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  My birthday had been a couple of weeks ago, and despite being with my father, I felt a deep heaviness in my chest all day. That was the first ‘celebration’ after the accident, and both my father and I tried to do our best to enjoy it, as if they too were present. Above all, I was grateful that he was still by my side.

  We were facing perhaps the biggest challenge that we would have to face in our entire existence, moving forward without two of the most loved people in our lives. Well, in my case without three of them, because with their deaths, Ian disappeared, too.

  In any event, I asked myself how we were going to do it, how we’d overcome it, or whether one day we would overcome it. But despite asking myself these things, I knew it was too soon. It still hurt to remember that night, or to be more exact, to remember anything before that night.

  People say that time heals everything. But a broken plate can never be fixed. You can put it back together, but there will always be small cracks, reminding you that one day it had been broken. In spite of everything, something inside of me said that with sufficient time, I’d be able to overcome the pain, and the fissures, now holes, and it would become a learning experience, in growth and maturity. I wanted to do everything in my power to be okay, to recover my happiness and live a normal life, positive, like before all that happened. I thought the best way to do that was to be kind to myself and give myself the time I needed to cry or talk about what happened. I was aware that I had to mourn my family for not only my own good, but also for my father’s, my partner’s and my children’s’, even though I didn’t yet have a partner or children. I felt better thinking that those who were no longer living would want the best for us, the best for my father and for me. They would want us to be happy, to support each other, to rebuild our lives and move forward. And I was convinced of that because if it were otherwise, I would long for Ian’s happiness.

  Thus, I started writing a letter every morning as if I could talk to them that way, as if they were there in front of me. I wrote them regularly telling them about my day, or about my projects for the day. I shared my ideas with them, my goals, my worries...everything I longed to enjoy and would have liked to do with them, as if they were still in my life. This way, little by little, I felt that their memory and their absence no longer hurt. I could look back without suffering, without feeling sorry, without bringing myself down. I noticed that their essence was always with me everywhere, in every moment. And, letter by letter, time passed, until one morning I realized I had overcome it, and had started, without really being aware of it, to recover my life. I wasn’t afraid any more that I would forget them, because every day they were in my thoughts and in my heart. As long as I felt that presence, they would still be alive inside me.

  But then there was the question of Ian. He hadn’t died and yet, he disappeared at the same time as Eric and Mom, making that whole process even more painful. I decided to dedicate a few minutes every day to talk to him in my imagination, too. I missed him so much. He was my brother’s best friend, but the rest of the family considered him another member of the family.

  Why did he disappear?

  I still didn’t understand.

  ***

  5 AÑOS DESPUÉS

  ***

  Chapter 4

  A Date?

  When I left the hospital after the accident, I made a routine of meditating and writing every morning about how I felt. Yes, above all, it was my emotions and projects that were being drawn on the blank canvas of my notebook.

  I didn’t know about that before. I didn’t know how satisfying it is to listen to yourself regularly, to know what you feel, what you want or how you want it. I started to realize that, in general, people act in an automated way. If a friend likes something, you try to like the same thing. If, on the other hand, they have problems, like differences with their boss at work, right away we take their side, as if we actually knew what had happened, as if it were our battle. We’re very complex.

  Days passed without appreciating them. Since the loss of my mother and my brother, I kept asking myself the real meaning of things. What did their loss mean? Was there anything that could justify such a traumatic event? And on the other hand, what did my new situation mean? Suddenly I saw myself without the support of the two people I loved, or actually, three if I counted Ian.

  Meditation and my notebooks became my best friends. They were like clear mirrors that let me see what was inside of myself, my pain, worries, concerns, desires. Like peering into a well where I could observe, there in the distance, the reflection of a dream that brought me information about why I felt the way I felt. As if my own echo wanted to answer my questions.

  After a long time observing this phenomenon, for the first time in my life I noticed that never, while my heart was beating, would I be alone. A whole world vibrated inside me.

  The passage of time and the regular practice of introspection allowed me to begin to understand that behind everything there was something deeper, the real reason why all this could have happened, but even so, it seemed very complex and I was not yet ready to see it. My mind did not yet want to translate it into a conscious argument. Of course, now there was no one who could erase from my head the certainty that everything happens for a reason. Regarding the accident we had, I had the conviction that it could not escape that ‘law,’ either.

  After meditating, writing, and getting ready for work, I looked at the weather forecast for that day. The previous days were very rainy but at least today the sun would be out. Even though it was April, it was still fairly cold, however, the weather forecast predicted temperatures around 65º, so I decided to walk to work. I wanted to walk, and after all, it was only ten minutes on foot.

  The morning went by as usual, with nothing new, and not much work. I was getting bored. Months ago, production and sales suffered a sharp drop. Now we spent half our time just passing the time to fill up our day. It was nothing enriching, and I somehow felt that I was wasting my time there. The only positive thing was that at midday I was done working, and could get home and continue writing my novel.

  Writing was more than entertainment, a routine or an outlet for me. It was passion. Not only did I immerse myself in my diary every morning, but I had also begun to express my ideas and imagination in the form of novels. And the best part was that people liked them. With luck, in a few years I could quit my job and dedicate myself exclusively to my books, although I knew that this would be an arduous and complicated task.

  That day, at the end of the work day, I spent some time talking with a couple of co-workers who wanted to organize a retirement party for another co-worker who had been working with us for a couple of years and who was rumored to be on the verge of retirement. However, he didn’t seem too excited about that idea. He tried to put them off, without much success, and convince them that he still had a couple of years to go before he’d get his freedom. You could tell he was a quiet man, a homebody, and that kind of fuss wasn’t his thing. The women, on the other hand, didn’t take him seriously and any excuse would work to go out and party. They were like Thelma and Louise, always starting something.

  After enduring a few minutes of listening to their plans, I ended up furtively sneaking away. I wanted to get home to get back to my novel and I still had a little walk back.

  I trotted down the stairs. When I got outside and felt the breeze on my face, I was surprised by the warm temperature that accompanied that spring month of April. Just my shirt was enough, so I took off my jacket and hung it from my purse. I started walking. I’d walk slowly. That would give me time to relax and get some inspiration.

  While I walked, I thought about what had happened with Thelma and Louise. I was too bored with the simple approach of partying like I had when I was in my twenties. Even imagining it made me feel immensely tired: jumping from bar to bar until we found one with music we liked, dealing with the high heels, drinking anything without even being thirsty and, worst of all, after two or three in the morning,
having to put up with another awkward slob with hopes of hooking up with one of us. No. Definitely not. I point blank refused. My years of partying were over. The time to do the same thing everyone else was doing like unconscious sheep did not appeal to me any more. These days I preferred a more quiet and relaxed plan. Something healthier. I didn’t like drinking alcohol. I also didn’t feel like going to the door with one of my friends every few minutes while they smoked their cigarette, because I didn’t like the smell of tobacco or any other smokable substance. I preferred to have a healthy dinner, a good walk, a movie with popcorn, a weekend somewhere, whether it was the mountains or the beach, to be in front of my computer writing or anything else besides partying. Was I getting older? I suppose so, all of us get older.

  Something suddenly brought me out of my thoughts. That face looking in my direction seemed familiar. But without my glasses on, I couldn’t distinguish the face. I never wore my glasses, I just carried them in my bag on my walks in case of extreme emergency, and this wasn’t one. From my point of view, and based on my experience, my limited ability to focus or, as I called it ‘tired sight due to excessive exposure to artificial light,’ ended up correcting itself with the necessary rest. In my case, I knew that the minute I gave up the computer, the tablet, and above all, the cell phone for a few days, I’d recover one hundred percent of my visual acuity.

  So I kept walking normally, patiently, while I let go of my uncertainty, because in a few more steps I’d be able to see him clearly.

  As I walked in his direction, I was struck by the fact that he did not seem to take his eyes off of me. To make sure he was looking at me, I glanced behind me.

  “Great, there isn’t anyone back there,” I thought. That meant if he waved in my direction and I responded, I wouldn’t look ridiculous like in the movies.

  “Aurora?” asked the man as he approached.

  “Well,” I whispered to myself, “It looks like I’m not the only shortsighted one.”

  After walking a couple more steps, I finally recognized his face. It was Ian, my brother’s inseparable friend. Undoubtedly the person I’d missed the most throughout those five long years.

  When we were barely a yard apart from each other, we both stopped short. I was aware that the expression on my face had changed. I felt the relaxation and freedom I’d felt under the warmth of the sun suddenly disappear, becoming an unusual tension that instantly took over my body.

  The number of times I could have fantasized about him, or the excitement I always had seeing him! Back then I didn’t care if he was sweaty and smelly after a soccer game or had just showered to go out with Eric. His presence made me feel good.

  But it was possible that something had changed. Now, when he was before me again, I felt an inexplicable suspicion.

  Neither of us could say a word. We were standing there, quiet, looking at each other. Analyzing each other, deep in our own thoughts and emotions.

  My mind treacherously flew back to the last time I saw him. It was just a week before the accident. He came to the house to pick up my brother. He came with his brown hair combed back, with that blue checkered shirt that I liked so much, his dark jeans, the ones that showed off his shape so well. He knew how to dress for the girls, there was no doubt about that. And his scent? I loved how he smelled!

  “Aurora! How are you?” he asked, breaking the silence. He sounded restrained and a little sad. I didn’t know how to respond. Seeing him brought up so many emotions at once. During these five years, I’d had to get over the trauma of the accident, the loss of part of my family, help my father heal from his emotional pain and on top of it all, resign myself to Ian’s unjustified absence. Did he want a sincere answer to his question? I felt very lonely for a long time. What did he want me to say? That I was fine? What I really wanted to tell him was that I was still angry with him for disappearing the way he did. For not giving any explanations. For leaving me alone.

  “Hello, Ian,” I finally said, feeling like my eyes were watering. A lump formed in my throat and I had to look away for a moment.

  “I’m very sorry about the accident,” he said, trying to save me from this uncomfortable situation.

  “Thanks, Ian.”

  I had no desire to talk. It was if the cat got my tongue. I knew that if I spoke, I would reproach him for running away and that was the last thing I wanted to do.

  “How are you two?” he asked again, this time bringing my father into the question.

  “Good, Ian, we’re fine now,” I managed to say. It felt like the lump in my throat was going away.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said, with a small smile.

  I’d always liked his smile, those perfect white teeth, those full lips. I still had the same attraction for him I remembered.

  “And how are you?” I asked, coming out of my memories and making an effort to not be dry.

  “Good. I just got back a couple of days ago,” he said, with a notably happy tone in his voice.

  “Were you on vacation?” I said without thinking much of it.

  “Actually, no. I’ve been living away for the past five years.”

  Now I understood why in all that time I hadn’t seen him even once. The astonishment on my face must have been very evident because I myself realized I was standing there with my mouth open.

  “You want to tell me why you left without saying anything?” I snapped, annoyed, without thinking.

  “I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t stand to be here,” he said painfully. “It wasn’t an easy decision, but I couldn’t get rid of the vision of Eric’s limp, lifeless body. He paused for a moment, and I noticed how the expression on his face changed. “You know? We were like brothers!” he said angrily, raising his voice.

  Unable to avoid it, his eyes filled with tears and he lowered his head. A tear fell to the ground. I moved a little closer to him and took his hand gently.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t mean to question you like that. It must have been very painful for you, too.”

  “You don’t have to apologize, I’m the clumsy lout. I hope you can forgive me,” he said sincerely.

  “Yes, don’t worry,” I said, smiling. That seemed to make him feel better, because he returned the smile. “How long will you be here?” I asked him curiously. I felt like seeing him before he could leave again. Having him in front of me was like being able to enjoy a small part of my brother’s memory and I liked that.

  “I intend to stay indefinitely,” he answered, still smiling. “We could see each other if that’s okay with you, and catch up,” he added with growing excitement. He seemed to have read my thoughts.

  “Of course,” my voice more cheerful than I would have thought, “whenever you want. We’ll have to exchange phone numbers or something, right? Or wait until we happen to meet again on the street?” I said a little sarcastically.

  He laughed, and right away took his cell phone from his jacket pocket.

  “Give me your number,” he demanded.

  While I told him the number and he entered it, I looked in my purse for my mine. I thought he was putting me in his contact list and I waited for a call from him so I could put his number in my phone. But instead of leaving me a missed call, the icon for a message appeared.

  “Did you get it?” Ian asked.

  “A message showed up. Were you waiting for your voicemail?” I answered curiously.

  “No,” he said without further explanation while I checked the message in question.

  “Good lord, what a hassle to save a simple telephone number,” I thought.

  But when I clicked the icon, I noticed it wasn’t a message about a missed call, not even one saying that I had a voicemail message. It was a classic text message and read:

  “We have a pending date, is tomorrow good for you for lunch, or dinner?”

  Even though the message didn’t need to mean a formal date, but just a meeting of old friends, I felt the invitation making me blush. The heat rose uncontr
ollably to my face. For a moment I feared that it was obvious, and that my pale skin would turn a bright red that it hadn’t been before. I tried to breathe deeply and I finally looked at him with a little bit of a forced smile, and my eyes open wider than usual. There was no doubt that I was hiding it badly, so I automatically looked down fearing that my face was indeed the nice color of a poppy. Just then, I got a great idea, I’d answer by text as well, that way I could avoid his eyes and my skin would return to its normal snowy color. After thinking for a few seconds, I ended up texting:

  “Okay, we’ll meet tomorrow for lunch. Will you pick me up at work?”

  The reaction I was having couldn’t be for real. I felt like a teenager. I should be careful, I hadn’t seen him for five years. He might have changed a lot in that time, he could have turned into an arrogant asshole, or worse, be married and have a family. I had just turned 32, and he, if I remembered right, would be 34. Either of those ages were good enough to be settled down. But I didn’t really know why I was thinking like that. Really, I was just excited about seeing him and restarting our friendship. But I suppose part of me couldn’t help but think about the possibility that he was married or had a family. If that were the case, it would be hard to spend much time together.

  Instead, my nerves were for another reason. After almost five years, this would only be the second time I’d be having lunch with a man, besides my father, of course.

  “Perfect, Aurora,” he said after reading the message I’d just sent. “Tomorrow I’ll come get you at work, but you’ll have to send me another message with the address,” he added.

  “I’m working at the same place as always,” I said, sure that he’d remember. More than once, he and my brother had come to get me from work at the end of the day to take me home. It was on their way and their hours were the same.

  “Oh! I can’t believe it, you’re still there? You must be the oldest worker,” he joked.