Chapter Three
Adelaide - February
Why is it so hard to mend a broken heart?
I thought that time and independence would somehow make the aching pain go away. I believed that change would have been enough to be okay. But it’s already been too long, and the heart constriction is still there.
And I’m not okay - even though I wish I could be.
I try to not to dwell on what could’ve been, because it’s already too hard to think of what there really was. And what there really was… was nothing. At least, not what I had hoped for it to be.
But that was for the best. If our connection continued to grow, Lord knows what would have happen. I probably never would’ve left. He would’ve been stuck with me and my baggage.
Because I’m an anchor, and he would still be sinking along with me.
I bring a hand to rub my face. I need to stop thinking about him so much. It never feels better; if anything, it hurts twice as much.
After chopping off my hair - nearly a month ago - I thought I would feel a sudden empowerment. I thought that maybe I could conquer the world. Instead, I didn’t feel anything of that sort. I felt a bit terrible actually. But it was just hair - hair grows back.
And hopefully, if time permits, I’ll be able to grow again too.
Grow past that fleeting love.
Grow past this brokenness.
I just want to feel whole again.
***
I stare at the blank canvas - a charcoal pencil in my hand, my thoughts hesitant.
It was a strange feeling to hold a pencil again. Even though the will to draw something is there, I can’t seem to conjure creativity. The hobby that I once loved wasn’t a spurring passion anymore.
Nothing was a spurring passion anymore.
After another few moments of no inspiration, I finally lean over my bed and reach for the bedside drawer. Pulling the drawer open, I take out a frayed, oversized manila folder - my old portfolio. As I place it onto the bed, a rush of memories fill my system.
An image of high school settles into my head, and I recall memories of sitting in art class during junior year. It was the only place where I felt like I sort of belonged. Even there, I still felt like a freak. My art teacher, Mrs. Griswold, was a nice lady - a bit crazy, but what art teacher isn’t?
One day, she came over to my little corner in the room and inspected my pieces - the ones in my portfolio. Mrs. Griswold looked amazed and told me that my art was fantastic; it had been the first compliment I received in years.
After seeing what I was capable of, she encouraged me to apply for art school. Mrs. Griswold said the key to my future was the portfolio. Least to say, I chickened out. As much as I dreamed of art school, I wasn’t that good - not art school worthy.
Besides, I didn’t have that kind of money. And to avoid any questions from her, I didn’t take another art class the following year.
Even though I didn’t take art at school again, I did continue drawing at home. It was an escape, and I loved the thrill of a finished art piece. It fills you with such accomplishment.
Once the image fades away, I stare at the portfolio. I hadn’t bothered taking it with me when I left. There was no point; I didn’t want to remember anything about the past. But now as I see the edges of smudged paper sticking out, I can’t help but pry the folder open.
On the very top, sits my first attempt at painting. The art of painting has never been a skill of mine - I definitely prefer pencil. I manage a small smile as I take in the soft hues and darker contrasts. Surprisingly, the painting isn’t too terrible.
As I remove each art piece after another, I see just how far I’ve come as an artist. Each piece is different, better and holds more emotion. Finally, I get to the last piece of art - a simple graphite pencil drawing. Only, it’s not so simplistic.
The drawing, I personally believed, was my best. It was of a woman in a gown, walking into the distance. You couldn’t see her face, only her silhouette. That’s what I loved so much about it - the ambiguity of it all.
I drew the picture during the weeks before I decided to impulsively take that bus to Ohio. I can’t recall every emotion that ran through me, but I do remember feeling exhausted with everything. I was done with being alone, neglected, pushed aside.
All I wanted was to be included. Wanted.
With a sigh, I shut the portfolio, and look back at the blank sheet haunting me.
I thought that looking at my old art would’ve inspired me - sadly, I still can’t feel anything. That was the thing about art - you have to feel something. Feelings create the greatest works of art. But right now, all I felt was…
And before I know what’s even happening, my fingers are flying across the paper.
I lose myself in the image I’m creating. I fill the sheet with all my pent up emotions - the feelings, or really the lack of, I’ve dealt with that last few weeks. I’m so in the zone I don’t hear the door open, and I don’t hear it when someone walks into the room.
“What are you doing, Adelaide?”
Whipping my head towards the door, my eyes widen and I freeze. Once I see who the person is, my shoulders slump in relief.
I give my father a sheepish smile, “Nothing.”
In reality, I wasn’t doing nothing - I was finally drawing again. Glancing down at the drawing, I nearly shriek at what I drew. Then suddenly, I forget how to breathe. Seeing my distress, my father walks over to the edge of the bed.
“I haven’t seen you do much since…” he says, trailing off and eyes glazing over. “What did you draw?”
All I can do is nod and flip over the paper. When I don’t show my father the drawing, he pries my hands away from the edges and examines the sheet. His eyes widen and I’m not sure how he sees it.
“I’ve been kind of melancholy these past few-” I start to say.
“Adelaide, this is great.”
I look at the paper, sadness dripping from the image. I can’t believe I even drew that, but I can’t deny that the drawing isn’t great - it really is. The image evokes a lot of emotion.
“Though, I am wondering… whose eyes are these?”
Immediately, I tense up.
I didn’t want to tell him.
I couldn’t tell him.
So, I go with a vague answer. “Oh, just a pair of eyes I saw passing by.”
And in that moment, something in my freezes. Where have I seen those eyes before? It was a question I asked once - it seems like forever ago though - but now I know the answer.
Those eyes I saw in that cafe, oh so long ago, they were his eyes.
The beautiful, intense eyes I saw passing by were Nash’s.
My heart constricts again.
My father’s eyes meet mine; warmth that I haven’t seen in years fills them. I manage a weak smile and he places the drawing down on the bed. Reaching for my charcoal-stained hands, he grabs a hold of them tightly.
“Really, Adelaide, the drawing is wonderful. I never knew you had an interest in art.”
That’s because you never bothered to pay attention to me, I think bitterly. You don’t know anything about me.
Seeing the obvious scowl on my face, my father sighs, “I’ve really messed up, honey.”
Swallowing the resentment I held for him, I manage another strained smile. I didn’t know what to say. Sure, I was somewhat over the past. However, I could never forget how alone I felt after Mom’s death. That was a time in my life that I needed him the most - and he didn’t even care.
“I’m really sorry, Adelaide,” he says, looking down.
A silence passed between us. I’m not sure what prompts me, but I finally sigh and place a hand on his arm. He looks up at me, clearly shocked that I’m even responding to him.
“Saying you’re sorry isn’t going to fix the past, Dad,” I say, a sad smile on my face. “But I’d really like to just move on from that.”
“Really?” he asks, eyes hopeful.
I nod my head, “Yeah, really. And just so you know dad, I… I forgive you.”
A huge weight is lifted off my chest and a smile breaks onto his face. My father looks happier than he’s ever been. Out of sheer happiness and impulse, he pulls me into his arm. And for the first time in years, I hug him back.
I allow my father’s warmth to envelope me.
Even though my mom was no longer on this earth, I knew she was watching me. She would always be there - maybe not physically, but she’s in my heart.
I will be okay.
We would be okay.
***
After my father leaves the room, I turn the drawing back over.
I stare at the drawing and little daggers of electricity seem to course through my body, right to my heart. Out of everything I could draw, why did it have to be his eyes?
Why is it always him on my mind?
Why can’t I just start fresh again?
I feel like a prisoner; my past is a cell that I just cannot escape.
It’s like I take one step forward - one step towards something new. I want the future so bad; I just want to be happy again. But then I suddenly tumble two giants steps back - back to the old me, back to everything that could’ve been… back to a place where light fails to reach.
Looking at the drawing again, a shot of impulse overtakes me, and I suddenly run my finger harshly over the paper. The sharp lines that defined and contoured the eyes become smudged, fingerprints now marring the page. The eyes aren’t so intense anymore; instead they look clouded with confusion.
They scream, Why? And I just don’t have an answer.
I chuck the drawing into the folder and throw it under the bed. I never want to see that d*mn drawing again. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to see those eyes again, either.
Those stupid eyes that I can’t seem to let go of.
And maybe it’s because I feel overwhelmed right now, or maybe it’s because I just forgave my father, but I suddenly pick up the slim graphite pencil in my hand and throw it across the room.
As much as I did love drawing and everything about it, art clearly wasn’t healthy. Art connects emotions and feelings - things that plague my heart and cripple my actions. Maybe it’s time to let this art thing go.
Maybe it’s time to let him go.
For real this time.
No more all talk and no action, I really have to try. For me.
Falling back onto my bed, I reach for a pillow - a pink fluffy one that still inhabits my very girl room - and bring it close. A few moments pass by, and I suddenly feel something cascade down my cheek, landing with a silent splatter on the pillow.
My hands reach for my cheeks, feeling wetness there.
Am I crying?
And then before I can even comprehend why tears are falling, a silent sob racks through my body. I find myself clutching the pillow tightly, praying that my father doesn’t hear. We just mended our relationship and released his burdens - he doesn’t need my pathetic self to concern him even more.
Eventually, the tears stop and I just feel cold.
And empty.
They say that when you cry, it either means you’re so happy, you have no idea what to do. You’re just so overwhelmed with happiness that your body’s only reaction is to cry. On the other hand, crying can also mean something final has occurred - a death, a departure.
And I guess for me, this is what I need.
This is a goodbye.
Hello everyone!
This was kind of an emotional chapter to write – everything is just so depressing and sad. But even though things are kind of down in the dumps right now, don’t give up on us just yet! This is only the beginning; we still have so much of the story to tell.
Anyway, thank you all for reading, voting, and commenting on our little story.
xoxo, Gabby from The Aurora Honor