My room is much larger here in my mother’s suburban home in Toronto. My trip from New York State, where I had lived with my father had been tiring; emotionally and physically.
Three months had passed since the day of the accident and I had been living with my dad’s sister for a while until I knew it had been time for me to live with my mom again. The scar on my left cheek would forever remind me of how my life had changed. I close my eyes and slowly count to five. That always helped me before. When I had been four on a particularly windy night I had run crying to my dad, who had been sleeping soundly. “It’s okay Pumpkin,” he had told me. “Hold your breath and count to five and the scary feelings will go away.”
After five seconds I let the air out of my lungs and wait patiently for the pain in my heart to go away. Nothing. It failed; my fool-proof way of feeling better has been failing for the past three months, since the accident.
Downstairs had been agonizing. Pamela’s need for conversation gives me a headache and it hadn’t helped that the Michael guy kept ogling me. I miss Tommy, but I know that he is a subject that I can’t breach.
I lay in my bed waiting for the door to close downstairs signaling that Pamela’s two neighbors have left. I hope they don’t think that I am a charity case. I only have this year left of high school and I will be done. I will go somewhere far away when I am done; away from all these memories.
My parents had divorced when I had been three and my dad had surprisingly won child custody over my mom, who had yet to find a secure job. At the age of ten she had offered me a home, this home, but yet I had been happy with my dad. Years went by and Pamela missed many important events in my life, but not by choice, just simply because I wasn’t accustomed to being so open with her.
My room back when I lived with my dad had dark blue walls, this one has pink walls. I despised the color. The one back home had double closets, this one has a walk in closet that can easily be another room. The one back home had been small and without its own individual bathroom unlike this one, which hosts a spacious bathroom, but it had been my bedroom; the same bedroom where I had grown up. The bedroom in which I had had countless sleepovers with my best friends who had vanished during the last three months, the same bedroom in which Tommy and I had said our first I love you’s.
It had been mine. And this one belongs to a stranger.
I change my position on the large queen size bed (I am used to the single back home) to a curled up position and I feel myself unable to hold back. Hot, sticky tears fall from my closed eyes as I think about home and about my new life. There is no going back. Everything has changed and God did not care to give me a say in whether I like the changes or not. It just happened, destroying everything that I had.