Ophelia Study No. 1

Chapter Eighteen

There was always that big debate over what's supposed to be the best years of your life. The standard outlook is high school; that way parents can encourage their children's happiness while holding their own regrets and excessive nostalgia close to heart. For those that cynicism hit extra hard, they'd argue that the best years of your life take place in early childhood, before you can comprehend what life insurance is and your biggest problem is how to write your name.

So I was always torn between what my peaking point of my life was- childhood or high school. High school was mundane to the point of being infuriating, so I had to side with those that believed childhood was the best time in your lifespan.

And of high school, senior year was supposed to be a time of self-discovery and independence, particularly during graduation. But I spent those last months of school moping, waiting for any sign of Emily. Graduation was a blur, nothing but a bunch of personalized caps and expensive shoes. Emily would've graduated alongside of us. I can't even remember if they mentioned her at all during the ceremony.

Mom started going to church again. She told me that losing Emily like she had was like having a child die; that a part of her had gone too. She knew that she couldn't get that piece back, but she explained that through God, the hole felt a little less gaping. Emily's name stung a bit less and Mom's thoughts ran a tad slower. She felt in control in the house of God, she told me. She liked the feeling of comfort and love she had in the Lord, something that she could always come back to.

I went to church with her one morning; I was looking for some of this hope she always went on about. I woke up before noon and put on a tie all for the sake of getting a taste. I wanted that assurance that Mom had; I wanted to feel like things were going to work out.

She attended this Lutheran church out towards the east part of town. Although my mom wasn't confirmed in any branch of Christianity, she found this particular church most suitable. I remember her bouncing from Methodist to Presbyterian to Catholic; she didn't like to attach labels to her beliefs.

Of all the churches in the city, Emily's parents went to that particular one.

They were about six pews ahead of us and off to the right. They never saw us come in, so I had the pleasure at gazing absently at the back of their heads. I wondered if they always went to church here, or if Emily being gone made them start up again as it had with my mother.

There was this part in the sermon where everyone was supposed to duck their head and say their own little prayer in their head. Mom encouraged me to do this. Her lips moved when she prayed, even though the pastor made it clear that it was supposed to be a thinking activity.

I just about stared at Mr. and Mrs. Kimura. I couldn't help but think of what they might be praying about. They wanted their daughter home, that I was sure. Maybe God would have answered if they'd asked sooner, for instance, when she started to live under our roof.

And for a few moments, I absolutely hated them. I glared fiery holes into their backs with the meanest eyes I had; I wanted them to burst into flames right there during communion. I pictured their bodies aflame, limbs flailing and skin bubbling and curling against the heat. Their flames would spread to the pews and then to the steeple itself, so everyone could go home and repent in the comfort of their leather recliners.

But I stopped.

I don't know why, but I started to think of all that I had done. The relationship I'd shared with Emily broke through my head in waves. Sea foam settled behind my eyes.

It was my fault. If I had never met her, none of this would've happened. If I had left her alone, if I could have just kept it in my pants like I had every other time. Emily would still be here, and her parents wouldn't be sitting there praying for the return of their oldest child.