Kinsley

June eventually fades into July, and then August is on the horizon.

These past couple of months have been difficult for me in many different ways. For starters, when I first arrived home in Winnipeg, not only was I furious with Noel for being so weak, but I was also confused about my feelings for him. Luckily, I knew that I needed to get my head out of the gutter and fix things. I know what it's like to get caught up in your own head, to wallow in every thought that passes through, and I swore I would never let that happen again.

The sessions with my therapist went much better this time around than they did post-accident. For starters, I had no idea how to express my thoughts and feelings in a civilized, organized manner back then. This time, however, I was able to sort everything out to the best of my ability. I told my therapist I was mad at Noel for not having the courage to stand up to his father, that I was mad at myself for falling in love, that I wished I never would have met him. 

Then I told her that, at the same time, I also missed having him around, that I was worried about him even though Cole kept on providing me with updates. I wanted to make sure Noel was okay. I also told her that I wasn't a fan of how things ended between us. Just like I do, I'm sure Noel wants to talk to me again. Emotions are complicated, contradictory, and sometimes very difficult to sort through, but I managed.

It was just like my post-accident experience, when I was suffering from survivor's guilt. Sometimes I felt like I was sprinting across a vast field, while other times I felt like I was trudging through the mud in the middle of a rainstorm.

I didn't think I'd be able to learn anything else from my therapist, but I did. She was able to make me step out of my own shoes and into Noel's by discussing his past. I did have to call Cole for some more information on that topic. But when we had the needed facts, I began to realize that none of this is Noel's fault. To be completely honest, if my father had been an alcoholic and an abusive person, I probably would have done the same thing just to save myself the trauma. I did my best to imagine how he would have felt at that moment, when his father threatened him if he didn't give up the keys. I did my best to understand the impact of the previous years.

It was difficult for me to do because of the people I lost in the accident. It clouded my judgement. But when I looked past that and tried a little harder, I managed to. I'm sure my level of understanding didn't do justice for how Noel actually felt, but at least I tried.

In my makeshift scenario, I felt petrified, worried that I wouldn't make it out without another physical injury. I felt ashamed for not being able to stand up to my own father, but relieved that I had avoided another attack.

My heart broke for Noel at that moment.

If anyone knows what contradictory feelings are like, it's me.

And it's because of that very reason that I can no longer be angry with Noel. I can't resent him for what happened. He wasn't driving. He didn't drink. The fact of the matter is, he wanted to do something to stop his father from driving drunk, but things didn't work out for him. I can understand why he would want to avoid violence after seeing the scar on his shoulder, after learning the truth.

I don't forgive Noel because there's nothing that needs to be forgiven.

He's innocent.

I wish I would have realized that sooner, but at least I have now.

As I sit on the balcony, staring out into the backyard, I slowly sip my mug of tea. As soon as I made the realization, I called Cole and asked him if there was any way I could see Noel. He told me that Noel was getting help and me stepping into the picture probably wasn't the best thing. Of course, I wanted to argue with him. Noel and I have a lot in common and, personally, I think it would be good for us to talk, but I bit my tongue. My want for Noel to get better outweighs my need to see him. So I told Cole I would wait until things got better.

It's been a while since I heard from Cole last, but I continue to tell myself that healing takes time. I know this from personal experience.

Speaking of healing... Though I've made a tremendous amount of progress, I still feel as though there's something holding me back.

No. I know there's something holding me back.

The last time I had a session with my therapist, I told her about this nagging feeling I've been having. She told me I'd be able to figure it out in time. I was mad at her for not telling me or giving me any hints, but after a week or so of churning the question over and over again in my head, I've realized all this thinking has been good for me. My head feels clearer than it has in years, there isn't a constant weight on my shoulders, and I have started to take part in the hobbies I used to love before the accident. I've even started another rehab program to bring the strength back to my knee.

But through all that thinking, I still haven't figured out the final key piece that's holding me back.

I sigh and look down at the steam rising from my tea.

"What's on your mind, Kins?" Grandpa asks, looking up from his copy of the newspaper.

I shrug and set my cup of tea down on a coaster. "I'm just thinking."

"About?" he presses.

"About what's holding me back. I still can't seem to figure it out." I glance up at Grandpa. "I don't blame Noel for what happened nor am I mad at him. I've dealt with my survivor's guilt. I've continued to live my life..." I trail off, shaking my head. "I don't know and it's beginning to bother me."

Grandpa closes the newspaper, folds it, and then sets it down on the small table between us. "When I was fifteen-years-old, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. Back then, we didn't have treatments such as radiation to prolong and potentially cure the disease."

I stare at Grandpa, wondering how this conversation relates to my problem.

"It was devastating," he continues. "I wished there was a way we could prevent it from happening. I was shaken by despair and angry that the world could take away someone so loving and caring."

He pauses and looks out at the view.

"I don't understand," I say, taking my chance. "What does this have to do with me?"

Grandpa reaches over and rests a hand on my shoulder. "Cancer is a terrible disease to deal with, Kinsley. It hits anyone at any time. But one thing it does give you is time. It gives you time to say goodbye, to prepare yourself for the inevitable. You never had that chance to say goodbye to Jessa, your parents, Aaron, and Madeline."

I stare at him, my eyes filling with tears as I think about them.

"Not only did life take away the people you love, but it also took away your chance to say goodbye to them."

Grandpa sounds so sure of himself that I have to ask, "How can you be so sure?"

He shrugs and gives me a small smile. "I'm not sure. I have no idea, Kins. But there's no harm in trying."

I frown. "Trying?"

From the pocket of his jeans, Grandpa extracts a pair of car keys. My car keys. I stare at them, fear gripping my stomach. I haven't driven my car or any other motorized vehicle since the accident. I look up at him, my vision blurry. "I can't."

He reaches for my hand and places the keys in them. "How can you say that when you haven't tried?"

I stare at the keys that are now resting in the palm of my hand.

For a moment, I think Grandpa is losing his mind. Does he not remember how terrified I am of driving? Already, I can feel the anxiety building inside of me.

"Before you panic," he says, "think about all you've accomplished."

I take a deep breath, reminding myself that I am strong. It took me a long time to accept this fact about myself, but I do now. I agree with it completely. If I weren't strong, I wouldn't be sitting here right now. Somewhere, deep inside me, there is a resilient strength that's enabled me to make it through all this pain and suffering, to find a way to live again, to make friends, to open my heart and allow it to love someone again.

Carefully, I close my hand around the keys. They feel foreign yet familiar against my skin.

Exhaling deeply, I look at Grandpa. He's watching me carefully, probably wondering if I'm going to burst out crying and toss the keys across the yard. This thought only makes me close my fist tighter around them. I'm not that girl who cries and gives up.

I am a fighter.

I am someone who can make it through whatever life throws at me.

Getting to my feet, I say, "I'm going to the cemetery."

Grandpa smiles at me, looking proud of his granddaughter. "I'll see you later, kiddo," he replies.

With the wings of nervous butterflies beating against the lining of my stomach, I turn on my heel and head back into the house, toward the front door.

I try not to think about what I'm about to do. What I focus on are the little moments: the steps I take, the shoes I pull on, the purse I throw over my shoulder.

When I'm finished, I throw my shoulders back and reach for the handle of the front door.

I can do this.