The Rockmore House

36 | To Reach You

Sunday, December 18th, 2016

A clear plastic drawstring bag containing Pete's belongings hung at the end of the hospital bed. There was a white t-shirt, charcoal gray pajama pants and a pair of tortoise shell glasses. Thanks to something I'd done, that was all he had in the world. It was a colorless bundle, except for a glint of cobalt blue that had settled in the corner of the bag. I crouched down to figure out what it was. Sea glass? I poked at it through the plastic to make sure it was real and the scent of smoke escaped the bag in a puff of air.

Then I was back on a beach, walking with Pete, pressing a piece of blue sea glass into his palm, hoping it would remind him of me once I had to leave him for the last time. I knew it would end before we'd even kissed the first time and before he knew the truth about me. Why did I let any of it happen, knowing it had to end? Because I never would have imagined it would have ended up like this.

I stood abruptly. Had Pete really kept that piece of sea glass all this time? Had it been in his pocket? I watched his chest rise and fall. His face was relaxed. Not like the night before. He was nothing like how I remembered him. That summer he'd been so kind and patient and fun and respectful and sweet and-

Stop, I told myself. What happened before was over. There were bigger issues to deal with than my feelings. 

One of Pete's bare feet had escaped the bedsheet. I glanced from the plastic bag to his foot. He had no shoes. There were several issues at hand, big and small. I had to squash what I was feeling, so I could start to tackle them, beginning with one of the small ones.

I lifted my foot onto the bed and lined it up next to his to compare.

I sent Eric a text: Can you buy him a pair of shoes? His foot is like two inches bigger than mine and I'm a size 8.5 in womens.  I'll pay you back.

After a minute, he replied: I'll relay this information to the cobbler.

Pete's eyelids were shiny and gray and there were dark purple crescents beneath his eyes, but otherwise he looked okay. He looked really okay, actually.

There was something black peeking out from the underside of his forearm and I snuck around the side of his bed and leaned over to get a better look. It was a tattoo; an anchor flanked with red and black stars. I smiled to myself because it reminded me of the Palmer Pirates logo and hoped it was unintentional on his part. Then my grin faltered and I backed away.

I didn't know this Pete. There was a story behind that tattoo, one that I didn't know. I definitely didn't know him well enough to watch him while he slept in a hospital bed, looking all vulnerable with oxygen cannulas taped under his nose. 

I had a handful of postcards and a letter and a few summer days, but what about all the days in between? I thought I could show up unannounced at his house after he hadn't written to me in a year. After he wrote a letter telling me he wasn't going to contact me anymore and that he was ready to move on with his life. What was I thinking? How could I have been so presumptuous? He clearly hated me already, so how was it going to go when he woke up and realized that I was responsible for his house burning to the ground? Because I was responsible somehow. The house had been there, and when I returned from visiting him, it was gone.

I needed to get out of that room. Just to breathe for a minute. Because, unlike Pete, I had no trouble breathing anymore. Before the ambulance arrived, my lungs had stopped burning and I was breathing normally. I pivoted on one foot and my boot squeaked on the polished hospital room floor. I cringed and glanced over my shoulder at him.

His eyes flickered open and closed again. A faint smile passed over his face and dread socked me in the gut. At least in that moment, he had no idea what had happened.  Maybe it hadn't registered yet, or he blacked out the night before and didn't remember, or he was currently heavily medicated. I tip-toed toward the door.