Nova and Quinton: No Regrets
Page 13

A few people in the crowd nod, like they totally get what he’s saying. Understand. I should. It’s a story similar to mine, although my distraction wasn’t a phone, it was Lexi sticking her head out the window. The distraction that led me to drive carelessly. Still, I should have just pulled over.
I’m not understanding, though. Not yet, but I feel something change inside me. Lighten. I’m not sure what it is.
He raises his head back up and I’m surprised there aren’t tears in his eyes. “It took me years to figure out something. Years of drugs to finally realize one simple thing. That it’s not about numbing the pain, but accepting it and doing something with it. Doing something good to make up for the bad.” He starts walking back and forth across the front of the room again. “Doing something that helps people, instead of wasting away because I feel sorry for myself. Because I made a shit decision at the wrong moment and changed everything.” He glances at the people in the room, like he’s speaking to each one. “Make a difference. Make good in the world. You’ll be surprised how much easier dealing with your guilt is.”
He stops there and people start asking him questions. I stay quiet, though, getting stuck in my own head as a revelation hits me. Is that what I’m doing? Feeling sorry for myself? As I rewind through all my shit decisions over the last two years, I come to the painful conclusion that maybe I am. I mean, I haven’t done anything good to make up for the lives I’ve taken. I’ve just slowly walked toward death myself, determined to die because it seemed so much easier than dealing with all the aching inside.
The more I analyze this, the more freaked out I get. I’m not sure what’s worse, just letting myself drown in my guilt or seeing some sort of lighter side, like I’m starting to. I’m not even sure I’m ready to deal with it, and by the time the meeting ends, I’m ready to run the hell out of that church and go find someone to buy from so I can pump my body up with meth and focus on the adrenaline rush of that instead of the positive adrenaline I’m feeling.
But Wilson cuts me off at the doorway, stepping in front of me, appearing pretty much out of nowhere. “Hey, is the room on fire or something?”
I stop in front of him and give him a quizzical look. “What?”
He chuckles as he leans over and collects a Styrofoam cup from the table beside the doorway. “You were leaving so fast, I thought maybe you saw a fire.” He pauses like he’s actually waiting for me to answer the question. “But by the confused look you’re giving me, I’m guessing no to the fire, right?” Again, he waits for me to respond.
I slowly shake my head. “No… no fire.”
“So then what’s up with the rush exit?” he asks, reaching for the coffeepot. “Did my speech freak you out or something?”
I’m about to tell him no, but he seems like the kind of person who would call me out on my lie, so I warily nod. “Yeah, sort of, I guess.”
He pours the coffee into the cup before returning it to the coffee maker. “Yeah, I tend to do that sometimes when I get really intense.” He reaches for a packet of sugar. “It seems like the more speeches I give, the more passionate I get, but I think it’s because I become more and more determined to try and help people like you and me see things in a different light.”
I glance around at the few people in the room, feeling out of place. “Yeah, I can see that.”
“You seem uneasy.” He studies me as he rips the packet of sugar open with his teeth. “If I’m remembering right, Greg made you come to these meetings?”
“Yeah, he did.”
He smiles to himself as he pours the sugar into his coffee, then tosses the packet into the garbage before grabbing a stirrer. “He’s a pushy son of a bitch, isn’t he?”
I nearly smile. “Yeah, sort of, but he’s not that bad.”
“Nah, he’s not bad at all.” He walks out the door and toward the steps that lead upstairs. The meeting room is actually located in the basement of a church, of all things. I’m not really a fan of going into the church. In fact, I feel like I’m being judged the moment I step over the threshold, whether by church members or God, I’m not sure, especially since I’m not really sure I believe in God.
“In fact, he actually helped me a lot by pushing me,” Wilson continues as he jogs up the stairs.
“Really?” I ask with doubt, grasping the railing as I walk up.
He pauses in the middle of the stairway, glancing over his shoulder at me with a curious look on his face. “How long have you been seeing him?”
“A few weeks.”
He nods, like he understands something. “You’re a newbie, then.” He starts up the stairs again. “Give it time. It’ll get better.”
I’m not sure if I’m completely buying his getting-better speech. “How long does it usually take?” I ask as we step out into the pew area and turn for the exit doors to our left, which have wreaths on them. Christmas cheer everywhere and yet I feel so bummed out.
“Take for what?” he asks, stirring his coffee, which I know is stale because I tried it the first time I came to one of these meetings and nearly threw up from the nasty taste.
“I don’t know.” I scratch the back of my neck, loitering in front of the doorway as the support group people leave the church. “To get rid of the weight on my shoulders… the guilt.” I’m not even sure why I’m asking, because that would mean I believe it’s possible. And I don’t. Not really, anyway. But Wilson seems so easy to talk to, maybe because I know he once felt the same way I’m feeling.
He briefly stares at me before he takes a sip of the coffee, then stares up at the front of the church, where there’s a lectern, rows of chairs, and a stained glass window that rays of sunlight shine through. “To be honest, it doesn’t ever go away.” He returns his attention to me. “Like I said today, it’s always there, but you just got to learn how to deal with it and make your life good enough that good covers up the dark part of you.”
“Dark part?” I pretend like I have no idea what he’s talking about, when I do, way, way too f**king well.
He gives me a knowing smile, like he understands this. “You just got out of rehab, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And how long has it been?”
“Since when? Since I did drugs?”
He shakes his head and pats the shoulder of the arm where the tattoos are hidden under the sleeve of my jacket. “Since the accident.”
I swear the ink burns, scorching hot, my whole body igniting. “Two and a half years.”
He grips my shoulder. “Give it time. I promise it’ll get easier.”
“How much time?” I ask, stepping aside as a woman with gray hair whisks between us and through the door.
He reflects on what I said and I think he’s going to give me an estimated time frame, but then he says, “Have you ever volunteered for Habitat for Humanity before? Or any other organization like it?”
“Huh?” I’m thrown off by the abrupt subject change. “No, well, I mean I’ve been helping down at the homeless shelter and spending time with the elderly people in our community… why?”
He gives me another pat on the shoulder and it’s starting to annoy me but I can’t figure out why. I think it’s because I’m not really used to people touching me and because his pats seem to be an attempt to convey compassion. “Can you meet me tomorrow at six?” he asks.
“Maybe… I mean, yeah, but why?”
“Because I want to show you something.”
“If it’s about building a house, then you should know that I’m working for a painting contractor right now so I’m already sort of doing that.”
“Habitat for Humanity is a little different.” He says it with passion, removing his hand from my arm and balling it into a fist in front of him. “Imagine, building a home for someone who really needs it.” He reaches for the door and pushes it open, letting a cool breeze in. “There’s a whole world out there, Quinton. Full of people who need help and full of people who don’t want to take the time to offer help. But you and I—we see time differently. We get how important it is and how everything we do in this life matters. Good and bad. So it’s important that we spend a hell of a lot of time doing good.”
“Yeah, I guess.” I still don’t know if I’m completely on board with his speech and I think he can tell, but he refuses to give up.
“Meet me tomorrow at six at this house I’m working on,” he says, stepping out the door. “And I’ll show you.”
“Six in the morning?” I ask, and he nods. “Okay, but I have to be to be at therapy by noon.”
“That’s plenty of time.” His lips tip up into a smile and I follow him, letting the door bang shut behind me. It’s a breezy, clear day, the grass covered with frost and browned leaves.
“For what?” I ask, drawing the hood of my coat over my head.
He walks toward the grass, which is shaded by trees. “For me to show you how wonderful life can be.”
I honestly wonder if he’s on crack or something with his positivity. He doesn’t look like he’s tweaking out, though, so I don’t really think that’s the case.
After I agree to meet him, he gives me an address and his phone number, then promises me a life-changing morning. I don’t believe him, although part of me wants to. Wants to believe that one day I can walk around as happy as he is, living a drug-free life without feeling like I’m fighting not to sink into the ground.
* * *
Later that day, after I’ve gone and talked to Greg, who thinks it’s a great idea to go with Wilson tomorrow, and spent a few hours at work, I go home to a half-packed house. My father’s left me a voice mail, saying he has a meeting tonight so I should eat dinner without him. As I heat up last night’s frozen lasagna leftovers, the quietness of the house and the boxes start to get to me. I can’t believe this is happening. He’s really going to move and I’m not ready for it. I don’t want change. I want f**king stability. I want to be able to walk around and feel good like Wilson seems able to do. Jesus, I really do. Now whether I really believe that can happen, I’m not sure. But I’d like to find out.
When the microwave buzzes, I take the lasagna out and go upstairs to my room to eat it. As I sit on my bed, surrounded by the drawings and photos of Lexi, my thoughts drift to her. I can’t help but think of all the times we spent in here. We’d kiss and touch each other, laugh, and sometimes Lexi would even cry if she was having a bad day. I’d listen to her vent and try to comfort her as much as I could. I’d sometimes talk to her, too, but not a lot.
I take out my notebook, feeling the need to write as my emotions surface, connecting to my emotions, to Lexi, the accident, myself, because that’s what Greg’s been telling me I need to do.
I’ve never really been much of a talker, honestly. When I think back, I was always sort of the listener. When Lexi would talk, I’d give her my advice, but I never did seek advice, even when I felt confused, about school, life, my future. Sure, I was planning on going to college and getting married to Lexi, but deep down I always sort of wondered if she was on the same page as me—if she wanted to get married—because whenever I brought it up she would always just smile and avoid talking about it by kissing me or touching me. And I never did press, just held it all inside… kept it in until it was too late and there was no longer a way to get the answers. No way to find out.
I’m realizing I do that a lot. Avoid talking about stuff, like I did right after the accident, never dealing with the aftermath, never saying sorry for what happened, whether it was my fault or not. Even with Nova, I shut down when things get emotional or touching, although sometimes things veer in that direction without me even realizing it. Nova is easy to talk to. That’s for sure and even though I hate to admit it, I’ve talked to her more openly over the last month than I have with anyone in my entire life. But I still struggle with the really complex stuff. Like my feelings about Lexi. Or any time I can feel my heart opening up to Nova. But Wilson, he just f**king walks around in front of a room pouring his heart out. I wonder how long it took him to get there. I wonder if I can get to that place… I wonder if he has a normal life? If he got forgiveness? Let go of the past? Has a wife? Kids? A family? Could that be possible? No, it can’t be possible… can it?
As soon as I write it, I want to take it back. How can I be getting to that place? The one where I think of a future? No, I take it back. But it’s written in pen and can’t be erased, just like the brief second I had the thought can’t be erased.
“Shit.” I curse because my thoughts are suddenly racing about a million miles a minute. I need to turn them off somehow. I know one way to… but no… I can’t go there. In fact, I don’t want to. It’s been so hard to come out of that dark place and I don’t think I have the energy to drag myself up from it again.
I throw the pen across the room and ball my hands into fists. Breathe in. Breathe out. That’s what Charles had me do when I was first in rehab and I was coming off the meds that weaned me from my heroin and meth addictions. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Let it pass. But it’s not passing. I need something else. A hit. Yeah, that’s the easy solution, but the harder one has fewer long-term consequences.
I need someone to talk to. Greg. Wilson. It’s after eight and I don’t want to bother them. I immediately reach for my phone and call the one person I know I can talk to and the only person I really want to talk to. The one person I know can distract me enough to calm me the f**k down.