Learning to Live Read online

  This book is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, locations and events are either a product of the

  author’s imagination, fictitious or used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to any event, locale or person,

  living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Learning to Live

  Copyright 2014 by Jerrica Knight-Catania

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any format.

  Cover design by Jerrica Knight-Catania

  AUTHOR NOTE

  Ever since I became a writer, this story has been knocking around in my head. Some of it is based on my own real-life experiences surrounding 9-11. I didn’t actually lose anyone that day, but I did watch the towers burn from my apartment for weeks on end, and I did suffer a great deal of post-traumatic depression several months after the attack. It was an incredibly dark time for me, as I’m sure it was for most, and I can’t even imagine what it would have been like to have had a loved one in those towers. But we’ve all lost someone at some point. We’ve all been victims to loss, depression, anxiety, guilt…all these things make us human, but they can also make us feel so incredibly alone. That’s why I finally put pen to paper, 13 years later, to share just a little bit of my story, and to hopefully help those who are feeling sad and alone right now to realize there is a light at the end of that dark tunnel.

  In love and light,

  Jerrica

  PROLOGUE

  A pair of strong arms snakes around me, engulfing me in their warmth and pulling me into a comfortable snuggle. I smile. There are few things I love more than cuddling with my boyfriend—sorry, my fiance—early in the morning. The sun isn’t even up yet. It never is when he has to get up for work. But he always leaves time for a little snuggle before he has to get up and get ready.

  I moan sleepily and burrow further into him. “Good morning,” I mutter, trying to keep my lips closed as much as I can. Morning breath.

  “Good morning to you, Future Mrs. Clarke,” he murmurs in my ear. He has morning breath too, but he’s less guarded about it. I don’t care.

  I roll over so I can see his face. It’s a beautiful face—olive skin, piercing brown eyes, features that are so symmetrical you wonder if they can be real. “Do you really have to go to work today?”

  “Somebody’s gotta pay for the wedding.”

  It’s a joke, but not really. I’m a junior at NYU, and even though my parents pay most of my tuition, they don’t cover living expenses. And living expenses in NYC aren’t cheap. I work at a busy restaurant a few nights a week, but I’m only a hostess, so I don’t earn much.

  Kyle is the moneymaker in the relationship, although it’s still not much, and he has to work a lot. Between his schedule and mine, we’re often like passing ships. That’s why this time in the morning is so precious to me. To both of us.

  I sigh and touch my hand to the stubble on his cheek. “Are you happy?”

  He laughs and pulls me closer to him, so my face is against his chest. “Are you kidding, woman?” He squeezes tightly. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.”

  I smile and squeeze him back. I don’t know if I’ll ever be close enough to him. “Sometimes I wish I could just climb inside of you.”

  He drops his voice and says, “I love when you get freaky on me.” And then his fingers find my most ticklish spots, just below my rib cage, and we’re both laughing and writhing about, getting more and more tangled in the covers as we do.

  “Stop it!” I yell, but I don’t really want him to stop.

  “Never!” he declares, like he’s Spartacus. But I suddenly want more than innocent tickles.

  I wrap my hand around the back of his neck and draw his head down until our lips meet. His fingers stop tickling, and instead he splays them across my back, pressing me against his bare chest.

  “No one’s brushed,” he mumbles through tight lips.

  “I don’t care if you don’t.”

  His chocolate brown eyes darken and a sly smile comes to his lips. “You’re such a dirty girl.”

  The kisses go deeper, and my heart gets lighter. He has a way of doing that to me. He makes me forget all about our tight financial state, or the classes I’m just barely passing at school. So it’s probably good we don’t get to see each other as often as we’d like. We’d be in the poorhouse, and I would never graduate college.

  “I love you,” I whisper when we break the kiss and nuzzle against one another. He smells so good, like the cologne he wore to our dinner last night. Eternity. It’s my favorite on him. And he always says he wears it to remind me that he’s going to love me for all eternity.

  “I love you more.” He kisses me one last time on the forehead and then pulls away. “I’ve gotta get ready.”

  “Nooooooo!” I moan, all childlike and insolent. “Five more minutes. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  He’s already out of bed, and I drink in the sight of him standing there in nothing but his boxer briefs. They hug his ass and his package so nicely. He catches me watching him.

  “You are nothin’ but trouble, you little minx,” he says, and then he leans over and plants a lingering kiss to my lips.

  I can feel the strength of his body as he leans into the mattress. He’s tight and lean, with the same kind of definition one might find on a statue of a Greek god. I want more than anything to pull him back to the bed and make him call in sick to work today. But he did that yesterday. So he could propose to me.

  I smile at the memory of our romantic day together. He took it off, knowing I had no classes and that we’d be able to be together all day. I knew something was up when he started off by bringing me breakfast in bed. Then we took a long shower together that led to other things before he whisked me off for a picnic lunch in Washington Square Park. We napped together in the afternoon, and in the evening, he told me to get all dolled up. I did. And he took me to the Top of the World, the restaurant atop the World Trade Center, where he works the morning shift. And that’s when it happened. Clad in his sexy suit, which he only gets to wear once in a blue moon, he got down on one knee and asked me to be Mrs. Clarke. I, of course, said yes.

  I thumb the diamond ring that now sits on my ring finger, twisting it around and around, loving the feel of it. I feel like I’ve been branded, and I’m so happy about it.

  I fall back to sleep while he takes a shower, and I barely feel his lips on my cheek when he says goodbye.

  “I love you,” he whispers.

  “For eternity,” I mumble back, and then he’s gone.

  ONE

  It’s been three months. Three long, painful months since my life changed forever. Since the lives of thousands changed forever, really. I know I’m not alone, so why do I feel that way? Kyle is gone, that’s why. And there’s not a person on earth that can replace him. Not a single person who will be able to fill this empty void that is my heart now.

  The phone rings for the millionth time, but I ignore it. For the millionth time. I don’t want to talk to anyone. Especially not my family. My parents have called every day since it happened. Every day since the earth shifted on its axis, taking my Kyle and thousands of others away from this world. But I’ve stopped answering the phone. It’s too much, too painful. They say time heals all wounds, but I feel my wound getting deeper every single day. And hearing my mom’s pitying voice over the phone only makes it worse. I wish they could talk about something else, but they don’t even try to distract me.

  How are you feeling today?

  The same as I felt yesterday.

  Don’t you think you should go see someone?

  No.

  And then I hang up. Because it’s always the s
ame thing. So now I’ve just stopped answering.

  A panic fills my chest as the sun starts to set on the horizon. I hate when the sun goes down. I’ll fall asleep eventually, but these hours between sunset and bedtime are complete torture. It wasn’t the case until recently. I haven’t been to a shrink, but I suspect it’s some kind of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. All I know is I want to throw up all the time. I’ve lost a lot of weight in the last few weeks since it started. I sarcastically think to myself that depression is the best diet ever, and after I laugh about it, I burst into tears. Because I’d rather be 400 pounds than feel like this. I’d rather be 400 pounds if it meant I could have Kyle back.

  But you can’t, you idiot. He’s gone.

  The tears come and I curl into a ball on the bed. Maybe this will go away soon. I hope. I could just go to sleep, but something inside me forces me to maintain a regular sleeping schedule. If I start sleeping all day, I’ll have to admit I’m truly depressed. I don’t want to admit that. Not to anyone, especially not myself. I’ve always looked at depressed people and thought how weak they must be. How pathetic to let life get you down so much.

  But it’s not life that has me down. It’s death.

  A ding sounds on my computer, so I uncurl myself and pad over to the desk to see who it is. It’s Melissa. My best friend. She messages me daily, not to see how I’m doing, but to send me an uplifting quote. Which was really annoying at first, but I know I’d be sad if she ever stopped sending them. I look forward to them now.

  “The best is yet to be.” –Robert Browning

  I plop down in the swivel chair, annoyed and comforted at the same time. Clearly, Mr. Browning didn’t ever lose the love of his life in a senseless terrorist attack. Jerk.

  I immediately regret my thoughts. Robert Browning didn’t do anything to me. He doesn’t deserve that. But then again, did Kyle deserve his fate? Did I deserve mine? I ask myself these questions daily. What did I do to deserve this torture, this never ending pain that plagues and haunts me day in and day out?

  Answers never come.

  My computer dings again.

  You okay?

  I don’t want to answer. I don’t want to engage anyone in conversation, even on the computer.

  I just want to make sure you’re still alive.

  This drags an unwilling snort of laughter from me, and I take pity on my friend.

  Yes, I’m alive. Just…trying to get through the day, as usual.

  I wait for her reply. It comes through seconds later.

  I’ve got Phish Food and The Matrix on DVD.

  For the first time in weeks, something sounds good: Ben & Jerry’s. I’m not really in the mood to socialize, but I wouldn’t mind staring at Keanu Reaves for a couple hours or stuffing my face with ice cream.

  Another ding.

  We don’t have to talk.

  I smile, and it feels weird. Like I haven’t done it in years. But I know when the last time I smiled was. In the early morning hours of September 11th. I somehow feel like I’m betraying Kyle by smiling now, so I force my lips back into a frown.

  I’d like that.

  I get up to go to the bathroom to see what I look like. I haven’t been out of the house in a couple of weeks, except to grab a few groceries, so it’s been a while since I’ve paid any attention to what I look like. But I should probably brush my teeth at the very least. And maybe my hair. I look like Hell.

  I pick up my hairbrush—it was Kyle’s, and I haven’t had the heart to even clean out his hairs from it—and run it through my hair, but it’s hopeless. It just frizzes and sticks out in whatever direction it wants to. It used to be a nice shade of auburn, but now it just looks dull and ashy, like my skin. It might be time to take a shower.

  The warm water heats up the bathroom, fogging the mirror within just a couple minutes. I slip behind the shower curtain and let the water sluice over me. It’s too hot, practically burning my skin, but I don’t care. It’s the most I’ve felt in a long time. After the initial shock and sadness wore off, the numbness set in, which is way worse. That’s when I started to lose weight and stopped answering my phone. I hate it. I hate it with all my being. I go to sleep every night praying that I’ll just wake up the next morning feeling normal again. But I don’t. I probably never will.

  Tears come in the shower, but I don’t try to stop them. I just turn my face into the scalding water, hoping it’ll wash away my frustration.

  Once I’ve composed myself, I get out. Melissa has a key, and I can hear her in the kitchen popping popcorn. I don’t say hi. I don’t have the energy to yell it from the other room. When I’m finally dressed, I go out to the living room.

  “Hey, you,” she says, her tone gentle but optimistic, like she’s talking to a four-year-old.

  “Hey,” I reply, giving her a half smile.

  “Popcorn?”

  I nod.

  She brings two bowls to the couch and we both sit down without saying a word. She grabs the remote and hits play on the DVD. She’s been here long enough to get it all set up, and I’m suddenly grateful I didn’t have to do it myself, or walk her through it, because that would require talking, and I’m so not up for that.

  We munch away at the popcorn. It’s the first food I’ve had in a while, and it feels good on the way down. I chug sips of Coke between bites, and I can feel myself coming alive again.

  Melissa hits stop on the DVD. I turn to her, confused.

  “What are you doing?”

  She shifts on the couch so she’s facing me. She has a really pretty face that I’ve always loved to stare at. Not in a lesbian kind of way, just in a Wow, she’s really pretty kind of way. She has smooth, dark skin and these exotic black eyes with super long lashes. Her smile is halfhearted though, and she’s twisting her mouth up all funny, like she has something to say but doesn’t know how to say it.

  “Jess, when was the last time you went out?” she asks.

  I shrug. I’m not interested in an intervention.

  “Then I guess you didn’t see this, did you?” She procures a piece of paper from behind her back. It has huge red letters on it that spell out EVICTION NOTICE.

  I’m feeling a lot like an ostrich in this moment. I just want to bury my head in the sand and pretend I didn’t see it.

  “Jess, what are you doing?” Melissa asks, and her tone is firmer than before.

  “You said we didn’t have to talk,” I retort bitterly.

  “That was before I found this on your door.”

  “It doesn’t change the fact that I still don’t want to talk.”

  Melissa sighs and shakes her head. “Jessica,” she says slowly and carefully. “They’re going to kick you out. You need to have a plan, somewhere to go.”

  “I don’t want to go anywhere else.” I’m not leaving this apartment. It’s all I have left of Kyle. No way in Hell am I letting it go.

  “I know you don’t, sweetie.” She puts her hand over mine, and I choke back the lump that rises to my throat.

  I don’t want to cry. Not in front of her, or anyone. This is my pain. It’s private, and no one gets to see it but me. Which is why I’ve barely left the house in three months.

  “It’s almost Christmas, you know?”

  I do know. But I don’t want to think about it. Kyle and I loved Christmas. Snuggling in the cold temperatures, shopping together, visiting the tree at Rockefeller. And no matter where we were, he always made monkey bread on Christmas morning. I miss his fucking monkey bread.

  “Are you going to go back home?”

  “This is my home,” I bite back.

  “Not for long.”

  I want to yell at her and kick her out of my apartment, but I lack the energy. Hopefully my surliness will drive her away eventually.

  “Your parents would love to see you.”

  I loll my head sideways against the back of the couch to look at her. “What do you know of my parents?”

  She doesn’t look the least bit sheepi
sh as she says, “I talk to them, since you won’t.”

  “What the fuck?” The words are harsh, but the tone is droll. I’m annoyed beyond belief. I never should have let her come over. I should have known she had ulterior motives.

  “They’re worried about you, like any good parents would be.” I can tell by the tone of her voice that she’s starting to get fed up with me. Good. “They call me to make sure you’re okay.”

  “Well, I hope you’re all very happy together.”

  I know my sarcasm is just hiding my hurt feelings. If I wasn’t hurt, I wouldn’t feel like bawling my eyes out right now. Yet I still don’t want to talk to my parents.

  “All right, fine,” Melissa says, turning on the couch to face front again. Then she clicks play on the remote.

  I want to ask what she’s doing, why she isn’t leaving. Any self-respecting human would leave after this. But she’s just sitting there, watching Keanu emerge from his slime pod. I try to focus on the movie, but all I can think about is that damn eviction notice. Shit. I guess deep down I knew it was coming. I don’t have the money for the rent, and even if I borrowed from my parents for a month or two, it would just delay the inevitable. I’d never make enough to pay for it on my own, even if I bothered to go into work. Kyle’s salary was way more money than I’ll ever see. I’m only good for hostess or receptionist type jobs. Well, I was. Not so much anymore, since my sunny disposition is now buried at the bottom of the World Trade towers.

  Melissa falls asleep toward the end of the movie after we’ve devoured the entire pint of Phish Food. I don’t have the heart to wake her, no matter how much she pissed me off earlier. Instead, I cover her with a spare blanket and pad into the bedroom. I climb into bed and spend a good fifteen minutes just lying there. Tears come, but I don’t fight them. I let them fall to my pillow as the sobs rack my body.

  I know what I have to do. I don’t want to do it. I don’t know if I even have the strength to pack this place up or move 900 miles away from the place Kyle and I called home together. Just the thought is stabbing me in the heart, forcing me to curl into a ball under the covers. Maybe if I hide here, no one will find me. Or maybe death will find me. Because surely that would be better than this, wouldn’t it?