the pages of the journal, not taking the time to look at any of it. The last thing I need is my mother or anyone else coming up here and seeing me with this. I’m not ready for their reactions. I’m not ready for my own. Quickly, I put the journal back in the suitcase with the others. The sweatshirt, yearbooks, and framed photos I take out and dump behind a box labeled ‘Baby clothes’. But as I roll the suitcase towards the attic stairs, my sneaker catches on something smooth and my foot slides effortlessly.

Looking down I see his face. His face smiles up at me from a photograph. Carefully, I lift my foot, revealing my own smiling face pressing against his. Happy. Together. And my heart suddenly aches. Bending down, I pick it up gingerly, my eyes roaming over each detail. My fingers curled possessively into the lapel of his jacket. His arm wrapped tightly around my shoulders. The raw excitement in our eyes. The water in the background, the golden beams of light glinting off the ripples, the hint of a boat to the side. Venice.

It was all real.

My mind tingles, desperately searching in the darkness, but no images beyond this photo come forth.

I stuff the picture in my back pocket.

Hours pass before I return to the privacy of my small attic apartment in the city. Hours of anticipating what might be in this journal while my mother makes my siblings and I hang stockings and garland while my father forces antipasti on everyone. Now I’m finally alone. The suitcase sits on the floor in front of me filled with journals, but the black on is the only one I’m interested in. My chest aches with the insistent pounding of my heart against my ribs, begging me to open the pages.

...Last summer of freedom before it's time to join the real world. I’m single. I’m free. And I spent my first day at the beach with Bree and …Greg Whitley. God, seeing him again for the first time in 3 years brought me right back to high school. He is still as charming – and hot – as ever…

…So my sister was right…it was a date. A dinner-for-two-walk-on-the-beach type of date. A kiss-me-by-ocean-with-cool-water-lapping-at-our-feet type of date. In all those high school fantasies, I had never imagined a first kiss as perfect as this…

…I’m lying to myself. This is not just a fun summer fling. I’ve fallen for him too fast. He whispers things – beautiful dreams and wishes he has for us – then he makes them happen and my heart knows no bounds…

…Tomorrow he leaves for a semester in Italy. I leave for London in a week. Months apart, separated by countries, borders, customs, passports. He keeps telling me it will be worth it – that I’m worth it. I want to believe him. I want to believe that somehow this will work. But I’m terrified because I already know how badly it will hurt if I lose him…

…Greg came to London this weekend. We danced in the rain. It was beautiful…

…Venice is a Fairy Tale, not simply because the city itself seems like something out of a dream but because I’m there with Greg. He told me he loves me and now I know – this is real. And this is it. This is who I want to spend the rest of my life with – traveling – eating – dancing – making love…

…Two more days. Two more days and we’ll both be in the same state again. He turned down the internship in California. I fought him on it, but he says I’m worth it. He’d rather have me…

And that was it. The date of the last entry is two days before my accident. The accident that took Greg and all my memories of him away. Shattered among the glass that littered the asphalt stained with my blood.

Warm, salty tears stream endlessly down my face as I sit on the floor of my apartment, clutching the words that weave my past, our story. He tried to stay. He was at the hospital when I woke up and he would not leave. He tried to reach me, but I pushed him away at every turn, not understanding why this stranger clung to me. The fear of no longer knowing who I was when I looked in the mirror, destroyed everything we had.

Now I understand that look on his face, the broken, shattered look of defeat, of angst as I raged at him to leave me alone, to go away, and let me be. Now I understand what I truly lost.

The band-aid has been ripped away and I bleed.

Four months later…

It’s an oddly warm day for April. My white blouse clings to my heated skin as I dart through the crowded city sidewalk. It’s the end of the workday and offices are emptying as everyone eagerly jumps into the weekend.

Pausing at the crowded corner, I pull out my phone, checking the time with an impatient sigh. The light changes and I blindly cross, moving with the crowd as I shoot off a quick text that I’m running late. By the time I lift my head it’s too late. I crash into a solid form, my phone slips and skitters across the sidewalk, and I lose my footing, landing with a thud on my hip.

A male voice curses above me.

“Are you alright?” he demands, crouching down next to me as people dart around us in all directions.

I flick my hair back as I look up. My heart seizes in my chest. It can’t be…

“Mia,” he breathes my name like a curse, like a prayer.

Greg.