The Sad Side of Happy

5: storm

THE WEIGHT OF ELISA'S clutch bag seemed heavier each passing second she thought about the book inside. She could sense it wanted to be read. The immensity of the world on her shoulders felt heavier now that she was aware she held something valuable. She remembered Tyra muttering an apology under her breath when she walked out of the cabin with shaking legs. 'What was she sorry for?' Elisa thought.

She took the book out of her satchel and threw the latter on her bed. "Hello?" she called but no one answered. She figured she was alone in her cabin dorm. Everyone must've already gone to the cafeteria cabin for lunch, and here she was, pulling the chair out of her study desk to assess the torn edges of the leather book. She scanned the pages carelessly, not bothering to read its content. Elisa guessed it had been around for a few years already; the pages were slightly yellow, some crumpled, and some with water stains.

She opened the book on its very first page and read. It was a dedication:

For the milestone, I still remember,

for the things I forgot,

for the people I remember,

and for everything, I might never cross paths with ever again.

It felt like a punch. She turned the next page.

Always read:

I'm writing because they said it would help. This isn't a journal, but it's close to one that I own. Think of this as a novel, or a short story of sorts. I'm not good with the introduction and I don't have a lot to say. If this book is lost, please return to the owner: Marc Khader. What's written here are a bunch of things I'll never be able to explain to anyone, I guess.

Elisa shut the book close with a snap. "Marc Khader?" she whispered. "This book is owned by Marc Khader? Since when did he write?" She flipped the book and searched for any description or summary but the dry color of brown only stared back at her; there was nothing written behind. The dread and guilt she felt started to sink in—she shouldn't be doing this. She needed permission from somebody—from Marc Khader himself. But perhaps he didn't remember the existence of this journal anymore.

Elisa shook her head and opened the book to a random page.

"I hope you find what you're looking for."

When someone tells me this, I think they don't mean for me to find what I'm searching for—I guess we all just want ourselves to find each other; to find the missing pieces of ourselves in others. We try to connect with other people and believe that when there's a spark, they are the missing piece without a doubt. But no, it does not work that way for me.

When I was lost and troubled by my past, I didn't know where to go, where to run, who to talk, and who to trust. Everything was a massive blur. My brother used to tell me I was in love with the idea of the sun and the moon being desperate lovers; but when I woke up one day, I didn't think so. I forgot what it felt like to be so obsessed about things like that. Life was a freaking kaleidoscope at that moment—one small mistake, one small shift of decisions, alter everything—

Elisa shut the book close forcefully. Her sweating hands were uncontrollably trembling. She was frightened by the sudden shift of her mood. A blast of lightning dispersed outside the window and thunder followed suit, striking loudly. With one last look, she decided to stop reading. She shoved the book in a space on the shelf and walked outside, fast, without looking back.

Sullivan Watson was a counselor in his mid-forties who was tall and a bit lanky. However, he walked with confidence—as if he were a runway model—but nobody knew that was partly true. At twenty-five, he worked as a part-time runway model at some clothing company in New York but eventually quit when the brand name didn't make it in the industry. At twenty-six, he continued with college, pursued his career in Psychology, and miraculously graduated—considering his grades were below average. Throughout the next several years, he broke up with his fiancée and met women who seemed to take a liking to him, but he was a practical man and everyone was just...impractical, so he stayed single for quite a long time.

Until of course, one day, he met Tyra when she became one of his clients at the strike of forty. They say life starts at forty.

Tyra was a mess back then; the accident took a toll on her. Sullivan would occasionally visit her on Sundays—even when it was a day off for him—just to check on her. She had a degree in Psychology, too, but never got the spirit to work on her career. When Sullivan realized Tyra couldn't take care of Elisa and Beth, her younger sister, because she was too sick and mentally unstable, he took it upon himself and contacted any of her close family relatives. John P. Ridley, Elisa's uncle, and his wife, Sandra Ridley, seemed trustworthy and capable enough to watch over the girls.

Ever since then, Sullivan was Tyra's angel; her right hand. Occasionally, her maybe. But never the one. It was obvious he was hopelessly in love with her, but Tyra was determined to stay the way she was until she got better.

"Tyra? Are you okay?" Sullivan said, slowly making his way to Tyra's office desk. He sat on one of the chairs in front of it and studied Tyra's tired features. They couldn't hide the fact that they were slowly aging—the lines on their forehead were evident. But to Sullivan, she still looked the same woman from ten years ago. More beautiful, even. "Hey," he tried again, "Tyra."

Tyra snapped out of her reverie and looked at Sullivan in the eyes. She chuckled lightly. "I was just thinking."

That's what she had been doing ever since the incident with Elisa and Marc—thinking, just thinking, about everything and nothing and where she went wrong with the plan that was carefully plotted in her head. She had meticulously planned it over and over before—how Elisa and Marc weren't ever going to meet again. Stupidly taking the advantage of the fact that Marc's memory had a glitch was probably her greatest mistake. They weren't ever bound to meet, Tyra made sure of that, but the inevitable was something she had overlooked upon and had never considered it a possibility.

This was her mistake—not believing in that asinine thing called destiny or fate or whatever.

"About what?"

"Elisa." Tyra sighed. She was always carefree about her thoughts when it came to sharing them with Sullivan. For what it's worth, she had learned to trust him—not as a fellow counselor, or a previous psychiatrist, but as a best friend. Because when it came to Sullivan, he was always willing to listen.

Sullivan watched her with cautious eyes. "How is she doing? The last time wasn't—"

"She almost jumped off the cliff, Sully," she chorused. "She almost..." Her voice was small and silent, and her eyes seemed filled with tears that were bound to fall. Sullivan sat silently, waiting. "I can't say it. It's so morbid."

"It's okay, Tyra," Sullivan replied. "I understand, it's okay." He wanted to tell her he knew. He wanted to tell her that he saw them, on the brink of despair, wanting to jump; just wanting to be free from their ruthless thoughts. From the moment he saw Marc approach Elisa, he knew.

"Did he recognize her? Did he say something about Elisa?"

"No," Tyra said. "We need to relocate him to a different center — get him into a different Support Group — anything!"

"Calm down, Tyra. We don't want to be hasty with our decisions. Think about how long the process is going to take, all right? We still have to set a meeting with his father—"

"His father will be okay with it, Sullivan. I know it."

"How come you're confident about this matter?"

"Because I know his father wouldn't want him to meet Elisa, too."

Sullivan sighed exasperatedly. "Maybe we shouldn't have put them here in the first place."

"That doesn't matter anymore! We will relocate him to a different Support Group. I know someone who's handling a center for people with amnesia—"

Sullivan sighed again. "Marc is different, okay? He is a different case. Don't be insensitive and throw away the boy."

Tyra silenced. Just when Sullivan thought the conversation was over, she spoke, "I think...I think I threatened the boy by mistake."

"What do you mean you threatened him?"

"I told..." she stuttered, "I told him to stay away from Elisa. I was rude to him, too. I was just trying to protect Elisa, Sullivan!"

"I understand," Sullivan said. It was an automatic response he hated.

"NO, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!"

"Calm down, Tyra. It's okay, everything's okay. I know—"

"No, you don't! I did nothing wrong, okay? I did nothing wrong—I just wanted to protect her. I have to protect her! Help me protect her," she chorused and repeated the same sentence thrice like a mantra. She was trying to convince herself more than him.

Tyra hated blue eyes because it reminded her of someone. Flashing lights and the color light blue triggered memories and oftentimes caused her seizures. She was sent to a mental hospital at the age of thirty—when Sullivan concluded her mental illness was getting worse—but was transferred to a rehabilitation center instead a few weeks after, and miraculously got better a year later.

Sullivan hoisted from his seat and stood behind Tyra. He gently placed his hands on her shoulders and gave it a massage. "There, there," he cooed. "You're doing great, Tyra. You're fine, all right?"

Tyra sighed and gripped the edges of the table, knuckles turning white. "Do you think I can take a break, Sullivan?" she whispered. "I think I need a break."

"Tyra." He crouched down to her level so he could whisper near her ear. He tightened his grip on her shoulders. Tyra found it comforting. "You can take a break, my dear. You don't have to carry so much more than you can hold, you know? For how long, my dear?"

"Forever," she said. "I don't want to come back. This...I don't know what to do...that boy is driving me insane, Sullivan. What do I do?"

"Don't worry, okay?" Sullivan said. "I will handle that kid. And I'll keep Elisa safe and away from him." It wasn't exactly what he planned to do, but he said it for her sake.

"Will you do that, Sullivan?"

"I will, sweetheart," he whispered and continued massaging her shoulders.

"I don't think I can continue this place," she said. "You think you can take care of it for me?"

"Are you sure that's what you want?"

"Mhm," she mumbled. "I can't continue anymore. I need help, Sullivan. I think...I'm sick again."

Sullivan tensed visibly but Tyra didn't seem to notice. "Let's get you some rest," Sullivan replied and brought out a pill. "To relax you."

Tyra stared at the small medicine between his fingers. She considered not taking one but when she felt and heard her blood rush in her ears, she didn't delay a moment's second and quickly snatched the pill.

The last time Marc Khader ate a decent meal was on New Year's Eve. He remembered when his Dad received three cookbooks as a gift from a close friend who joined Top Chef. His Daddy was obsessed with Top Chef he eventually learned to cook and bake deliciously. He would spend hours writing recipes and memorizing different types of meat. Not that there were a lot but his Dad was so particular. He eventually figured a way to rent his Top Chef friend's kitchen and cooked an entire dining table for New Year with no help—because he said extra hands caused disruption.

"Get out of here, Marc, or I'm going to fry your hands and feed them to cows," he had said with a glint of humor in his eyes. Marc sarcastically rolled his eyes and tried to steal some chocolate mix from the fridge when he wasn't looking.

It was always like that every time he cooked.

As Marc sat quietly on the step outside the refectory cabin, he ached for that New Year's Eve moment and wished he could remember everything from two years ago. 'Were we always like that?' he pondered. 'Was Dad a great cook even before he started watching Top Chef? Or even before he got the cookbooks?'

"Hey."

A small, feminine voice broke his reverie. He looked up and saw Elisa Ridley standing a few feet away. She stood with a slouched figure and seemed unsure about Marc hearing her. She tried calling him again with the same monotone voice.

Marc stifled a snicker. He thought she was aloof, always had an awful posture, and it was starting to get on his nerves. "Do you always show up — out of the blue or — or do you have a schedule for that?" he replied with the same monotone voice she used.

Elisa blushed and stifled a small smile. He sounded far from being insulting because of his stutter, and Elisa blushed even more at that. God, help her. She felt embarrassed but it was an accomplishment to get him to speak to her. "What are you doing outside? Aren't you getting lunch?"

"The menu sucks," was all he replied. He looked away from her, looked down, and stared at the grass. He noticed it was drizzling because the ground was wet and the grass looked damp.

"What's on the menu then?"

He shrugged.

"Okay," she drawled. The rain started to pour softly, the droplets from the roof gutter fell to Elisa's shoulder. She gasped as she felt the cold drips wet the backside of her shirt. "Geez, isn't it too early for rain?"

"Storm brewing."

Elisa moved aside and stepped a little closer to Marc but leaving a good amount of respectful distance, as well. They were two steps closer from each other, Elisa could hear him breathing heavily as the rain poured louder on the roof. "You good?" she tried, giving him a sidelong glance.

"Mhmm," he hummed in a low tone.

After a few seconds of silence, Elisa spoke again, "Sorry." She paused, holding her breath.

"For what?"

She mumbled something but he didn't understand it. He thought she was being ridiculously shy right now, it irked him. "Come again?"

"I said I'm sorry about the things I said to you last time," she snapped. Then, in a softer voice, she asked, "Do you remember?"

Marc tried to look like he wasn't surprised by her outburst. He nonchalantly nodded and waited for her to continue. "I'm not good with words," she said, quietly. They were silent again. The rain reminded her of the moment they stood at the edge of the cliff together. Side by side. Silent. The air was so thick between them again; but this time, it was only Elisa who felt it. She could feel the tension telling her to step away from him.

"Thanks," he spoke, startling Elisa, "for coming back. We can forget — what happened." She realized he was talking about the incident. Not about the fight.

"Yeah," she replied and tried to change the topic back. "I lied to you. Remember when we talked here outside—"

"I remember enough," he chorused.

She pressed her lips for a second, considering. "I wasn't entirely happy. You were right, Marc. I guess I was just pretending to be."

"Okay," he said, shortly. "Stop talking about it. It makes us sad."

"May I ask you something?"

He nodded.

"Why do you answer in short sentences?" she asked.

"Because." He was about to give her a side glance but stopped midway. He looked straight ahead.

"Sorry for prying," she said in a defeated voice.

A pause. "You okay, Ridley?"

"Peachy."

"Same." He paused. "Sorry." Before Elisa could ask what he was apologizing for, he continued, "For being an asshole. I was just — just kinda worried, I, I guess. So, sorry."

"Okay." She smiled at the ground.

Marc hopelessly wanted to end the conversation then and there. Tyra's voice screeched in his thoughts as she told him, "Better if you stay away from her." But Elisa Ridley was a sweet girl who seemed like she could keep an insignificant secret her entire life and he somehow found ease and a bit of amusement from the girl despite knowing her for barely a day. Her hair reminded him of the season Autumn, his Daddy's dish, his favorite video games, and his brother back home. And his forgotten memories from three years ago. She felt so familiar it ached him to be with her.

"I'm going," he bid an informal goodbye, stood up, and walked away.

Baffled, Elisa stood up and called out his name, but his retreating figure had already disappeared. "I'll see you around, I guess," she said to herself, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips before it faded.