Growing Pains and Unlocked Chains

Where do I see myself in five years? Wherever the sun meets the sky, and the glimmering mirage of a future with you remains poised on the horizon. Surely, a figment of my imagination. It has to be a figment of my imagination. Yet, I watch as my aching knees and weary feet take one dust-laden step to the next in pursuit of your love. After all this time, the pain still comes easy. The rib-crushing, gut-wrenching, wind-knocked-out-of-you feeling that comes when hope escapes and all that’s left is the empty balloon shape of a 27-year-old woman desperate to not grow up. Desperate to not move on.

I’m awoken by the sound of slamming cupboards and vacuum songs early on Saturday morning. The salty beads of sweat pool at the nape of my neck and I wipe the perspiration away with the edge of my tattered nightshirt, arch my back in a bone-cracking stretch and swing my legs off the bed. Reaching down to grab my ankles, I feel the pull of aching muscles and the gentle pulse of my heartbeat through my veins. I slept too long again. I always sleep too long these days. Before the image of him leaves my mind, I reach over to my paint-chipped window sill where my journal sits, perfectly silhouetted by the mid-afternoon Summer sun. The light in the room, a fiery blaze of yellow and orange, bounces off the small black notebook that holds him in its binding.

Scribbled throughout the smooth pages are moments paused in time. Dreams. So many dreams. The good, the bad, the ugly. And if I flip back to the very beginning? Page after page of his ugly chicken scratch professing his undying puppy love for our future. I pick up the notebook, open to a fresh page and sit cross-legged on the floor. I feel a surge of melancholy as I run my fingertips over the ivory-colored pages. I bring the entire book up to my damp face and inhale deeply. Is it possible? The pages… they still smell of cologne. Sweet and musky. Strong, yet subtle. The scent of him. This is one of the only artifacts I have left. It feels like another lifetime.

I sit there in the heavy air as the cicadas buzz to life outside the window. Their song says, “Life waits for no one. Life waits for no one. Life waits for no one.” It often feels like too much time has passed. Has too much time passed? I’ve almost forgotten the sound of his voice, the hum of his laughter. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to reach out and feel his weight pressed beside me while watching trashy television or insufferable news recaps. That image though... that hazy mirage of the man I once loved (the man I still love) comes to me in my dreams every damned night. This notebook is proof of that. I grab the worn down pencil on my bedside table and document another night of reaching out into the abyss.

I change into a pair of overalls, slip on some shoes and make my way downstairs. My mom is bustling throughout the house, in her typical sing-song nature. She’s winding the cord of the vacuum, when I come up from behind and wrap both arms around her in a tight embrace.

“I love you, mom.”

“I love you too, sweet pea,” she laughs.

Not once does she get on my case for sleeping late, not once does she tell me to stop grieving or to move on. Her unconditional love, steeped in decades of experience and pain of her own, envelops me in a warmth that I’ve been missing.

“Do you have work later?” She asks, fluffing the edges of the throw pillows on the living room couch.

“Yeah, another late night at the restaurant,” I groan, rolling my eyes.

“Oh quit that sourpuss, my love. Remember what I always say: Make every moment…”

“ --An opportunity,” I finished her sentence. “I know, I know.”

“Well make sure you grab some lunch on your way out.” And with that, she’s back to her daily to-do list.

The air outside is thick and heavy. My mother’s words circle within my mind. Opportunity. How is it even possible to make every moment an opportunity when the love of my life was wiped from the face of the planet before his 25th birthday? Did that drugged out driver know that he was making that moment an opportunity to murder Benji? Made poison lemonade out of lemons that night. I shake the memory of the totaled Ford from my mind and walk the three blocks to work.

Sammy’s Restaurant is nestled in a quiet part of town. I head in the back door, wave to the dishwashers and give a nod to my boss Jen who is doing inventory from the lunch rush. I grab my tattered black apron from the back hall, double knot it around my waist and rub the fatigue from my eyes. That weighty tiredness never seems to go away. I feel the forced edges of a smile when my co-worker tells me my regulars have arrived.

The night goes on mostly without a hitch. A few returned prime rib specials (finicky little things) and a heaping plate of cold mashed potatoes get comped, but that’s to be expected. Around 8:30 p.m. a woman in her mid-30’s walks into the restaurant. Slightly sun-burned, super pregnant and glowing, she walks over to the hostess and requests to be sat at my table. The night has quieted down by now, so I shrug and nod to signal that I’m good to go. I work at this restaurant nearly every night, but I’ve never seen this woman in my life. She radiates a calm that pulls me near like a magnet.

“Hi there, I’m Katie, I’ll be your server tonight. Have you been to Sammy’s before?” I muster.

“Hi Katie! No. I can’t say I have. But word has it you’re the best server around. My name is Molly,” she replies with the warmth of a million suns.

“Ah, who’s running the rumor mill around here?” I joke. “Can I get you started with something to drink?”

“I’ll take a Shirley Temple,” she says. “And whatever you have on special, please.” She hands me the laminated menu card, pulls out a small black notebook and pen, and starts sketching doodles inside. A flower with a ladybug on the stem materializes on the page.

I take pause as I feel a pang of longing fill my chest. That notebook looks just like the one sitting in my attic room. The one Benji left behind. I blink back the tears, pull my shoulders back and turn away quickly realizing how silly I looked, just standing there, staring at her notebook.

After she finishes her dinner, I circle back to Molly’s table to see if she’d like to finish off with a dessert, but when I arrive at the table she has her wallet out.

“Hey Katie, would you mind sitting for a minute?” she asks.

My feet are swollen and on fire from running around all night, so the respite is welcome, albeit out of the norm. My very own regulars never even ask me to take a seat on a tough night.

“Ah man, I almost forgot what sitting felt like,” I sigh as I plop onto the bench seat.

Molly laughs and looks at me for a moment. “So…fate isn’t what brought me into this restaurant today. And the rumor mill isn’t what told me you were a phenomenal server, Katie. Benji mentioned it.”

I suddenly feel as though the wind is knocked out of me, just by hearing his name. His name uttered by a total stranger, the syllables echoing in my ears.

Sensing alarm, Molly quickly reassures me, “Let me explain. My mother, God rest her soul, was admitted to Lily View nursing home about a decade ago with early-onset Alzeihmer’s.”

I pause again, racking my brain for where I’ve heard that name before. “Wait,” I start. “Didn’t Benji used to --”

“Volunteer there? Yes,” Molly replies. “He was an absolute saint. I’d never seen a teenager so dedicated to his volunteer work, when so many students only cared about it for their college applications.”

“I remember he mentioned that place a few times,” I smile. “He always said it was a turning point in his decision to go into nursing.”

“Yeah, he even said that back then!” Molly boomed. “You wouldn’t believe the patience that kid had with my mom, even when she began lashing out more toward as her illness progressed. He became a life raft in a tumultuous time for my family.”

“That sounds like Benji,” I squeak out, trying not to let the tears spill down my cheeks.

“You see,” Molly begins. “Although my mom’s illness was rapidly consuming her, Benji made an enormous impact on every one of us. Even after my mom passed away, Benji called to check in on the family at least a handful of times each year. When we heard about his death two years ago, we were absolutely floored. I’m so deeply sorry for the loss you have endured and the pain you must be feeling in his absence.”

I can’t stop the tears from flowing now, and instead I’m trying to avoid blubbering like a full-blown whale. I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand, but I can’t speak. I have no words. Is this even happening?

“I know this is a lot, but I finally found the time to make the trip up here to see you,” Molly said. “Benji told us so much about the woman he fell in love with, the one he hoped to marry someday. I’ll be honest, it was hard for me to face you, after everything you’ve been through. But sitting here in this moment, I know I made the right decision.”

I sniffle and manage a half smile.

Molly reaches into her bag and pulls out a slim envelope and slides it across the table. The pale paper stares back at me, with “Katie” written on it in perfect penmanship. “Listen, I want you to open this at the end of your shift,” Molly says softly. “This is from our family to you, in honor and memory of Benji. Our mom would have wanted this. We want this. If you were special to Benji, you are, and forever will be, special to us.”

“Wha.. Uh, I.. I..” I sputter. “Thank you. Thank you, truly. I.. I’m speechless.”

Molly laughs, “Oh Katie, there’s nothing more to be said. You take care of yourself, you hear? And stay in touch!”

She pays her bill and exits the restaurant. I sit there, staring at the door in disbelief. Did I just imagine that?

At the close of my shift, I walk outside and sit down on the back steps of Sammy’s. My fingers tremble as I open up the pristine white envelope. First, a scrap of paper that simply reads “In memory of Benji” and includes a phone number for Molly. Then, behind that, a check. I look at the number and blink my eyes a few times to make sure I’m reading that correctly. Did they accidentally add too many zeroes? No, I’m definitely dreaming. $20,000. I’m holding a check for $20,000. This can’t be real. I stop myself from nearly hyperventilating as the tears well up in my eyes again. I put the check away in my bag and look out into the darkness. I hear my mom’s words again: “Make every moment an opportunity.” I slowly stand up, Benji heavy on my mind, and I start my trek home again. “I love you, Benji.” I say aloud to the night air. “I love you.”