Best of 2017

Nothing.

And I know that Javi is really gone.

And I know that I'll never be okay again.

MY ROOM IS SMALL. Sterile. White. But the tiles are sea foam green. Like the horror room at Moldavia. I wonder if Javi noticed that too when he was here.

In the sanitarium.

My therapist sits across from me, observing the pattern my fingers trace over the urn that doesn't leave my side.

"Tell me what's on your mind, Isabella," she says.

I forgot her name. Or I don't care. Names aren't important anymore. Nothing is important anymore.

"I was wondering if this was his room," I tell her. "I was wondering if the bed that I sleep in was his too."

"And if it was, how would that make you feel?"

I look at her this time.

"It would make me feel happy."

But that's a lie. Nothing can make me happy anymore. Not when grief is the only thing that exists.

My father thinks I'm wrong. Disjointed. Mentally incapable of understanding my own thoughts. He thinks I have Stockholm syndrome. He says I've been brainwashed into hating him and loving Javi instead.

But he's wrong.

I hate them both. I hate my father for his lies. And I hate Javi for leaving me. For ever loving me. For making me love him. I tell the therapist so, and she doesn't judge me. At least not out loud.

"I hate them," I tell her again. My voice is rougher this time. "I hate them both."

"Anger is a normal part of grief," she replies.

I don't want her justifications. Her agreement. I don't know what I want. I've been here for two weeks, and nothing has changed. She can’t fix me. Only Javi can.

But nobody understands that. They think I'm wrong for thinking so.

"Would you like to play the piano today, Isabella?"

I nod this time. Because I will play every day now. Every chance I get. I play him songs. But I don't sing the words out loud. Because they are only for him. Words only he can hear.

The room is quiet, and the therapist is too. I don't like it when she's quiet. It's easier when she asks me questions. Otherwise, I say things. Things that I shouldn't say.

"He isn't bad," I tell her. "You don't know him."

"I never said he was," she answers.

Her voice is gentle, but I don't believe her.

"His mother did awful things to him. And then my father. Something happened to him. He was tortured."

She sits back and crosses her legs. Folding her hands over her lap as she watches me carefully.

"Why do you feel the need to validate, Isabella?"

"I see how you look at me," I answer. "I see how you all look at me. How you scribble your notes. How my father whispers to you when I can't hear. I know what you think. But you won't change my mind. You won't fix me. Or unbreak me. Or convince me that what I feel isn't real."

She sets her pen aside. Her notebook is empty today. And I'm glad.

"What if I said that I do believe you?" she asks. "What if I told you that what you feel is real? That your love for Javi is real. Would you believe me?"

I trace over the roses again.

"I don't think so."

"Then perhaps the person you are trying to convince is yourself.”

Her words confuse me. They make my head hurt. I don't need to convince myself. I already know that my love for Javi is real.

"Do you feel guilt for loving him?" she continues. "Or is it guilt for his death?"

Death.

The word punches me in the gut all over again. I want to tell her to shut up. I want to tell her that he isn't dead. But he is.

He's right here beside me. And I'll never hold him again. I squeeze my eyes shut, and the only thing I can see is that look on his face.

The betrayal.

It's the only thing I see. Day and night. Every other memory has vanished, and this is all that remains. The haunting final moments when he was there, and then he wasn’t.

"He thought I did it," I whisper. "He thought it was me. It was the last thing he thought."

Tears leak from my eyes and I feel weak for crying all the time.

The therapist doesn't say anything. She lets me cry. She lets me feel. And it hurts so much. I wish she would just give me some pills. To numb everything. To make it go away. But she hasn't given me any.

I ask her why, and she reaches for her pen again, tapping it against the corner of the desk.

"I can't give you any pills, Isabella.”

"But why?" I ask her again. "Isn't that the whole point? The whole point of me being here?"

"The whole point of you being here is to rest," she replies. "To be well."

I ignore her and go back to tracing over the roses. She watches me. She is silent for a long time before she speaks again.

"I think you are strong, Isabella. I think you are brave. And I think Javi would want you to be well too. He would want you to be at peace."

"How can I be at peace?" I demand. "When he isn't here?"

She is quiet again. Her brow furrowed.

"What if I told you that a part of him was? What if I told you that you had another reason to be strong?"

Her words capture me. She knows it. But she does not explain right away. She watches me closely, gauging my reactions. And then when she has determined that I am ready to hear it, she goes on.

"Do you remember when your father brought you here? Do you remember the tests we ran that first day, Isabella?"

I nod. I was despondent then. I wouldn't answer their questions. I didn't need to. They took their answers from my father. From blood tests and eye tests and reflexes and other things that were supposed to measure how sick I was in the head.

The answers to those tests are in my chart. The chart she carries with her now. She opens it up and reaches inside, flipping through to the back. And then she pulls out a piece of paper, sliding it across the desk towards me.

"Isabella, the reason Javi still lives on is because he is here with you right now. Inside of you. You are pregnant with his child."

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

MOLDAVIA IS the same as it always was.

Shadowy. Secluded. Mysterious. But somehow, everything has changed.

Inside is dusty. Stagnant. A time capsule of our last moments together. Javi's bed is still unmade, where we slept together that night. The bandages remain on the bedside table, from when he mended me after I tried to escape. And the glass he brought me to take my pills remains, empty.

It is an ache unlike any other when I walk around this house. When I don't feel him here. I try to be strong. I try to remember everything I learned from my therapy. I want to hold on to the good memories and push forward. But it's hard when everything is so desolate around me.

It's hard when every time I have to breathe, i

t hurts.

His child grows inside of my belly. And I have to do this on my own. It cracks me open and makes me bleed all over again. But the worst pain comes when I visit the conservatory. When I see the roses have withered and died in his absence.

The once familiar scent that used to surround us no longer lives.

Even the house is in mourning. I can’t feel him here. I don't feel him here at all. I have to see him one more time. In the only way I can.

I walk to the bathroom, and I find the makeup case. The one where I stashed the tapes. The tapes that have haunted me for so long.

I don't know what's on these.

I don't know why they were hidden away from the others. But I have nothing left to lose now. I have nothing left to fear. The worst has already happened. There can be nothing on these tapes that’s worse than what I've already witnessed. That's what I tell myself as I walk to the projector.

They are numbered, so I start with the first. The projector sputters to life, but nothing plays on the screen. I try the next tape. And the next. And the next. They are all blank.

All along, they meant nothing.

There was nothing here. It doesn’t make sense. Why were they locked away?I can’t think about it anymore. I can’t focus.

I put on one of his tee shirts, and I cry. But only for an hour. That's all I will allow myself. Because I have to keep moving forward. I have to, for my baby. For our baby.

I have to make a home. I have to play my music. I have to stay busy. And most importantly...

I have to plan a funeral.

MY FATHER COMES to the door in the afternoon, his shoulders falling in relief when I answer it.

"Isa, I was so worried. You should not have run off like that."

"I’m an adult," I answer. "And I was free to go. I did not need your permission."

His eyes are sad when he looks at me. I am sad too. I don't know how it came to this. I don't know who this man is.

"I know what you did," I tell him.

"I did not kill him, Isa," he insists. "I know you find this difficult to understand, but I cared for Javi. I cared for him like a son. And I am mourning his death too..."