Jills part of the Story
Jill is the first one to fully contribute, so read on...That night was riddled with should haves. Well, for me, the list was immense. I should have driven slower. I should have stayed put. I should have embraced friends in a time of need and fear. Should have is a terrible place to be. I often wondered if I overdramatized the experience of that night because it was one of those crossroad moments people glorify or shame or turn about in the hand and wonder at its real significance. Some people considered what I chose that night as a right decision. Some people saw it as a desperate need to salvage what little I had left to hold. Still, others saw it as a regretful act of cowardice. I agree with the last two crowds.
My parents were out of the country for two weeks, and I had the fortune of an empty house. Two houses actually, since I was also house-sitting for a friend at the same time. Having that many guys crammed in my house with only my best girlfriend to help even out the ratio was such a riot. I liked that ratio, even if it scared the puritanical voice in my head. I enjoyed scaring that little voice that forbade me to sit next to my best buddies who happened to belong to another gender. Oooooh, so scary. I loved my boys, loved being around them, loved joining Shannon in attempts at confusing their understanding of the female psyche (whoops, should have kept that a secret).
The Pond was the sublime oasis few girls had the privilege of knowing as I had known it. I enjoyed the free air, the bonfires, the campy communal possibilities of the place. It was beautiful, and I felt honor knowing I was allowed there as one of the exceptions of the boys club. That was a big deal for me because I had already exited the school in a blaze of ‘teenage rebellion’ and was shunned by many of my former friends. I heard people talking in the church bathroom stalls to each other, how it was only a matter of time before I was another statistic, knocked up or deep into witchcraft. And don’t you just feel for Rod and Sue? They’ve tried their best; their boys seem to be making the right choices though. Maybe we should pray… Gossip veiled behind prayer requests. I still taste bile.
I wish I could say I was foolish enough that night have been drinking. I had taken a sip of Shannon’s drink and decided I didn’t like whatever it was. I wasn’t much for fruity sweet drinks. It tasted like cherries. Shannon, Spike and I sat huddled by the fire, watching the other guys be goofy. I wondered about the two with me; Shannon had hashed out a lengthy argument earlier at her house on Spike’s finer points and how she felt or didn’t feel. Her self-arguments were endearing in their simple complexities. She could talk herself into and out of something so well.
Since it was getting quite chilly for a summer night, I offered the house I was watching in Gang Mills as an indoor venue. It offered comfort and privacy if it was needed. It had already been a decent place to party as we had discovered earlier that week. We packed up the remaining bottles into my car. Everyone crammed inside the little Mazda, windows rolled down, and music blared on those tinny speakers. And I flew. Should have known better. Should have remembered the sharp curve of that turn from the day before. Should have seen that deer at the roadside as an omen, a warning sign to ease up. Should have.
Next, I was breathing curses under my breath - cursing the downward sliding gravel, cursing the giant oak stretching its arms toward us, cursing my tires for not gripping. Just stop, just stop, just stop, please, just stop. We had flown through brush, came face to face with that looming oak, but crested on top of a rock. I am not sure if it was a crunch or a slam; it was just hard and abrupt. I hit my head on the wheel – I had forgotten my seatbelt. A dark spray of Guinness misted through the car. Everyone erupted in a chorus of swearing and moaning. I checked Shannon’s arm, for she had been feeling the breeze before branches beat against her. She was fine, whimpering, but fine. Shit, I am so screwed. I stumbled out of the car, a purple hissing angry mess of a car. I began crawling backwards over branches and leaves, trying in some primitive way to rewind the immediate events. Stopping to clutch loose gravel in fists, I sat sprawled facing my wrecked car’s profile. Steve came over to me, then Jonathan. Everyone is fine. This will be okay. Shit, how are we getting out of here? Someone’s got to get the truck. I heard voices, but everything went numb. Every one of my senses fuzzed up. I think Steve walked me around trying his best to calm what was inevitable. Shock or a break – but not yet. First, we extricated my car, losing its front bumper as a final flourish to pending doom. The tow to my parent’s house was eternal; I had already begun rocking myself as I steered from behind. Once home, I retreated to my parent’s empty bedroom. With everyone else downstairs coping well enough with the situation and their inebriation, I grappled with enveloping walls of silence and dark.
My parents already did not trust me as much since my self-emancipation that had only decreased their faith in my ability to decide properly and maturely for myself. This felt like a box of nails for my coffin had just been chucked at my feet. A sealed fate. Judged. What the hell am I to do? Why isn’t anyone up here with me? I need help! I argued with myself, consoled myself, and rocked myself the entire night. What could I do? Even as my friends lay sleeping one floor below, I decided I had to ‘do the right thing’. Do the only thing I had been taught my entire life: repent. Repent of everything I had come to love and hold dear; for in only that action, I felt a possibility of redemption and future freedom. Even if it killed me, I had to turn from my wicked ways and return to the fold.
Looking back, my return only increased my isolation. Sure, my parents told me they were just glad I was alive. The rumors swirled about like wildfire; I had veered, wandered, and explored with an independent spirit. Disjointed and despised, I was never more bound by what was never forgiven or forgotten by my church peers or elders. And worse, deep down I knew I had cut off the only people that seemed to understand me or care if I lived and breathed. I felt utterly alone to face what remained. Yet, what remained? Little. I resigned myself to running away for a fresh start out west, a complete reinvention through hopeful pilgrimage. I had my course mapped, set aside supplies, even had a chunk of savings ready for this escape. Nothing would have stopped me, so I had thought. Yet, one phone call gave me pause. It was such a coincidental connection that I had to explore this option suddenly given to me. At some base level, it was my ticket out of the entire mess, my chance to start again.
anyone that would care to contribute should do so...
posted by NY Monk @ 9:41 PM
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