HURRICANES

Day 19

The ceiling was a mess. It was littered with cobwebs on the corners and packets of mold throughout. Nola tilted her head on the pillow, narrowing her eyes—how exactly does one get this thing out? Cobwebs, she could manage, but the mold was the tricky part. Even if she knew how to get it off, how would she ever reach to the top—

Beep-beep-beep-beep.

The sound of the alarm seemed to come blaring through, when in reality, it was only probably a few decibels high. Nola turned her head to look at it, taking care of the arm that was in a sling—not quite realizing how redundant the act of looking at an alarm clock was. After all, it was the alarm’s job to go off at five a.m. each morning—but made no move to shut it off. The beep-beep’s sliced through the silence, through her very eardrums, and might as well have crushed her skull—and yet, yet she made no move to turn the damn thing off. The sound was almost…welcoming. The sound, designed to wake people up was so comforting to her, that it essentially lulled her back to sleep. The sound was…a sound. A sound, apart from the deafening silence that magnified every creak in the stairs, every clink of a spatula against a pan, every ruffle of the curtains on a particularly windy day—her very thoughts. Nola could only wish she could turn them off the way she could, the alarm.

But she couldn’t. So, she didn’t. She turned off the alarm instead, and got up. The cobwebs weren’t going to sweep themselves.

Day 31

Nola would say she had a good day.

She slept for four hours, straight. She went back to work today. She made plans with her colleagues—friends. And if that wasn’t improvement enough, she even met with a therapist. She didn’t know if she was going to regret the absurd amount of money she had to pay for the counselling, but it was a start.

Nola couldn’t tell exactly what events took place between her getting home and her sitting on the bed, a plectrum clutched in her hands. She didn’t know how long she had been sitting there. Perhaps, she had taken her good fortune for granted. Perhaps, she never should have decided to get some cleaning done, never should have looked under the bed.

Nola’s entire body had stiffened up the moment her eyes spotted the godforsaken piece of wood. She could feel so much at once—her heart thumping, her throat drying, her lungs faltering. And even though every instinct of hers screamed at her to let it go let it go let it go, she couldn’t. Nola stretched her arms, her hands gingerly feeling the wooden pick, as if expecting it to explode right before her eyes. But once she took it in her hands, there was no stopping. She pressed it hard, trying to suppress whatever emotion was building inside of her. She turned it around. And she turned it around again, trying and failing to feel every atom of the little article. She brought it up to her face, feeling its smooth texture on her skin.

And now, four hours later, she wasn’t even looking at the pick anymore. She was staring ahead, her eyes were on the table lamp, and yet they were so distant—she might as well be staring at nothing. It was funny, an Avengers cosplay costume tucked away safely in the attic somewhere, a broken ‘Best Girlfriend Ever’ mug wrapped up in a newspaper, hundreds of polaroid pictures stuck away in scrapbooks and this…this measly guitar pick is what it took to break the dam.

“You know, I’m thinking of learning how to play a guitar.”

“Are you now? Look at Mr. Chick Magnet over here!”

“Always have been.”

Nola shut her eyes tight, willing for the memories to disappear but no matter how hard she tried, they came back again and again and again like waves on the shore. Tears streamed down her face effortlessly, not quite ready to be gulped down yet.

Nola had thought she was having a very good day, but that was before she was reminded of the fact that she lived in a home of strewn artefacts, of entities that might as well belong to a different place, a different time. And if the night hadn’t been rough already, she lay down, her head swirling with the thoughts of one man—

Ivor Brock.

Day 55

“Sure Nan, whatever you say.”

“You couldn’t be more condescending if you tried!”

“Did you expect something else when you said, and I quote, ‘Captain America is the best Defender ever!!’?”

“Well, honey. He is a soldier. From the Fifties. He’s got values and virtues and…a pleasant face. Of course, he’s the best!”

blink-182 played on in the background but their bickering was loud enough to drown it out. The car smelled like a bakery, it tended to happen whenever Nan was around. Nan wore a lilac dress, white little flowers printed all along the length of the fabric. The weather was pleasant, so Nola decided to switch off the AC and pull the windows down instead. It wasn’t very dark but the stars still peeked through the sky. Nola remembered the taste of the humid air—it had just rained, the view of the sparkly sky, the sound Nan’s annoyed voice—until it wasn’t. Until the voice turned from mildly annoyed to frantic to terrified.

Nola steered the car out of the truck’s way to the side of the road, but it seemed like the truck wasn’t following a straight path. Every moment that passed bought the truck closer and closer—and, and she couldn’t be sure, but she heard frantic screams. She heard the screech of the tires as she tried to swivel it to the side—to much to the side it seemed, as the next moment the car was sent sliding down into the woods. A lifetime passed between locking eyes with the headlights of the truck and sliding down the wet, slippery mud. A lifetime, before the car collided violently with a tall tree.

Nola’s eyes opened with a start, and she registered only a moment later the freakish rate of her heartbeat. Two months, she kept chanting, almost two months and it’s still as bad as the first day. She shut her eyes tight, willing the images to disintegrate inside her mind, although, she knew quite well that they would only recede further away inside her brain—only surfacing when she would least expect it. Releasing a shaky breath, she stepped out of her bed, already thinking up excuses about why she couldn’t attend the get together she had planned with her colleagues.

Day 83

Nola found herself staring at a clock. It was 6:01 p.m. now. Wasn’t she supposed to be done by now? Her appointment was at 6 p.m. every Thursday, a minute of her hour already gone by. Her leg had started to shake now. The sound of the clock seemed to be growing with each tick in the eerily quiet waiting area. 6:02 p.m. She could leave. She didn’t absolutely need to do this, she could just leave.

“Ms. Lautner,” a voice rang out from the receptionist’s desk. Nola nodded at her and smiled, ready to face another round of psychoanalyzing that she signed up for.

“Good evening, Dr. May,” she greeted. Dr. May smiled in return.

“How was your week, Nola?” Dr. May asked Nola, not missing her slight wince.

“Good!” Nola replied, and when no other word was spoken for the next thirty seconds, she added, “I had a nightmare on Tuesday.”

“I see.”

“You see? It’s been two months, don’t you think this…this…should be gone by now?” Nola asked, throwing her hands up. Some part of her knew she was being a particularly difficult client, but a major part of her didn’t care. All she wanted was the memories of that day out of her head.

“Nola, it is not going to disappear,” Dr. May said in that voice she used, every time she was dropping the cold, hard truth, in the gentlest way possible. “It will get better, though. You will have to learn to live through the nightmares in order to see things get better.”

“Why? Why should I get to escape unharmed when—when Ivor’s Nan didn’t get to?” Nola struggled to get the words out.

“I take it that you still hold yourself responsible for all that occurred?”

“I was responsible!” Nola said, disbelief evident on her face. How could this lady suggest any different?

“Nola, the driver of the truck that you dodged was drunk. You need to factor that in before you make any harsh judgements.”

“Oh, thanks. That particular piece of information just makes everything better!” Nola snapped, sarcasm lacing every word that she said. A moment later, she sighed and shook her head, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—it’s just that—I was the one who offered to give her a ride. I promised Ivor that I’d take care of her. It’s on me.” She rubbed her face with her hands, utterly exhausted, “some days, I feel like if only I could see the truck sooner, if only I’d never have steered onto the wet mud, if only—”  

“If only you’d never have offered to drive Ivor’s Nan out that day. Or somehow convinced her to stay in. If only you could go back in time and—but there’s the thing. You can’t. You can’t go back in time and change anything that has happened,” Dr. May said.  In hindsight, you could have an infinite number of if only’s. But there is absolutely no logic in beating yourself up over a decision you took then, believing it to be the right one.

“You need to forgive yourself, Nola. You need to start accepting yourself—for everything that you believe you are. It’s the only way out through this darkness."                                                                                     

Day 137

Nola was out of eggs this morning. And milk, bread, and just about every item she’d need, were he to prepare a decent breakfast for one. But what she imagined to be an innocent walk to and from the grocery store turned out to be a total disaster when she found herself face-to-face with Ivor Brock.

Before, Nola would never put the words ‘disaster’ and ‘Ivor’ in the same sentence—at least not with the same connotation. Because Ivor was a disaster, alright. He was a disaster at cooking. He was a disaster at playing guitar and building Lego blocks. He was a hurricane when he entered Nola’s life, and left behind dust and debris in his wake.

Before, she didn’t have to think twice before calling out his name. His name, nothing less than a prayer on her lips. But that was before.

The moment Nola spotted him at the opposite end of the aisle, she felt the air get knocked out of her lungs. She swallowed a lump that was threatening to build up in her throat, as she took in his features. He looked haggard—with a shabby beard and bags underneath his eyes, Ivor looked worse than she felt. She couldn’t get herself to even whisper his name, afraid she might curse it.

Nola could spend an eternity trying to figure out all the emotions swirling inside the mellow, brown eyes she peeked into, and still come up empty handed. She could watch his chest rise and fall, steadily, and she could watch his hands tighten around the brown bag he held, and still couldn’t be able to grasp what he really felt—because he couldn’t! And so, Ivor did the only thing he could manage to do in that moment.

He ran.   

Day 177

I’m at your door.

When her phone pinged early in the morning, the last person she expected to get a text message from was Ivor. She even waited a few minutes, wishing for her dream-riddled state to pass and for the message to disintegrate into incoherence. But none of that happened. In fact, the longer she stared at it, the more real it felt.

The door was a flight of stairs away, and she wanted nothing more than to climb down and see for herself whether she was living in a dream or a reality, but there’s only so many times you can fall and break and still have the resolve to stand up again.

But that voice, oh, that wretched voice that insistently echoed in her mind—what if what if what if and she didn’t know how much longer she could ignore it. So, she tightened her robe around her waist and tentatively made her way downstairs.

An ugly sob escaped Nola. She didn’t how she could manage to get any words out with the huge lump building up in her throat. All she knew was that her knees felt weak and her shoulders felt heavy. All she knew was that she needed to fall, to collapse.

“It was my fault,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. Nola couldn’t bear to look up and meet Ivor’s eyes, but if she did, she would watch his face crumple and his lips calling out her name ever-so-slowly.

“No,” he whispered, “no, it wasn’t.” Ivor spread his arms to take Nola into them. Nola, desperately clung to him, lest he might leave. Might disappear, vanish and never come back. She held him tight, fisting his shirt in her hands. She was sobbing now. Nola didn’t know—didn’t realize how much she really needed to hear those words from Ivor’s mouth. And even though a small voice kept telling her that he’s wrong, you’re responsible, he hates you, he holds you responsible, he’s going to leave, you’ll be alone, you murderer she drowned it out, attempting to bask in the warmth that Ivor’s embrace was, each time.

Ivor’s heart was effectively being snatched out of his body. Watching the woman he loved, in such total devastation and agony, and being able to do nothing…Ivor wasn’t sure a worse feeling existed. All he could do then, was to pull her closer into himself—if that was even possible. There was no vacant space between them and yet, yet it didn’t feel enough. Nola’s sobs pierced straight through his chest and he wanted nothing more than for her to stop stop stop. Ivor kept sliding his hands through her hair, willing for her to calm down.

“Why are you here?” Nola whispered, lifting her head up, not quite sure if she wanted the answer to that. “Why would you…willingly…be here?” She repeated, an incredulous expression on her face.

Ivor took his time, running his eyes along every inch of her face. He traced with his finger the long, diagonal slash wound on her forehead, guiding his thumb to her lips. His fingers held the crook of her neck so gingerly, afraid that even a little more pressure would crush her. His mouth was ajar, his eyes held an unreadable emotion.

“I missed you,” Ivor said, as if it was the most evident thing in the world. He said it like he would say that the sky is blue and the sun is hot. He held her gaze, a silent pleading in his eyes, unable to comprehend the confusion in hers.

Nola shook her head violently, weeding out any hope budding inside her chest. “You…you’ve been away for so long. It can’t be without reason,” the reason being you despise me, but she didn’t voice that out.

“It wasn’t,” Ivor sighed.

More tears sprung from Nola’s eyes. She knew, didn’t she? She knew that Ivor blamed her for the crash, for his grandmother, goddamn, she knew it. Then why did it hurt so much to hear him say it?

“Then leave!” She screamed as her head slumped atop Ivor’s chest, crying all the while. “Leave,” she cried again, hugging him tighter. “Leave,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

“I won’t,” Ivor patted her hair. “I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to,” he admitted in a quiet voice. Nola lifted her head up, her eyebrows scrunched.

“After the…accident, I—I did blame you. I was so angry and knowing that you were…involved—I couldn’t help it, Nola. I just—"

“I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. It should have been me—"

“Don’t you dare finish that,” Ivor fixed her with a stern glare. “Don’t you dare wish for anything remotely like that, ever again, or so help me God.” He too a deep breath to calm himself down, it seemed, and then, holding Nola’s face, he said in his gentlest voice, “don’t you understand? My resolve for inculpating you wasn’t strong enough for me to be okay with letting you go. Do you know why? Because you were never at fault.”

Nola didn’t know why exactly she had stopped breathing. Was it because the space between them kept reducing with every word he said? Because she wasn’t ready for the amount of sincerity behind his words? Because she was afraid that this might all turn out to be an elaborate dream if she so much as breathed wrong?

“But more importantly, because I love you,” Ivor finished, “and I don’t know how to stop.”