The Way We Cope with That Thing Called Life - Part 3

My eyes snapped open, though I hadn’t realized they had ever drifted shut. The car jerked my body from side to side to the point that I practically fell onto Imogen’s lap, but it wasn’t long before we reached the comforting crunch of our gravel driveway. I let out a deep sigh I hadn’t realized I was holding and released my grip on the side of the car. My eyes closed once again, and I could feel every single one of my muscles lets go of the tenseness that is an unwanted and yet ever-present resident of life in the city.

I felt the slight rebound of the car coming to its complete stop, heard the chatter of my fellow passengers start anew with refreshed and relieved voices. It was almost as if my heavy limbs took on a life of their own as I watched myself unbuckle my seatbelt, open the car door, and step out of what had been my dungeon for the last five hours.

The salty breeze brought me back into my own skin. It reminded me why I endured my brother’s relentless and annoying babble for what felt like ages. The soft crash of waves only yards away brought back a flood of memories filled with joy, laughter, and some of the best moments I had shared with my family. A smile managed to lift the downturned corners of my mouth, and I shifted to see Imogen. The corners of my mouth dropped immediately.

She stood only several feet away from me, but it felt as if she were in a different world entirely, a world in which she stood frozen while everybody else rushed around her excitedly. She stood staring at the house—my house—with a look of horror similar that appeared to be the physical embodiment of the feeling working my stomach into knots. I shifted my focus to the now seemingly massive, pristine white structure and its clear windows, the perfect flowerbeds that provided such a cheerful contrast to the stark color of the building itself. As I did so, another memory came flooding back to me, though this one didn’t wash over my toes like the friendly waves of the ideal summer day. No, this one engulfed me like a tsunami, knocked me over because I was too afraid to dive into it headfirst.

I could feel the warm and comforting rays of a closer sun ushering away the fragrant spring air that day. It was almost as if the sun was stroking my cheeks and brushing my hair like a mother does to her young daughter when I stepped out of the gray stone building, light still exploding through the beautiful stained glass windows. The hymns, still fresh and serenading my mind, mingled with the chirping birds, and the buzz of conversation around me felt like a cradle I never wanted to leave. While my family talked about little things with another family, I walked over to a tree on the small front lawn and absent-mindedly leaned back against it. I allowed the warmth of the sun and the white noise of many conversations blending into one to swallow me, to be the carriage that carried me into my own blissful world.

It was only when I heard a distinct voice rise above the rest that I snapped back to reality, practically jumping away from the tree. My eyes swept the crowed before me searching for the body associated with the voice, the voice that was beautifully clear and crisp and yet laced with nerves, clearly lacking the confidence frequently found within the members of this church. When my eyes finally fell on her, I questioned how I possibly could have thought it was anybody else’s voice that I heard.

Imogen stood talking with the pastor, whose back was to me. He was slightly bent over at the waist in an effort to conceal their conversation from the rest of the eager voices on the lawn, and thinking back about it I have no idea how I managed to hear Imogen’s voice in the first place. I could see the worry in her eyes, the tentativeness that was so beautifully absent that first day I saw her walking through the neighborhood.

I watched as her eyes met mine, and then filled with the surprise and hesitation that comes with the knowledge that you’ve been watched for who knows how long. In the same moment, I hear my mother call my name as if from the real world instead of my dreaming one. My eyes broke free of Imogen’s hypnotic gaze and I felt myself walking toward my mother, father and brother the same way I felt Imogen's eyes track my movement. I could imagine her drinking in the despicable sight of us—our fancy clothes fresh from the dry cleaner, the creases down the front of my father’s gray pants, the stiff white button-down my mother forced onto my squirming little brother that morning.

I could hear my mother scolding me in that stern voice of hers, something about getting my pretty dress dirty. My semiconscious mutterings about it already being snot yellow only exacerbated the situation, though I still felt as if I was floating above it all in a world where my mother’s harsh words couldn’t reach far enough to grasp my shoulders and shake any sense into me. I saw myself trailing slightly behind my family as we walked away from the gathering still buzzing on the lawn in front of the building that was supposed to hold graciousness and gratefulness and generosity. I felt my head snap back as my feet moved forward, felt my eyes find Imogen one more time.

She was looking down as the pastor’s hushed words hit her hard, examining her clothes and her shoes and the soft ground she stood on, though it didn’t seem like much support for her wobbly knees. The pastor continued whispering, hunched over like an old man tired from overwork and expectancies of holiness, but Imogen’s head rose through his words, and her searching eyes fell on mine a single moment before I looked away, eyes drifting to the ground just ahead of my feet.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look of defiance that glowed in her eyes.