Baby Don't Return to Me

There comes a time when every person must admit defeat. You have to take the events, the punches, the lemons, what have you, and go with it. You don’t have a choice. You can’t just walk away and refuse the events that come at you, you can’t defend yourself from the punches life throws. But you also can’t just take the lemons and make lemonade—because lemonade needs sugar and there was no sugar or sweet or anything nice in my world at the moment.

There are moments in time that stand in your way; scenarios present themselves in such a way that there is no appropriate course of action. There is only what happened and the inability to deal with it.

So we wait.
We wait for something, anything to happen in which it will allow us to move forward and attempt to work through whatever it is that has befallen us. But until then we wait, stuck before a road block, stuck with the inability to make progress. We reach a dead end, a wall—we reach an impasse.

I knew it was killing Kenny. My brother was too curious for his own good. When he was four and Mom had baked an Apple Pie for Thanksgiving and set it in the middle of the dining room table to cool, Kennedy had crept over to the tables’ edge, grabbed a hold of the beautiful table cloth that portrayed autumn leaves & cornucopias, and pulled—you can guess where the pie went.

When Kennedy was 12, he thought he would be clever and hunt down the yet to be wrapped Christmas presents stowed away in our house. Everyone knew our mother hid everything in the attic that she didn’t want our curious eyes to see. I had told Kennedy it wasn’t a good idea, that he’d get caught. He told me to shut up.
So I stood back against the wall with my arms crossed over my chest and watched the unfolding scene, pretty sure that it was going to blow up in my brother’s face. I watched as Kennedy grabbed couch cushions, phone books, chairs. I watched him pile it high and I watched him climb the household Leaning Tower of Pisa right there in our hallway. I watched him reach for the small string that dangled tauntingly from the ceiling and I watched him fall, the phone books sliding against each other and out from under him, the chair jerking to the right then left then crash. I remember Kennedy sprawled there in a pile of yellow pages, cushion fluff, and the overturned chair and seeing the look on his face as though he was silently telling himself not to cry over and over again like a chant as he cradled his arm.

”Told you!” I remarked smugly, feeling very high and mighty. Then Kennedy had removed his hand from his arm to brush away a stray tear and I saw the bone beneath the skin of his elbow bent at an odd angle. ”Mom!!” Kennedy had broken his arm that day and when Mom asked him if he had learned his lesson he had nodded like a good boy. But time had told a different story, Kennedy’s curiosity was insatiable and it always would be.

“What was that—between you and Mom?” He questioned finally and I knew it was killing him not knowing the full story as we moved slowly down the hallway; because there was, of course, a story. Everything had a story, a meaning, a reason, behind it all, but my journalism major cousin had warned me once ‘some stories not meant to be revealed or repeated. Some things are just better left unsaid’.

“A reunion.”

“Oh c’mon CJ,” He scuffed. “You’re really going to be like that? The last time Mom saw you she was screaming obscenities at the top of her lungs and throwing you out.”

This was true; I remembered that day crystal clear. I knew that had I not actually left for Boston my mother would have begged for me to return home within the hour. But I had already had a plane ticket to Boston and I was half way to Massachusetts when she called to apologize.

I ignored Kennedy after that and he groaned in response. I knew if we didn’t reach the waiting room soon he would be all but whining. But I wasn’t ready to tell my story yet. I had too many things left unsaid with too many people.

Small waves of relief washed over me as the waiting room came into view, we both knew that if Kennedy pushed me hard enough I would cave—I always caved. For now I was just lucky that Kennedy was still too afraid of the truth to it in its entirety. For now he would accept my fluffed up truths and believable lies.

The waiting room was just like every other in the hospital, multicolored semi-comfortable chairs lined in rows, one large TV suspended in the corner of the room, and month old magazines sprinkled everywhere. I thought I was ready to face them, everyone, but the moment my eyes fell on the company within the white walled room I froze. My feet refused to move from the doorway as my eyes fell to every person in turn—some I hadn’t seen in over four years. Kennedy, whose index finger and thumb was still wrapped around my wrist, gave it a squeeze, silently telling me that he was there.

Everyone stared at me stunned, but it was my aunt who was the first to break from the shocked silent stance as she rushed toward me, crushing me in a bear hug as though if she let me go I would disappear.

“Cassandra,” She breathed, her aged love washing over her words and soothing me instantly. Aunt Lisa was always the sun in the room, she was always a warm person, and she always made everyone around her happy. She was the one person who always had an encouraging comment, who always said something that made you feel better about yourself, and she never passed judgment no matter what. I had always known I was lucky to receive this woman as my Aunt.

“Hi Aunt Lisa,” I smiled into her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her favorite Ralph Lauren perfume.

She pulled away, her hazel orbs flooding with tears as she cupped my face wordlessly as her doe eyes scanned over the planes of my face, being sure not a hair was out of place and that I had not been psychically harmed in my time away from her. She opened and closed her mouth several times before simply settling for a smile.

“I’ve missed you,” My aunt had always been the heart of everything when my mother couldn’t be, she was more loving if that was possible. I always knew that if god forbid something happened to my mom, I still would not be without a mother’s love.

“I’ve missed you too, Aunt Lisa.” I replied earnestly. “So much.”

“Come, come.” She put her arm around my shoulder, guiding me into the room, standing beside me as I faced my past.

“Holy shit,” I knew that voice anywhere and it made me smile instantly.

“Jared Monaco!” a feminine voice scolded.

slap!

“Ow, Mom.”

My eyes fell upon my favorite ginger haired boy (That’s a lie I’m very partial to the Weasley Twins but Jared doesn’t know that). He stood there before me, rubbing the sore spot on his head while he stared at me with a crooked grin on his lips.

“Jared,” The one word left my lips and suddenly I found myself running toward him before Jared caught me and lifted me up into his arms, spinning me around laughing before he set me on my feet. What was it with Tempe boys and picking me up? I couldn’t find it in me to care though.

“Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”

“A simple, ‘I missed you,’ would suffice.” I smirked.

He smiled genuinely then, “I missed you, CJB.” He replied softly.

“Hi CJ.” My smiled widened then if possible as I spun around to see Pat standing before me, his hands disappearing into his jeans as he gazed at me shyly over his long coffee colored locks.

“Pat,” I threw my arms around him and his shyness melted away as his arms found their way around me, his head resting on my shoulder.

“ ‘Missed you,” He mumbled.

“I missed you too kid,” I smiled ruffling his hair.

“Aw do you have to?” He complained, his hands flying to his rumpled hair.

“Yes.” I grinned.

“Some things never change.” He rolled his eyes.

“Some things do.”

“Emerson.” I stated evenly, my eyes catching the icy blue orbs of the person who had, until now, been carefully hidden behind Jared and Pat.

“Cassandra.”

She was right—some things do change. That much was clear from the tone of her voice.