Sometimes, when I’m in nature, I imagine how placid; how idyllic it must have been before humans came along. A stillness so profound, it needs a witness. That’s how I feel as I sit across from Dr. Mendez. My emotion resembles happiness enough that a smile is the only outward display that will express it.
Dr. Mendez smiles back. “You seem well today.”
I lean forward, head down, and then look up at Dr. Mendez. “Can I tell you a story?”
He rests his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands, as though in prayer. “Please.”
I spoke before knowing exactly what to say, but I wanted to say something. I rub my palms together. Then I rub my mouth and nose. I stare at the floor and chew the inside of my cheek. “Sorry,” I whisper.
“Take your time,” Dr. Mendez says.
“On, um, August first, Carver Briggs was at the bookstore where he worked, shelving books. His three friends, Mars Edwards, Blake Lloyd, and Eli Bauer, were at a movie and were supposed to meet him. They were going to go get milkshakes and then hang out at the park, which was a tradition of theirs.” I swallow hard and draw a quaking breath. “They’d been friends since eighth grade.”
My throat begins to constrict. I cough and wait for it to slacken. “He knew they’d be by soon to pick me—him—up, but he was impatient. So he texted them: ‘Where are you guys? Text me back.’ ”
I begin trembling and my vision blurs with tears. Dr. Mendez sits absolutely still. I wait for a sob to die in my chest, inhale, and continue, my voice quavery but strong, somehow. “A little later he found out they were, um, killed in an accident that happened right around the time he was texting them. Mars, actually. He was texting Mars, who was driving, because he knew that Mars would text him back, just like he asked. Even though Mars was driving. And he knew Mars was driving.”
I breathe down another sob. My hands shake violently. I ball them into fists and press forward. “And Carver is pretty sure he caused the wreck by texting Mars, but he’s not completely sure. What he is sure of is that he didn’t mean to hurt them. Ever. Ever. If he’d known what would happen, he never would have done it. And he’s very sorry.” I hesitate. “I’m very sorry.”
I can’t control my tremors and I begin weeping. I lean so far forward that Dr. Mendez can probably see only the top of my head. I cover my eyes with my hand and cry like that for a minute or two. It feels so good. It feels like dream bawling. Dr. Mendez leans over and scoots the box of tissues to within my reach. I take one, wipe my eyes, and wad it up in my hand.
I finally sit upright again and slump down in my chair, exhausted. I laugh a congested cry-laugh. “Sorry. Such a baby.”
Dr. Mendez’s face is solemn. He shakes his head. “No.” He leans back in his chair and taps his lips. He stares past me. He starts to say something but catches himself. He looks me dead on. I’ve never seen such a stormswept, haunted look in his eyes. “Now I want to tell you a story,” he says softly. Almost as though asking permission. “I don’t normally do this, but this time, I feel I need to.”
I give him the “Dr. Mendez go-ahead” gesture. He smiles when he recognizes it. I see a slight tremble in his lips.
“When I was in high school, I had a dear friend named Ruben Arteaga. Anyway, one night, we’re supposed to hang out, and we fight over something. I don’t even remember what now. Something stupid. Something petty. We go our separate ways. I stay home; he heads over the bridge to Juarez to party.”
Dr. Mendez shakes his head. He puts his finger to his lips as though trying to stop himself from talking. But he continues, clearing his throat, his voice overcast. “I wake up the next day, and, um, Ruben isn’t at school. I wait for him to show up; he doesn’t. I call him after school; nothing. I come to learn he was found in an alley behind some bar, badly beaten. He’s alive, but barely. He holds on for a while with machines living for him. But then…”
A single tear slides down Dr. Mendez’s cheek. “I’m sorry. This is still hard for me.” His voice cracks. He removes his navy-blue-frame glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose.
I scoot the tissue box over to him. We laugh.
“Thank you, doctor,” he says. He sighs and puts his glasses back on. “I knew in my heart I killed Ruben. If only I had swallowed my pride and not fought with him. If only I had stopped him from going. If only. If only. I looked to the moon and I saw Ruben’s face. I looked to the clouds and saw a finger pointing at me.”
“Pareidolia.”
“Pareidolia.”
“All the therapists in the world and I get one who understands better than anyone,” I murmur.
“You were owed a bit of luck.”
“Is that why the stories?”
“It was only by engaging with other stories—stories that removed me from the equation—that I was able to close this wound so I could heal. The universe—fate—is cruel and random. Things happen for many reasons. Things happen for no reason. To shoulder the burden of the universe’s caprice is too much for anyone. And it’s not fair to you.”
“So I still have a ways to go, huh?”
“This isn’t the end of a journey but the beginning. You’re now where most people who lose a loved one or loved ones start. You’ve done the work to properly understand and contextualize your place in this tragedy, but there’s more healing to come. You’ve beaten the infection in the wound, so now it can heal.”
“I hope I feel completely right again someday.”
Dr. Mendez’s eyes, though teary red, twinkle. “You won’t. And yet you will. I’ll remember Ruben’s smile, or I’ll smell a cologne that reminds me of him—like a lot of teenage boys, he always wore too much. And when those memories hit me, I feel that ache. So will you. But your life will be full enough, big enough to absorb it, and you’ll go on.”
A few moments pass.
“Can I tell you something?” I ask.
“Of course.”
I tell him I’m going to do a goodbye day with my parents someday soon. More of a hello day, actually. So they can hear my story. So I can offer them all of myself that I put behind walls for no good reason.
I tell him I believe we are stories of breath and blood and memory and that some things never finally end.
I tell him I hope, after we’re gone, there’s a day when a great wind fills our stories with life again and they rise from sleep; and that I write the best story I can—one that echoes in the void of the eternities at least for a time.
I tell him I hope I see my friends again someday.
I tell him I hope.