Ask Jake (Book One of the Whisper Series)

Twenty-Four: Tristan and Gillian

Gillian

This morning I realized that I am spending a lot of money on therapy, but it's answering the Ask Jake readers' questions that are really helping me reflect and heal.

After weeks of answering more serious relationship questions than I ever expected to come from Whisper readers, I find myself ready to move into a healing direction, and I need to stop putting off things that might cause me pain.

Thunderous clouds awaken me from my writing while I sit in a little chair on the beach. Looking out at the water, I see a storm floating in from the west. Walls of rain and lightening can be seen from where I am perched, making me realize it's not safe for me to be sitting here. Lightening strikes more on the outside of a storm than inside it. However, I cannot stop admiring Mother Nature and how quickly she works.

In a matter of minutes, everything has changed. The skies deepen to a dark greyish-blue. Clouds swirl and grab hold of each other as if they dancing, reaching out to allies and entangling fingers to gathering strength. Thunder chants a war song and lightening explodes like a drum cymbal's impacting crash.

Mothers are yanking their children off blankets and pulling them to their mini-vans. Surfers, being the opportunists that they are, grab their boards and head out to the surf, taking advantage of the swells that are forming. I pack away my notes and journal into my bag so they do not get wet, but I do not leave my spot. The rare cool wind that the storm brings blows around me, forcing me to close my eyes and enjoy how it feels whipping through my hair and chilling my skin.

The smell of rain and saltwater make me inhale a healthy lung full as the first drops fall on my legs. The drops are huge, wetting a three-inch circle, and I know that in less than a minute rain will dump so hard out of the sky the drops will almost feel painful and then they will not feel like drops of all, but more like standing under a waterfall. However, I can't seem to make myself move. The low, dark movement in the sky has me mesmerized and I want to etch every part of this storm into my brain and never forget it.

When the surfers decide it's too dangerous to be in the water, I admit to myself that I should consider self-preservation. I am soaked to the core as I open the door to the car and throw my belonging and self into the small vehicle. The wind has picked up and palms trees almost seem to be bending trying to get away from the beating they are receiving. Instead of driving home, I take a moment and write in my Adam journal, writing down everything I saw and wishing he could have been here to witness it with me.

Once I am home, showered and comfortable again, I feel invigorated and decide to tackle something I have been putting off. The box labeled, Tristan and Gillian, has been waiting for me in the garage.

Wiping the dust off the top, I know there will be no surprises in this box. I've personally collected all of its contents. I dread the memories that will come, because I know they are all wonderful but empty because they ended too soon.

Opening the box is the hardest part. Anxiety is pumping hard through my veins and I attempt to push it down. I can't. I'm losing control of my emotions lately and I hate it.

Deciding that my room will be a better venue for memory lane, I huff it in the house and plop it on the chest at the foot of my bed. Soon enough, I am surrounded with trinkets that hold memories. I reminisce over every gift, photo, ticket stub, and seashell.

There are some new photos that my sister or mother must have put in the box of Tristan's funeral. I only have slight memories from that day - subtle one shot visions of family, and friends hugging me, and washing me in sympathy and pity. Looking at these photos do the most damage, bringing back the deeply painful feelings that want to lure me back into the dark. The photos of Tristan lying in a suit, on a bed of billowy red satin, in his coffin, suck me into the abyss of sadness. Leaning back on the pillows of my bed, I pull a thick comforter over my head and cry while examining the new photos over and over until I can almost hear his father's eloquent speech and feel his mothers arms wrap around me, trying to comfort me through her deepest despair.