Driven to Distraction

Things changed after that night.

It became just me, my dad, and Danny after the fire. We spent nearly three months living with relatives, until a new house was rebuilt for us. And even after we got settled into our “new” home, things were never the same. Danny, who was a student at NYU, no longer came home on his breaks, because Arizona reminded him too much of our deceased mother. Instead, my father and I were lucky to see him if even twice a year.

My father became a workaholic, spending every day working at his law firm. He wouldn’t even dare take a day off if he was sick. The few hours at night that he did spend home, he tried to be there for me – to talk to me – but it wasn’t like it used to be. He was distant and always off in his own world, which I couldn’t necessarily blame him for. My mother and he had been high school sweethearts, eloping the night of their graduation, despite the many protests from both my grandparents. Essentially, he had lost his better half – his life – and there was nothing that could help to mend his broken heart.

I had my grieving time. I spent months crying myself to sleep and shutting the world out, not wanting to believe that my mother was actually gone. I would wake up in the mornings, hoping that she would walk through my bedroom door, telling me that it was time to get up for school and that breakfast was waiting for me on the table. But, that never happened.

Sometimes when I’d get frustrated with my homework, I’d yell for her, as she had always been the one to help me with my schoolwork. When no voice would sound in return, a sudden pang would hit my heart, and I’d realize that that empty sound was a reminder of her absence. Inevitably, I’d break down into tears and forget all about whatever paper was in front of me.

By the end of my freshman year, I’d learned to accept the death of my mother. I’d learned that no amount of wishes would bring her back. I realized that for the rest of my life, I would have to carry her in memories with me. Memories were the only hope that I had that she was never too far away; she was as close to me as my heart was.

Kelsi was the only person who I talked to. But, it wasn’t like that was much of a change from before the fire. She was the only one who I trusted enough with my feelings to confide in. And between Kennedy, school, and her job at the local super market, she was there for me as much as she could be. At times I would feel bad for keeping her up late at night, because I was scared to close my eyes; I had started having reoccurring nightmares. But, she swore up and down that she didn’t mind it in the least bit; that it was her way of making up for the time she couldn’t spend with me during the day.

And the times when I was actually able to fall asleep, it wasn’t without fear. My nightmares began shortly after my mother’s death, and it was always the same dream: I was running, or at least, I was trying to. Sweat beads aligned my forehead, and my heart would be pounding so hard against my chest that the beat sounded in my ears. Off in the distance, there was a fire. There was always a fire. And I would always get just close enough to see that it was my house, flames and black smoke engulfing it, and I would run. I would run past the pain of the muscles in my legs, and past the tightening of my chest, because I could hear my mother screaming. And not just any scream, but a bloodcurdling, goosebumps scream. But no matter how fast I ran, or how much I screamed back, I could never get any closer. I was always the same distance away.

Along with the nightmares, I’d acquired a fear of the dark. I couldn’t sleep unless I had the hallway light on and every light in my room on. At first, this had confused my father, but after a few weeks, he’d given up on trying to figure out why I needed the light. Honestly, I was embarrassed to tell him the real reason, and when he left the subject alone, I was grateful.

By the time summer arrived, I had given up sleeping. No matter what medications I took, or what home remedies I made to try and get me to sleep, I’d always wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, gasping for air. And when that happened, I couldn’t go back to sleep because I’d be so shaken up. So I would do things to fill my time: I’d listen to music, read books or magazines, draw, surf the internet, and even clean my room until every inch was spotless. But after awhile, I got tired of being confined in my room.

I decided that if I was going to be awake, I’d make the most of it. So, one night, I threw on a pair of jeans and an old hoodie that had once belonged to Danny, grabbed my house keys and I left. I walked with no particular destination in mind – I just walked. I walked until I had somehow ended up at the same park that John and I had gotten into a fist fight in eighth grade.

It was dark, but there were a few street lamps that kept the park somewhat lit. I found my way to the swing set, and sat down on one of them. I pushed my shoes against the dirt, and swung back and forth carelessly. Eventually, I began pushing harder, and swinging up higher in the air. The cool breeze would swipe through my hair and face and I’d smile, because it was such a change from the normal heat of Tempe.

“Morrison?”

I nearly fell off the swing as I turned around, frightened. However, the figure that had called my name came closer, and as the light hit them, I was able to make out the person. I furrowed my brows. “O’Callaghan?”

“The one and only,” he said before taking a seat in the swing next to me.

I dug my shoes into the dirt, bringing my swinging to a sudden stop. “Why are you here?”

“Why are you here?”

I rolled my eyes. “I couldn’t sleep and I felt like going for a walk. I ended up here.”

He nodded his head, swinging ever so slowly. “I got into an argument with my dad.”

I arched my brows. “Why?”

“I broke my curfew and when he began yelling at me, I yelled back. He told me if I couldn’t follow his rules, I couldn’t live in his house, so I left.”

I scoffed. “Wow. That’s surprising.”

He rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

Either of us spoke after that, and it was a sort of uncomfortable silence. Since the night of the fire, John and I hadn’t spoken much. There was the occasional smart remarks we’d fire at each other, but never a full on conversation. And either of us ever spoke of that night, when he’d held me in his arms as I cried. We’d never verbally promised not to talk about it, but it just went without being said.

“So … how are you, Morrison?” he asked, finally.

I gave him a confused look. “What do you mean?”

He sighed. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to come right out and say it, but how are you – you know – dealing with … everything?”

“Oh,” I said as I caught onto what he was insinuating. “I’m … good, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I don’t know, John. I’m dealing with it as good as I can be,” I snapped.

For once, he didn’t snap back, and that surprised me. “I’m sorry … for your loss.”

I shrugged. “Thanks, but it wasn’t your fault.”

He looked at the ground. “Did you ever figure out how the fire started?”

I looked at him, feeling slightly agitated. “Haven’t you read the newspapers in the last few months?”

“No.”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course not. She was cooking, and left stove on while she took a nap. I don’t know the full details … I don’t really care to know them, but somehow the stove caught on fire and it just spread. My mother was a heavy sleeper, and she didn’t hear the alarms go off in the house …”

He stayed silent for a moment. “Do you have any plans for the summer?”

“What?” I asked, perplexed by his sudden question.

“Do you have any plans for the summer? You know … Like, are you going on vacation or anything?”

I figured the subject of my mother’s death was too stiff to talk about, and in a way, I was sort of grateful that he changed the topic.

“Um, not that I know of. My dad works a lot, so I’ll most likely be home alone. What about you?” I questioned, looking at him.

He gave a shrug. “I don’t really like to make plans; I prefer to live in the moment. I’m sure I’ll have plenty to do, though.”

He was probably right. John was in the popular crowd, having made an easy transition from middle school into high school. He was quite popular with all the girls, even those in grades above us; they adored him. And I couldn’t lie and say that he wasn’t attractive, because he was very easy on the eyes. His bowl-cut was long gone, replaced with chin-length, sandy brown hair. He had gotten extremely tall, probably the tallest guy in our grade, standing near six foot. He had these amazing green eyes that reeled you in, and they held a certain depth in them that made you want to stare into them for forever. Light brown freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks, and his skin always held a perfect tan. In short, John was nearly up there with Adonis; perfection.

But his looks never really mattered to me. He was still a jerk to me most of the time, and that got to me more than his looks did.

“Well, I hope you have fun with whatever you do,” I stated.

He gave me a grin. “Same to you.”

We both began swinging back and forth, not speaking. And after awhile, we opted to go on the slide, sliding down it at least a dozen times each. After that came the Mary-go-round, and we each would push to get it going, before criss-crossing our legs and enjoying the spin.

As hours began to pass, I finally felt myself growing tired, and I could tell John felt the same way as yawns began to escape his lips. We decided on laying on the platform of the slide, being that it was spacious and was better than sleeping on a bench or on the ground. He even took his sweater off, creating a makeshift pillow for us to share. I thanked him and we both closed our eyes, trying to fall asleep.

“Hey, Morrison?” he whispered.

“Yeah, O’Callaghan?” I answered sleepily.

“I still don’t think girls can play baseball.”

I let out a tired laugh, as did he. “I’m too tired to argue with you, John.”

“Me, too,” he yawned before it went quiet.

That night, I slept without having the nightmare. I don’t know if it was because John was my living nightmare, or if it was because I wasn’t in my house, but I slept and I slept well, despite the fact that we were on a children's playground.

And when I awoke the next morning, John was already gone, but his sweatshirt was still beneath my head. The sound of children laughing and talking sounded in my ears, and I stood up, grabbing the sweater. I slid down the slide one last time before I began walking back home.

I couldn’t help but to look over my shoulder, though, staring at the platform which kids were now surrounding. If I didn’t know any better, I would think that I had imagined John even being there, but the fact that his sweater was in my hands, was proof that I wasn’t imagining anything. He had actually been there. We had actually talked and we had actually slept next to each other.

But just like any other time John and I were civil with each other, it didn’t last long. I had woken up alone, and I knew that whenever I had my next run in with him, things would be no different than they normally were. He would still find some way to get smart with me, and I’d argue back with him, because that’s how we were.

It was just how we functioned.