Page 84 of I Love to Hate You
Kendrick keeps his eyes on me while he walks toward the door, and just before he crosses the threshold, he says, “I’m sorry,” one last time before disappearing into the hall.
Somehow, his absence makes the pain of it all much worse, and while the nurses continue pleading and offering sedation, I submerge into a chasm of sadness and confusion.
All I can do is cry. All I feel is pain, and all I have left is heartache.
Fifty
~ MAYA~
“Hey, you okay?”
I shut the passenger door and approach Sam, who’s waiting for me with open arms at the front of her car. We embrace and I lay my head on her chest, closing my eyes because I’d rather see nothing at all than to look at the house my father no longer lives in.
“I don't know what I am,” I answer honestly, tears threatening to spill for what feels like the billionth time. When I turn to look at the house, I can’t hold them back. I would think that after two whole days of crying in the hospital I wouldn't have any tears left to shed, but that’s clearly not true.
Forty-eight hours have passed since I was admitted to Kensington Hospital. I left this morning, and while it felt good to leave on my own two feet, it was as bittersweet as anything could ever be, because neither of my parents were there to greet me as I left, and neither was Kendrick. I had to call Sam, who asked for half a day off from her internship to come get me so I wouldn't be by myself. I smiled when I waved goodbye to the nurses who’d been so kind to me as they rehydrated my body and filled my empty stomach with food, but the second I turned around, my eyes misted over.
I swallowed hard as Sam and I walked down the hall, and found that I didn't have a whole lot to say. There were too many thoughts to pick just one to converse about, so I walked next to Sam in silence until we reached her car. I could tell she wanted to ask one of the million questions in her head, but she was polite and kept them all to herself, although I’m sure Kendrick must’ve told the people at BLMsomething. Now that we’re here, I guess I’ll have to explain it all to her myself. I may as well. She’s the only friend I feel like I have left in the world.
“It’s going to be a mess inside,” I tell her, facing the house as if I’m afraid to enter.
She scoffs. “I don't care. I’m here to help with whatever you need. Oh, and Denver told me to pass on to you that your start date for work has been pushed back to next Monday. So, you’ve got the rest of the week off to rest up.”
“Good to know,” I reply, rolling my eyes because I couldn't care less about work right now. My life is in shambles and in need of renovation. I’ll deal with work when I’m ready.
We stand there for a moment, staring at the front door displaying damage near the knob, courtesy of Kendrick’s foot. Just looking at it makes images flash in my mind of him standing outside, pounding on the door before lunging his foot at it, wood splinters flying as he breaks in to come to my rescue … right before he chose to leave my father to die on the bed.
“You ready?” Sam asks.
I exhale with closed eyes, steadying myself for the onslaught of emotions I know await me behind the door. There’s no such thing as being ready for this, but I’m as close as I’ll ever be.
“Yeah,” I answer before we head up the stairs.
I open the door and am smacked in the face with the stench of rotting trash, stale beer, and vomit. My gut wrenches at the putrid odor and Samantha quickly covers her nose with her hand.
“Damn,” she says, stepping in behind me. “Everything has been ruined. I’m so sorry, Maya.”
“Yeah, me too,” I respond. “Let’s leave the door open and crack all of the windows, otherwise we won’t survive this process.”
“I’m with you,” she says. We separate to open each window before meeting back in the living room. “Okay, so what’s the plan?”
“Well, I guess it’s all mine now,” I answer somberly. “I want to clean up all the trash and throw it out, reposition the furniture, and see if we can salvage any of the pictures my dad broke. I want to keep the photos even if we have to get rid of the frames. We can each take a room, or we can tackle each one together. Whichever you prefer.”
“Might be faster if we can do them together, but you let me know if you need time to yourself at any point.”
“Thanks, Sam,” I say. “Let’s start in the kitchen. If we get rid of the trash in there it might make the rest more bearable.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Like a tag team duo, Sam and I go into the kitchen and take on the fight of cleaning it all up. The trash is completely turned over, and maggots have begun to make themselves comfortable in it. Both of us have to fight through a few gags just to get it all into new bags and out of the house. Luckily, most of the odor leaves with the trash, and we’re able to salvage a handful of dishes. Some didn’t break when my father slammed them against the floor, while others he just didn't see and left as witnesses in the cabinet. We push the fridge back into its place and close all the cabinet doors before stepping back to assess our work.
“That’s one room down,” Samantha says.
“Two to go,” I finish for her.
We move through the living room just as efficiently as we did the kitchen, syncing up to put the couches and recliner back in their place. We split again to pick up broken bottle pieces and glass from the picture frames. Dad ruined a little over half of the picture frames we had, but he didn’t destroy any of the images inside, and I save them all on the freshly cleaned and upright coffee table. The carpet has a few new stains in it, but once we get everything picked up, the room resembles the one I remember, which is both a positive and a negative.
“Can I get you to help me with something really quick?” I ask Sam, who’s using her hand to brush crumbs off my father's recliner. “I want to rearrange this stuff. Let’s move the couch to the back wall, and slide the entertainment center to the opposite one. We’ll throw the recliner out and position everything else around the new setup, then I’ll buy new end tables and stuff later. I want it to feel brand new.”
