Nova and Quinton: No Regrets

Chapter 5

Quinton

December 9, day forty-one in the real world

My support group’s okay, I guess. For the most part, I just sit by myself in the back and listen to everyone talk. Although Wilson, the guy who’s in charge of the meetings, has cornered me a few times and asked me to share my story. I told him I wasn’t ready, though. That I’ve only been out for a month—well, forty-one days to be exact—and I’m not ready to share what’s going on inside me yet, not even with myself, let alone a whole roomful of people. He told me he gets it and I actually believe that he does, considering what he’s been through. What’s surprising to me is how normal he seems, despite what happened. Like right now. I’m listening to him talk about the accident and his guilt over it and it’s the strangest thing to me because, for starters, he can talk about it sober. And also because he doesn’t look like he’s going to break down.

“You know, I remember right after, I was sitting in the hospital, getting a few cuts stitched up, which was pretty much the only thing I had from the accident.” He sounds calm, but I can see it in his eyes, the remorse, existing, yet it’s not eating away at him, like it feels like it’s doing with me. “And I kept thinking, why me? Why did I survive?” He adjusts his tie, something he always does whenever he’s speaking. I think he might even wear the tie for the sole purpose of having it to fidget with. “Why couldn’t I have been the one to die in the car accident instead of the other way around?” He pauses there, loosening the tie as he glances around at the ten to twelve people sitting in the fold-up chairs, staring at him. All different ages, heights, weights. Male. Female. So different, yet we all share the same thing. Guilt.

He starts to pace the room, taking short, slow strides, even though his legs are long, like he wants to take his time. He’s thirty-five years old and told me the other day that the accident happened almost ten years ago. Ten years on March seventeenth, to be exact, which is his birthday. I thought it was totally fucked up when he told me that, that something like that happened on his birthday, and he replied that it would be fucked up no matter what day it happened on.

He suddenly stops pacing and faces the group. His choked-up demeanor has changed into one of what looks like anger. “For the longest time I kept asking myself, why me? And there were a lot of people who were asking the same thing, especially the children and the grandchildren of the people I killed when I ran the red light. They blamed me—still do. And I don’t blame them. It’s my fault. I know that, and for the longest time I thought I had to suffer for it. Pay for what I did.” He crosses his arms, the anger switching to passion. “And you know what, I should… pay for it, but not by having a pity party for myself.” He shakes his head. “But let me tell you, I did have a pity party. A huge one, where I jacked up my body with about every drug I could think of, and you know what? It made me feel better, and I guess that was the most fucked-up part of it all—that I was feeling good. Getting high, while people hurt because they lost a loved one, all because I couldn’t put down the damn phone while I was driving.” He pauses, lowering his head, and I think he might be crying.

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 fucking 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 fucking 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 fucking 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 fuck down.

I drum my fingers on my knee as I dial Nova’s number and then listen to the line ring. As it gets to the fourth one, I think she’s not going to answer, and I’m about ready to hang up and go over to Marcus’s house and buy whatever I can off him. Get a hit. Feel the rush. Then the numbing. Thankfully Nova picks up right as her voice mail clicks on and I exhale a breath of relief, realizing how weak I still am—how much help I still need.

“Hey,” I say after she answers, instantly settling down, my pulse calming.

“Hey.” She sounds breathless. “I was hoping it was you calling.”

Her response makes me smile, but of course it also confounds me that she’d be that happy to hear from me. “Yeah, I just wanted to talk to you… but if you can’t talk, then it’s okay.”

“Why couldn’t I talk?”

“Because… I don’t know. You sound sort of breathless.”

She laughs and I close my eyes, relishing the tranquil sound of it. “That’s because I was playing Twister with Lea and Tristan and I had to run to get the phone.”

I lean back against the wall, my eyes opening. “Twister? Was that Tristan’s idea?” I loathe that I sound jealous, but I can’t help how I feel. That I wish I were the one living with her, playing games where I get to tangle our bodies together in awkward positions.

“No, it was actually Lea’s,” she says, and I distinctively hear a door close. “She said she was bored and that she needed to do something other than sit on the couch and watch reruns of Vampire Diaries.”

“And Twister was that thing?”

“Yeah, it was the only game we had in the closet, and just in case you’re wondering, it did belong to Tristan.”

“I knew he had something to do with it.” I remember all the times he wanted me to hook up with girls. Tristan always wanted to hook up with any girl he came across. God, it feels like years ago when it was only months. A whole different world, full of cracks, temptations, and unsteady footsteps. That’s what life feels like when you’ve been on drugs for years and then suddenly you’re sober.

“Yeah, I guess he’s kind of a perv, isn’t he?”

“Sometimes,” I say, then decide I need a subject change because talking about Tristan’s pervertedness isn’t helping me calm down. “So I was thinking that you could put on the song first tonight and then we could talk.”

“Yeah, I could do that.” She sounds confused. “But can I ask you why?”

“I’m just having a rough day,” I tell her, being more honest than I usually am. “And waiting to hear what song you’re going to pick out for me always cheers me up.”

“Okay, what kind of song do you want tonight?” There’s cheeriness in her tone and I can feel my heart rate calming from it.

“How about a hopeful one?” I ask, unsure if she’ll get what I mean.

But I quickly learn that I should never question Nova when it comes to music, because a few minutes later “Rise” by Eddie Vedder comes on. It’s probably not what most people would have picked for a hopeful song, but leave it to Nova to pick something different that still gets the point across. She found me a song that’s not talking about rainbows and sunshine, but that gives enough hope that it makes me feel better.

“So what do you think?” she wonders, getting back on the phone with the music playing in the background.

“I think it’s good.” I relax in my bed and shut my eyes. Breathing seems a little bit easier, just like thinking. In fact, everything seems easier at the moment.

“Does it give you hope?” she asks, and I can hear the expectation in her voice.

I keep my eyes shut, but a trace of a smile graces my lips. “You know what? It does. It really, really does.” I pause, knowing that what I say next is going to be huge for me, but for some reason I want to do it, want to talk with her, because it always seems to make life just the tiniest bit easier. “Can I talk to you about why I was upset tonight?”

“Of course,” she says, although she does seem nervous. “I told you that you can talk to me about anything.”

I take a deep breath, then another, preparing myself to crack open a door. “It’s about my future and how much it scares me.”

“I get that,” she says, and my eyelids flutter open. “But I promise that it’ll get better—that moving forward will get better.”

“I know.” I stare at a photo of Lexi on the wall. She’s laughing at something… I honestly can’t even remember what it was. Something I said, I think. She looks so happy. So alive. Eyes bright. Heart beating. Happy. “But it’s hard to think about a future when it feels like every time I do, I’m leaving someone behind.”

I hear her breath hitch in her throat, but Nova being Nova, she sounds calm when she speaks. “I actually get that really well. That’s the way I felt about Landon.”

I swallow hard. “Did you love him?”

“Yes,” she utters softly. “He was actually my friend for a few years before we got together, but that helped me get to know him more.” She sucks in a breath and releases it gradually, like she’s on the brink of tears. “I thought I was going to marry him.”

I can feel tears prickling at my eyes as I realize what I’m about to say. “I thought I was going to marry Lexi, too… although I’m not sure she was on the same page as me. She was cryptic like that. And restless. And she didn’t like the idea of settling down.” And when she died, I saw our future together slipping away, but I was okay with it because I was dying, too, but then I came back without her and that future was gone forever.

“Landon didn’t like talking about the future at all,” Nova says sorrowfully. “Sometimes I think it’s because he knew he was… well, you know… and he either didn’t let himself talk about it, didn’t want to make any empty promises to me, or just didn’t ever think about it.”

I’ve been close to that place where taking my life seemed like the way I was going to go. Being there, I didn’t really think about my future, but I don’t want to tell her that because she deserves a better answer. “I’m sure he thought about it,” I say. “Even though he might have never said anything, he had to think about it a little. Being with you forever.”

“You think so?” she asks hopefully.

“I know so.” It’s a lie, but for a good cause. She deserves it—deserves the world and more.

“Quinton?”

“Yeah.” I’m getting choked up and even one word conveys all the grief, agony, regret, and sorrow surfacing inside me.

“I know it’s really hard to think about the future and everything,” she says. “But I have this really good feeling that yours is going to turn out a lot better than you think it is.”

“I hope you’re right,” I reply, massaging my hand over my aching chest, the scar across it a permanent reminder of what happened that tragic night. “But I don’t even know what I’m going to do in the future. I keep thinking about where I could possibly be a few years from now…”

“And what do you see?”

“I don’t know… nothing, really, at the moment.”

“Well, what do you hope to see one day?”

I roll on my back and glance at another picture of Lexi, one where I have my arms around her in a tight embrace. She’s in a red prom dress and I’m wearing a black tux. It was taken only a few weeks before the accident. “I hate seeing anything, because it makes me feel guilty that I’m… not having a future… with her…” I get really unnerved as the topic drifts toward Lexi. In a way it makes me feel like I’m almost cheating on Lexi by talking to Nova about her, yet I feel guilty talking to Nova about my old girlfriend because I’m sure she doesn’t really want to hear about her. It’s very confusing.

“Do you think she’d want you to have a future still?” she asks in a tentative voice.

That wasn’t what I was expecting. “I’m not sure…” My thoughts wander to that night she died and begged me not to forget her. “There’s actually something that happened… that night of the accident that makes me think she might not have wanted me to.”

“What was that?” she asks, then quickly adds, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

I’ve been asked by my therapists several times to talk about that night. What happened. How I felt. I always refused to give details, but with Nova, I feel like I can finally talk about it. Maybe because I know she’s seen things like I have. Death. Or maybe it’s that over the last couple of months I’ve come to trust her.

“She asked me to promise her that I wouldn’t ever forget her… when she was dying… and I did…” My voice is so strained and so quiet I’m not certain Nova even hears me. I wish I couldn’t hear me, because as soon as I say it, I want to take it back. But I can’t. It’s as permanent as the scar on my chest.

Nova is silent, probably trying to figure out how to respond to such an alarming statement. I feel bad for putting her in such a position, letting horrible secrets like that slip out that no one wants to hear about. I’m about to tell her that I should probably go, when she finally speaks.

“You don’t have to forget her to move forward in your life,” she says. “You can still remember her. And I’m sure you will, without even trying. In fact, I think it’s impossible to forget about someone that you loved once. They always stay with you.”

“But you know what happened with me… you know that I was the one driving during the accident.” I’ve never wanted a hit more badly than I do right now. The idea of sniffing, injecting, hell I’d go for inhaling, anything that could distance me from my emotions, sounds amazing right now.

“I know what I read from the newspaper.” Her voice is so soothing that it’s making my heart stay steady despite how much it wants to speed up. “But it doesn’t mean I understand what happened. I know from experience that hearing about stuff is way different from the actual experience.”

I think she’s trying to press me to tell her, but I can’t. There’s no way I can tell her the details of that night. What went on. How responsible I am for the lives lost that night. What exactly happened. Knowing Nova, she’ll definitely tell me that it wasn’t my fault when she hears everything, but that’s not what I need from her right now. I just need her. The sound of her voice. The image of her in my head.

“I can’t,” I whisper, feeling strangled. “It’s too hard to talk about.”

Her soft breathing flows from the other end and I match my own to the rhythm because it helps me to breathe through the weight bearing down on every inch of my body, helps keep me afloat even though I feel like I’m on the verge of drowning.

“Do you know what Landon and I were doing the night he took his life?” she asks. “We were lying in his backyard stargazing. And it seemed like such a perfect night, except for one thing… something Landon said to me that just didn’t sit right with me, yet I wouldn’t press him to talk about it.”

“You can’t force people to talk about things they don’t want to.” I’m not really sure if I’m referring to Landon or myself.

“Yeah, but I should have tried harder,” she insists. “He’d always say these things to me… these dark, disturbing things that still haunt me to this day because most of the time I’d just shrug them off, too worried that he’d like break up with me or something if I pushed him too far.”

“Nova, what happened wasn’t your fault.” I attempt to comfort her, but I’m not sure how good a job I’m doing. “You can’t blame yourself for that.”

“He said, ‘Do you ever get the feeling that we are all just lost? Just roaming around the earth, waiting around to die?’ ” Her voice trembles at the end and she takes a moment to pull herself together. “It was one of the last things I heard him say before we fell asleep on the hill together. When I woke up, he was gone. I couldn’t figure out where he was, because it wasn’t like him to just leave me like that.” She laughs, but it sounds so warped and wrong, laced with pain and sadness. “Go figure, it ended up that he left me forever… something I found out a few minutes later when I found him in his room.”

Each one of her words stabs at my skin, sharp and painful, as an aching need to make her feel better arises within me. “Nova… I don’t even know what to say.” I drape my arm over my head and try to shut out the aching inside me.

“I don’t want you to say anything.” Her voice balances out and she almost sounds like her normal self again. “I was just telling you my story, because I’m the only one who can really tell what happened—at least with me. And I hope one day you’ll tell me yours, but it doesn’t need to be today. Just one day.” She pauses. “In the future.”

She mentioned the word future on purpose, probably to make the point that I’m going to have a future, at least in her eyes I am.

“I wish I could make you feel better,” I tell her, rotating back onto my side so I can stare at the wall instead of the pictures around me, so for a moment it can be just her and me. “I wish I could take all your pain away.”

“Yeah, but you and I both know that’s not possible,” she reminds me. “And I’ve learned to deal with it. And you know what? It’s not as bad as it used to be.”

“I hope so,” I say, fighting to keep my voice even. “I hope one day I can be okay with everything and so can you.”

Is it possible, though? After the last few years, to heal and live a life where I’m not drowning? I used to think no and part of me still thinks there’s no way. But there’s a small part of me that has to wonder.

Does hope still exist for me?