Whisper of Broken Things

Chapter 5

Halle leads the way out of the frigid ice cream shop and begins walking down Main Street. Everyone following her lead, as if this is how it's always been. I'm just starting to remember details about when we were all young kids, but I do recall always being fascinated by everything Halle did. How even at 8 years old, she was the most intricate and absorbing person I knew. I felt like I could dissolve into her words. She always made everything sound more important. I remember I would leave Bar Harbor after every summer completely infatuated by this girl. How I would sit on the plane ride and think about her, tell all my school friends about her. Even then, she was truly mesmerizing. I can't believe I had forgotten about her. I mean, I would remember time and time, about the little girl who I believed, was my first love. But I hadn't remembered her name. We spent all our time together as kids in this town, and I could never really remember her name when I left. It was like she was this hidden secret, miles, and miles away. Like she was MY secret. Somebody that no one in Washington could ever understand. 

I remember my last summer here, we were 11 years old. It was the day before we found out about the murder. The group had been at the beach the whole day, and at sunset, Halle and I had snuck away to the park. We were seeing how high we could go on the swings. I accidentally flung myself off and scraped my knee on the wood chips that blanketed the entire playground. She ran over to me asking if I was ok. I felt myself shed a tear or two. She pulled the remaining wood chips from my knee and told me it would probably scare. But not to worry because scares are "badass", and it just makes me 10 times cooler. She extended her hand out and helped me regain my footing. Never once laughing at me, or making me feel bad for showing emotion. I remember the way my mother would scold me if I ever showed I was any "less of a man". That's why she hated my "depression bullshit". Never fully grasping that I wasn't just some kid looking for attention, but I was genuinely hurting inside, mainly because of her. 

That's why I loved bar harbor so much. Everyone here seemed to get me. I never once felt ashamed, or unwanted by anyone. And whenever I spent time with Halle, it made my heart flutter. I'm so pissed at myself for forgetting that feeling. But how could I not forget after everything that came after that day? How at 6:47 am, Jerry Laughlin's body was found just off of the town pier. He was stabbed. Minutes away from the park me and Halle had spent our last day together. The first murder in bar harbor in years and it shocked everyone. Tourists packed up their stuff and left the following days. Locals held their kids tighter and kept them inside, afraid of what would happen if they took their eyes off of them. I never saw Halle, or the rest of the group again. Even my dad packed us up and brought us home a week later. 

I spent the rest of that summer in Washington, attending brunches and golf games. The next year, when May had rolled around and there was only a month left of school. My dad and mom had been discussing how it was safe to go back to bar harbor. The murder ended up being one of Jerry Laughlin's classmates who went "mental and killed him out of Jealousy." He was locked up and now there was no reason not to go visit once school got out. I was so excited to go back that I started planning outfits 2 months early, but a week after I overhead that conversation, my grandpa got pneumonia and his lungs couldn't handle it. He died in the hospital, with my grandma by his side. She called my dad on the phone weeping. I remember I had never heard her so sad. She always wore this big smile across her face. She was so bright and soft, but over the phone, she wasn't either of those things. She was sad, coarse, and heartbroken, completely utterly heartbroken. 

So much so, that 4 days later, as we were packing our things for Grandad's funeral, she had a heart attack from all the stress. She died alone, in the bed she and my grandpa used to share. When my dad got that call, he locked himself in the guest room for a week. He refused to plan the funeral or to talk with the lawyers about the will. Or to even eat, or shower. My mom did it all for him, shouting to him behind the closed door about the funeral plans. Taking the door handle off with a screwdriver, and pushing herself into the room to force water down his throat, and shove him in the shower.

 I'd never seen my dad like that before. So, broken. So, human. I could hear his cries from my bedroom at night when he thought everyone else was asleep. I cried too, but I made sure no one heard. I cried for my sweet and loving grandparents. How much I was going to miss their smiles and their comforting and warm hugs. How I'll miss everything about the summers I had spent at Bar Harbor. And I cried for my dad. For how alone he must feel, and for how broken his world must seem. 

The day before my grandparent's funeral, my mother sent me to my room right after supper. I didn't complain, I'd much rather be in there anyways. Dinners were long and silent and often ended in my mother's angry, quiet tears. I heard her footsteps up the stairs, and the familiar rattling, as she took off the door handle of the guest room for the 12th time this week. She spoke in a hushed whisper, but the walls in that house were paper thin and the guest bedroom was right next to mine. "I can't do this anymore Thomas. We have a kid to raise. You have a kid to raise. You have other responsibilities now. You're not 12 anymore, but Mat is. He needs his father. The funeral is tomorrow night and I've booked all flights for 5:30 am. Be up." She walked out, slamming the door shut behind her. And, I heard the familiar sound of my dad screwing back in the door handle, before locking it and sinking back into the bed. 

That week was the first time I ever saw my mother doing something selfless. She had lost both her parents when she was 16, in a car crash. She knew what it felt like, and she tried her best to empathize with my dad. But her empathy didn't last long. She was tired, of doing everything for him, she was tired of me, of planning, of death. My dad knew that, so the next morning, he was like new again. Well, as new as you can get when you've lost the two people in your life that have always been there, that raised you. He was himself but a little less than, like there was this piece of him walking around outside of his body that died with his parents. I somehow knew he would never get that part of him back. 

After the funeral we didn't even go back to my grandparents' house, just boarded another plane, and headed back "home". I didn't think there could be a Bar Harbor without my grandparents, so I pushed everything about this place into a tiny box and hid it. For the following years, my parents were continuously fighting about everything. The things that mattered to me had no longer held importance in their lives. My spelling bee had now become a "Who's going to drive Mat to his Spelling bee? And who's going to pick him up? Because I did last time and I'm tired of this bullshit Thomas, I have important things to do too!" That's what my mother always made it about. How she was more "valuable" than my dad, more important. No wonder he finally left.

 He couldn't handle the constant judgment from my mother. I just wish he had thought about me, forced me to go with him. But instead, one day after their 7th fight of the week, he came down the stairs with this big suitcase in his hand. At first, I was so pissed. The only person in the world who ever got me, really got me, was abandoning me. I knew that he would always call and text, that he would eventually try to visit me, it didn't change the fact that I didn't understand why he had to go. 

But now I see why, how much this place means to him, how free this place can make you feel. I can't even imagine having to endure another year in Washington with no friends, continuous arguing, failing all my classes, having to dress up in these ridiculous outfits and sit through equally ridiculous galas and dinners. Suddenly I'm thankful that my dad left when he did. I love it here; this place is the hole I have been desperately trying to fill for years. This place is my new home, and I couldn't be any happier about it.