I meet Haven in the treehouse.
I borrow Mom's car, which I know I will be in for when she finds out I took it without permission. However, this is the last thing on my mind as I sit alone atop the wooden floorboards, eyeing the inky sky out of the window. The night air is crisp and breezy, leaving me to sit with my knees pulled to my chest and a cardigan wrapped tightly around my figure for warmth, though I don't mind the chill.
I notice the headlights before anything else, and watch from above as Haven's car slows to a stop. She hurries to exit the vehicle and climbs the ladder to the top of the branches before finally joining my side. She offers a smile in greeting, though her expression is laced with curiosity.
"Hey," Haven murmurs once she has finally settled comfortably into place, leaning against the wall opposite me. Her easy going demeanor crumbles upon taking notice of my expression. I watch her smile wilt into a concerned frown, no doubt due to a glimpse of my puffy eyes and swollen features. Slight panic laces her tone as she questions, "Are you okay, Em?"
I nod, though I remain wordless. I don't really know what to say at this moment; I cannot find the words to confess what is on my mind. All I know is that I love this girl. I love how she makes me feel, how she smiles at me, how effortlessly the two of us came together. I know the way I loved my father, and how similar the two are. I am certain he would love her if he had been given the chance to meet her. And I know in my heart it is finally time to introduce them in the best way I can.
I want Haven to know me–all of me. The good and the bad. I want to love her fully, which means I have to be open and vulnerable, as I can't truly love someone with my guard up. I know that I cannot allow myself to continue keeping secrets if I want to give Haven the opportunity to really know me, to give her the chance to meet who I really am. She deserves to know about my past so that she can choose if she wants to be a part of my future. Dad's passing has had a big impact on who I am–furthermore, his existence shaped me into who I am. If Haven loves me, then she deserves to see all parts of me, especially what I consider to be the most important parts.
I clear my throat. "I know you've met my mom." My voice is shaky as I speak, though I press on. "And I know you've probably wondered about my dad, even if you've never asked."
Haven furrows her eyebrows. Her expression is thoughtful as she regards me. "I mean, yeah," she admits honestly, tone soft. "I guess I have some questions, but . . ." she trails off, pursing her lips. "Everyone has secrets," she finally whispers. "And it's not my place to ask about it. I love you, Em. Whatever you want to talk about, you do on your own time. Just know I'll be here to listen whenever you're ready."
"I want to talk about it," I confess. My nerves feel jumbled and leave me jumpy. "I mean, I'm ready to . . ." I allow my words to wander. How do I possibly form what I am thinking into a sentence?
Haven shifts closer slightly, just enough so that her pinky can rest atop mine. I find comfort in just the single touch. "Hey," she says gently, expression riddled with simple love and affection. "When you're ready, Em. Okay?" And this is all she says. No questions, no prying. I am once again reminded of what made me so drawn to her in the first place–her gentleness, her patience, her acceptance.
My eyes sting with oncoming tears, though not the bad kind. They are tears that come with a surge of powerful emotion that cannot be processed in any other way. I purse my lips as I nod, and Haven and I sit in comfortable silence for a brief moment.
"My dad passed away last year," I say out of the blue. This is not how I pictured telling Haven about what happened–it is too blunt and raw and vulnerable. I had planned a whole speech–I had analyzed exactly how I would tell the story. I hadn't planned on just blurting my trauma in a rush of breath. However, the mere sentence is the equivalent of ripping off a bandaid. It stings at first, full of sharp pain. And then I am left with relief, the kind that comes with looking down and realizing that the wound had closed beneath the bandaid, and is now no longer.
I eye Haven for a moment, risking a glance her way. Her expression is first one of shock, then confusion and concern and sadness. I search deeply, looking for any shred of the pity everyone else who knows about what happened to my father has always regarded me with. I find none, and I love her far more than I first thought I could for this.
When she does not speak, I take her silence as a cue to continue.
"It wasn't sudden, or anything," I admit, mulling over my thoughts as I speak. "Which honestly made it worse. He started getting sick about four years before he passed. Out of nowhere, Dad would get these really intense headaches. He would come home from work and have to lay down because of the pain. At first, he just brushed this off as migraines. Nothing serious. The headaches went on for months, just slowly getting worse. It got to a point where Dad would miss work and have to sit in his recliner all day, unable to do much of anything besides sleep because of the pain. He hardly moved or ate. He was just miserable. Eventually, he consulted a few different doctors to try and figure out the cause of the headaches, but all of them treated him differently. Some said he was just suffering exhaustion, or migraines, or food sensitivities. He was prescribed tons of medications and suggested diet changes, but nothing helped. Deep down, I think Dad knew that what he was suffering was worse than what the doctors were diagnosing."
I pause to inhale a deep breath. Haven continues to do no more than listen, slipping her hand into mine and squeezing comfortingly. Her touch is the only thing grounding me, the force giving me the strength to relive the past.
"After nearly a year of these headaches, Dad finally went to get checked out by a neurologist," I relay. "It turned out that the headaches were caused by a brain tumor that hadn't been spotted before. The tumor explained why the headaches would get so bad Dad's vision would blur and he would get so dizzy and sick to the point where he was hardly cognitive. Unfortunately, the tumor going unnoticed for so long allowed it to spread. By the time the doctors picked up on it, the tumor had already tripled in size."
I hesitate before speaking any further. This is the first time I have ever had to explain what happened to my father to an outsider–the first time I have spoken of what happened aloud. Everyone back home already knew the story after witnessing my father's state firsthand, so I did not have to fill them in on the before and after. It is hard to relive this aloud at the same time it is somewhat freeing, like finally releasing an unbearable weight from my shoulders.
"Dad was diagnosed with glioblastoma three years before he passed, and the doctors immediately rushed to begin treatments," I confess. "His first surgery was a tumor removal, but the cancer was especially difficult to work with because it had already spread into the tissue of his brain. Therefore, the surgery wasn't all that successful. His cancer was incurable, so mainly treatments were done to delay the inevitable. Eventually, he started radiation and chemotherapy. Watching him go through these treatments was almost as bad as watching him suffer the pain of the headaches. He became nearly unrecognizable. He lost all of his hair and became so frail and weak . . ." I leave my words lingering as I suck in a shaky breath. I blink hard, warding off tears that keep threatening to escape.
My voice trembles and I sniffle before somehow finding the courage to go on. "I kept hoping that he was only having to go through these changes to get better, because the treatments were supposed to help. But it was still so hard to see him like that. And it's not like the treatments were easy on him. The side effects were nearly as bad as the tumor. He was constantly sick and in pain, even if less than what he was experiencing before the treatments. Honestly, I think Dad only underwent all of this for my mom's sake and mine. He hated the treatments. And I know he did because it completely changed everything about him. But he also knew the treatments would keep him around a little longer, which is what Mom and I wanted. We just wanted him. And I know that was selfish of us because of his pain, but it gave us a few more years."
I am crying now. The tears start slow, like a drizzle, before turning into a downpour somewhere along the way. I speak through my tears, forcing the words out as best I can.
"He couldn't stay at home anymore once the sickness got too aggressive," I admit. "Even when he was at home, he couldn't really do much besides lay in his recliner. And he needed help with even the simplest of tasks, like eating or walking. So eventually the doctors gave him a temporary room in a treatment hospital. I think him moving out due to needing full time care is when it finally set in that he was going to be leaving us soon. I guess that's when it hit me that Dad was never going to get better. After living at the hospital for a while, he started denying the treatments and medications. I didn't understand why he was doing this at the time, but I think I do now. He didn't want to die like that, altered by all the substances. He wanted to go as . . . himself. Or what little of him was left, because the cancer stole so much from him. And eventually . . . he did. It was the worst four years of my life, having to watch him go through that. I've never felt so helpless."
A sob racks my body. "I had to watch my father die, and it was fucking hell. I still can't really think about it. I guess that's why I never told you . . . It still doesn't feel real. Sometimes I wake up and forget that he's not going to be making breakfast in the kitchen, or that he's not going to be around when I get home from school . . . it's hard to make sense of everything that will never happen again and all of the life he still had left to live that was just . . . taken from him. I don't even know what was more painful: watching the illness consume him or holding onto hope that he would get better. It never really hit me that he wasn't going to beat the cancer until he . . ."
I trail off, unable to complete my sentence. I hiccup from crying so hard, my words faltering as I continue.
"Nothing was the same without him," I whisper. "He was like the glue holding my family together. Mom changed when he first got sick, and I can't blame her. But she hasn't been herself since he passed . . . It was a lot for her at first. In those four years, basically her only role was to take care of him. And when he was gone, I guess she thought she had nothing left. She turned to alcohol and a few other substances, so I was kind of . . . alone. Sometimes she spent weeks at a time locked in her bedroom and wouldn't come out. And if she ever was around, it was like she was a ghost. She would just sit and stare at nothing, completely unresponsive. Or she would pass out on the couch with broken bottles at her feet. I felt like I couldn't even grieve my father because I was so focused on taking care of her. It was like . . . It felt like both of my parents had died at once. I can't even explain that pain. It wasn't really until a few months ago that Mom started cleaning up her life again. Once the paperwork and everything was done after Dad's passing and she inherited Dad's life insurance, she slowly started to get sober. A few months after Dad's burial, Mom told me that she bought the house we're living in now, and we moved here, and . . ." I trail off, unsure of what else to say. I suppose Haven is aware of everything after.
I inhale a rattling breath, blinking furiously as I wipe at my cheeks. My fingers come away from my skin wet, my cheeks stinging as the breeze blows cold against my tear stained flesh.
Haven has yet to say a word. Somehow, I find the strength to eye her. Her face is pale–white as a ghost, as if she is only present in the physical, lost in an entirely different world. Her eyes are red, watery and reflecting the dim light of the stars above. Studying her, I feel as if I'm staring into a mirror.
"Em . . ." My name is a whisper from Haven's lips. The word falters and breaks like a vase trembling on the edge of a counter before hitting ground and shattering. "I don't . . ." Haven struggles to speak. She shakes her head out of frustration. I cannot tell if this stems from an internal battle as she fights back her tears, or due to seemingly not being able to form a sentence.
"I want to tell you how sorry I am," Haven starts. Her voice is hollow, as ghastly as her appearance. "Because I really, really am. I couldn't imagine . . . I can't even begin to understand how hard this has been for you to go through. But I know you've probably heard that a million times by now, how sorry everyone is for you. That's what everyone says when they don't know what else to say."
I am unable to control the snort that escapes me. Haven has no idea how right she is. I have heard the words I'm sorry so often these last few months, I suppose I have become numb to their meaning. I'm surprised she understands how meaningless these words can become.
"And I am sorry because I love you and I can't bear to see you in pain," Haven murmurs. "But you're so strong, Em. And I bet you've heard that a million times as well, but it's true. And I admire you for it. You still wake up every day and you still find reasons to smile and somehow, after all you've been through, you selflessly make me so fucking happy. I never met your father, and I wish that I could have. But I just know he's looking down at you and he's so proud of the amazing woman his daughter has become. I know it."
Haven's words fill my eyes with tears once more. I don't know what I had been expecting, sharing this piece of myself with her. Maybe I had felt it was time to come clean about my past or maybe I just couldn't keep pretending that I'm okay. No matter the reason, I could not have hoped for a better reaction from Haven. Somehow, she always knows how to make everything better. I have heard I'm so sorry for your loss and It will be okay one day more times than I can count, from loved ones and strangers alike. But Haven spares me the bullshit and manages to speak the words I have most longed to hear. And I love her for it.
I don't have to ask, Haven just knows. She slides toward me and takes my hands in hers, angling her face toward mine so that I cannot escape holding her stare.
"I know that had to take a lot for you to be able to share with me," she whispers. "And I'm so glad that you did."
"I've just felt so . . . broken," I admit without thinking. My voice cracks, affected by my impending tears. "I don't know if I'll ever be okay again . . . if I'll ever be me again."
Haven takes my face in her hands. Her palms are warm against my cheeks, seeping into my skin and filling me with solace.
"You are not broken, sweet girl," Haven reassures. Her tone is so welcoming, so filled with love, I almost believe her. "You're healing. You've been through something that altered the entire course of your life and you're trying to adjust to this new path. But that doesn't make you broken. And maybe you'll never be the same person you were before, but that isn't a bad thing. I don't know the pain you have to bear, but I promise I am going to be by your side for as long as I can trying to help you carry it. You don't have to go through this alone anymore, Em. I'm here, okay? I'm right here."
My head finds a home in the crook of Haven's neck and my soul finds peace in her presence. Her hands are soothing against my skin as I break, allowing Haven to take in the mess that I am before gently piecing me back together.
"I love you," Haven whispers in my ear, holding me so impossibly close. "I love you so much."
Her words multiply my tears. She loves me, all of me, even still–and I know she means it. Wholeheartedly, undoubtedly, undeniably she loves me. I don't feel deserving of such a thing, to be loved by someone so good, so pure, so radiant. Yet I never had to prove my worth to Haven, never had to earn her affection . . . one day our souls collided and she became mine, and I hers. The connection between us is simple and easy yet deep and indescribable all at once. I don't know what I would do without her.
Her lips find mine, slick with our tears. Her lips are healing. I kiss her and I release it all–every doubt that tells me I am less than, every fear that says I am undeserving, every negative thought I have held onto about myself. I allow the love I feel from Haven to fill all of my empty spots until I finally feel whole again.