Forever Blue Read online

  Chapter 1: The Beginning

  I’ve always believed that people come into our life for a reason. I know things like this can’t always be explained, but it happened to me once. I met the most amazing boy when I was a young girl, and believe it or not, I fell in love with him at twelve-years-old. Unfortunately, before I got a chance to let reality set in, he disappeared. His absence left me in a state of wonder and confusion for years to come. Only in the last couple of months did the truth about his disappearance unfold. His resurfacing sent me reeling to the point of a nervous breakdown.

  Several of my acquaintances suggested seeking therapy before my feelings imploded like a swallowed hand grenade. I have few friends and virtually no family. My current boyfriend is the only one who understands my circumstances. He also urged me to see a shrink for the sake of saving our relationship. I'll admit that I wasn't big on the idea of getting my head examined. Although, I feared that if I didn’t take care of my problems once and for all, I’d be denying myself of any potential happiness.

  I was recommended to a Swedish therapist in Los Angeles, California, one experienced in family counseling. I made an appointment for a three-week session. If I felt I got something out of it, I would continue to see her.

  The address took me to a house instead of the expected office building. From my car, I gazed at a cozy one-story ivy covered cottage that looked like it was just rolled with a fresh coat of bone-white paint. The property was adorned with a rainbow of beautiful flowers: blue azaleas, lilies, and rose bushes. Red poppies lined the walkway and magnolia trees led from the pathway to the back yard. A breeze gusted through wind chimes. The twinkling melody eased my frayed nerves.

  A cat slumbering in the sun on the flagstone doorstep, bounded off as I approached. The house had a warm and inviting element to it. It was a welcome contrast to the sharp, cold grayness I felt for the past several days. This definitely was not the typical shrink’s office, and it made it seem a little easier to ring the doorbell.

  A stout older woman with a round face and rosy cheeks greeted me at the door. She had short hair as blonde as Hawaiian sand and bird-like eyes the color of the blue sky in winter. Reading glasses were perched on the bridge of her nose.

  “You must be Alexa.” Her fingers gently closed around mine as she clasped my hand. “I’m Dr. Merle Magnus.”

  “Hello. It’s good to finally meet you.”

  I took a second cursory glance at the woman standing before me. Her attire consisted of a modest navy-blue floor-length skirt that disguised her ample figure, a tight-fitting black tank top and a paisley shawl. She also wore an abundant amount of jewelry—big colorful dangly earrings and several wooden bracelets that pinched her fleshy wrists. She echoed like the wind chimes hanging outside whenever she moved.

  “Please, come in,” she said, stepping back and gesturing me through the doorway.

  The house smelled like fresh flowers and cinnamon, decorated in a country style with lots earthy colors.

  Dr. Magnus sat down in her leather recliner in the living room. “Do you mind if I continue eating while we chat? I was just in the middle of lunch when you arrived.”

  Her monstrous meatball sandwich was saturated in marinara sauce. “Please feel free,” I responded, taking a seat on the floral couch.

  “Do you feel comfortable enough to begin?” Dr. Magnus picked up a yellow legal pad and pen off the coffee table in front of her. “I want you to feel as relaxed as possible.”

  I took a deep unwinding breath. “This is entirely new to me. I really don’t know what to expect.”

  “Well—” She took a bite of her sandwich and chewed thoroughly, holding up a finger to let me know she had more to say. “There’s nothing to be afraid of dear. I’m here to listen.”

  I looked down at my tightly clasped hands. “I’m just…just a little hesitant, I suppose.”

  “That’s understandable. Let’s break the ice by talking about why you decided to come see me today.”

  “I have some unresolved issues from my past. My boyfriend thinks it’s a good idea to talk to someone about it,” I explained. “I’m afraid that if I don’t seek help, I might lose him.”

  “What kind of unresolved issues?”

  “Well—with someone from my past.”

  “Would this be the person you mentioned on the phone? An Aiden Storm?” She grabbed her tumbler off the coffee table and took a sip.

  “Yes, Aiden. We were childhood sweethearts,” I explained. “Good or bad, I suppose we can all think of at least one person who made a significant impact on our lives. And Aiden forever left a mark on mine.”

  Dr. Magnus scribbled something on her notepad and said, “That’s true. Almost everyone can reflect over the course of their lifetime and remember at least one person who made a lasting impression. Depending on the nature of the relationship, memory can be a powerful thing.”

  “For the last fifteen years, he’s been so deep down in my soul that just hearing his name triggers so many emotions. It’s like a door that refuses to close.” I desperately tried to hold back the tears forming in my eyes. “I dream about him almost every night and I can’t make it stop. I think it’s because of…of his disappearance. So many things were left unsaid.”

  “In other words, you have an unfulfilled longing from his absence, a longing that cannot seem to be satisfied by anything or anyone else?”

  “Yes, and it has affected my friendships—all my relationships, in fact. Something in my heart just will not let go.”

  “Maybe you should begin this session by telling me how your relationship with Aiden Storm came about.”

  I found her suggestion a bit overwhelming. I had so much to say. “But I don’t even know where to start.”

  “How about from the beginning?”

  Chapter 2:

  Summer of the Unexpected

  1992

  Our Honda Civic slowly inched its way through the congested unloading zone, and finally passed the sign that read, BECKMAN JUNIOR HIGH.

  “One more year and I'll be the proud mother of a high schooler,” Mom said as we pulled up to the curb. “Aren’t you excited?”

  I suppressed a groan, and answered, “Yeah—thrilled.” From the window, I watched a throng of students scatter across a long stretch of grass and disappear behind the school building.

  “I know it’s been hard, honey.” She gently brushed her fingers across my left cheek and gazed at me with such sympathy that I almost felt sorry for myself. “Next year will be better. I promise.”

  Mom was sweet. Unfortunately for her, she was only somewhat clued in on the hell I’d gone through over the past year. I had no reason to believe that eighth grade would be any better.

  I expelled a heavy sigh and said, “I have to go. I’m already late.”

  “Okay. Try to have a good day please. For me?” The scent of toast from that morning’s breakfast crept up on me when she wrapped her lanky arms around my waist.

  The muggy summer air smelled sweetly of fresh-cut grass and morning dew. In a matter of hours, it would become one of those unbearably warm early June days in Irvine, California. Most students weren't worried about making it to class on time on this particular morning. Some leaned against trees while others immersed themselves in deep conversation in the parking lot. Another cluster lingered around idly by the lunch benches. I crossed the atrium and made my way to the girls’ restroom. The moment I stepped inside, the strong whiff of bleach and the lemon scent of freshly mopped floors made my eyes water. There were no students in sight. I ambled on over to a white sink with a ring of rust surrounding the basin. I became more self-conscious by the moment as I looked into the filmy mirror in front of me. I couldn’t find one thing remotely appealing about my pale com
plexion. I never obsessed about my appearance the year before. I used to be one of those girls who rolled out of bed and went about my day in whatever hairdo nature fitted me and whatever clothes I happened to find closest to me. But right then all I knew was that my pasty white face was in dire need of color. I unzipped a small pocket on my backpack and retrieved a tube of pink lip-gloss. I swiped it back and forth across my lips, hoping it wouldn't be too noticeable. After all, I didn’t want my lips standing out like that rust ring on the white sink, but I hoped it would do a little good.

  ***

  “Nice of you to show up, Ms. Moore,” announced my English teacher. “Just because it’s the last day of school doesn’t mean I’m not giving out detentions.”

  Twenty pairs of eyes drilled into me as I made my way to the back of the classroom. I finally sat down at one of the many empty desks.

  “Please take out your spelling assignments from yesterday. I will be coming around to pick them up.”

  The sound of rustling papers and the unzipping of backpacks filled the room. I pulled out my blue folder and quickly laid the assignment out in front of me, aware of the teacher watching me closely. Before I had a chance to blink, Mrs. Salmon stopped by my desk. Her piercing, sharp gaze sent an unexpected wave of panic surging through my chest.

  “Ms. Moore—”

  With a tremble in my voice, I said, “Yes?”

  “Are you wearing lipstick?”

  I met her questioning stare with a stare of my own that refused to give her a valid answer.

  “Give it to me,” she said, holding out her sun-baked, Navajo hand.

  Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked in my direction as if I were some kind of roadside attraction. Mortified, I dug into my backpack and handed over the small tube of lip gloss.

  “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, but this school strictly forbids junior high students from wearing any makeup whatsoever. I suggest you wipe that paint off of your mouth this minute.”

  Following the silence, Jillian Manson turned around and faced me. Her blue eyes grew enormous with curiosity. “Hey, Alexa,” she whispered. “Where do you get all that stuff?”

  “What stuff?”

  “The makeup.”

  “My mom,” I replied, “mostly samples that come with her purchases.”

  “Lucky,” she said, quickly turning back around to avoid getting herself in trouble.

  The teacher stood with her back to us and wrote, My Summer Vacation, on the chalkboard. “Class, for your last assignment of the year, I want at least one page written on how you will spend your summer. This is to be completed before the end of class. I will be picking someone to come up front and read what they’ve written.”

  Jillian braved a chance to turn around a moment later and face me again. “Do you have any big plans this summer?” Jillian had the classic features of the girl next door with her strawberry-blonde curls and piercing blue eyes. She always seemed nice, yet I couldn’t help but feel she was somewhat a fake. We’d been classmates since the very beginning of the school year. The girl never once took the time to get to know me.

  I slumped down in my chair and fiddled with my pencil. I didn’t want to admit that I had no plans. Taking a vacation was virtually impossible with Dad's work hours at the car dealership. While Dad worked (which seemed like always), Mom stayed home and took care of us. We had a hard enough time with money as it was, even with Dad putting in so many hours. “No—not yet,” I responded dryly.

  “My family is taking a cruise to the Bahamas. Can you believe it?”

  “Cool.”

  We all wrote in silence for the next half hour.

  “Okay, please put down your pencils,” the teacher announced. “Who would like to come to the front and read what they've written?” She looked pleased by the number of hands that flew up in the air. “How about—let me see here—Kristy?”

  Kristy Thompson stepped forward. She smoothed out her lemon-colored sundress and flipped her straight blonde hair off her shoulder like a super model readying herself for her runway debut. “My summer vacation—”

  We all knew what was coming. Kristy’s parents were the self-appointed rulers of the plastic surgery world. They also happened to live in a multi-million-dollar mansion on the coast of Newport Beach. Kristy's family took off to some exotic place each season—a safari in Africa over spring break or skiing in Aspen for Christmas. We could all count on the fact that whenever we returned from a school break, her most recent vacation would be the first topic of discussion.

  Kristy continued reading what seemed like a ten-page monologue about an upcoming trip to Greece. I, on the other hand, still struggled with the nonexistent events, the inevitable nothingness that would fill my summer break with boredom and same old routine. Tears of frustration welled in my eyes. I failed to think of anything worthy. I jotted one simple line on my college-ruled paper after swallowing down my aggravation: This summer, I hope to make some new friends.

  ***

  I tried to ignore the loneliness that threatened to engulf me at lunch that day. I sat alone at an empty table under a metal canopy that sheltered a hundred rowdy students shouting over one another. I chewed a bite of my meatloaf sandwich and caught a glimpse of a small group of student’s rough housing at a table across the way. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t envy those kids. I’d been friendless from the very beginning of junior high. It never occurred to me that one day out of the blue, my best friends from kindergarten would suddenly decide that I simply wasn't good enough for them.

  I continued to survey my surroundings, and was hit by a wave of nausea at the sight of my past only a few yards away. Lindsay Wells, Carrie Stuart, and Marissa Carlson giggled and gossiped about something I desperately wished to overhear. Only one thought came to mind: Why do they always care so much about what other people think?

  You see, reality hit me hard the first day of seventh grade. Lindsay had approached me in the girls’ locker room early that morning. With no discernable emotion, she told me she needed to break away from our circle and "expand her social horizons." After that momentous speech, she dug out a brush from her backpack and started primping her hair. Everything became perfectly clear. My best friend—yes, MY best friend—was looking for acceptance from STRANGERS. No doubt, she was willing to do anything to get it, even if that meant kicking her best friend, a.k.a. me, to the curb.

  Lindsay leaned against the lockers and waited for my reaction to her news after she finished grooming herself. My mind still tried to wrap itself around how thin she was. Her tiny frame was devoid of any developing curves, and barely held up the denim skirt that hung loosely on her hips. I hadn’t seen her in over a month. I didn’t know how to respond to my twelve-year-old friend looking like she was sixteen. Blonde highlights had replaced her mousy brown hair, and she sported a low-cut tank top and black Doc Marten boots. She looked like something straight out of a music video that we were much too young to watch.

  I glanced down at my khaki overalls, touched one of my braids, and looked at the ground in disgrace. For the first time in my life, I felt uncomfortable in my own skin.

  “Um, sure, Lindsay,” I said. “I totally get what you are saying.” But I didn’t really get it at all.

  I assumed Lindsay gave everyone in our group the same speech, but no such luck. I found her sitting with my two other friends in the atrium at lunch that day. The three of them smiled and acted as though nothing changed—only it had. Each of them sat there in their miniskirts and tank tops looking like clones of one another. I foolishly thought at first that maybe Lindsay had changed her mind. I tried to get their attention by waving. Each turned their head in the other direction and pretended like they didn’t see me, as if they choreographed it in some kind of secret pay-no-attention-to-the-losers meeting. It didn’t take long to figure out what was going on. They had entered a popularity contest—a contest I was excluded from and had no chance of winning in the first place.

/>   Nothing changed since that horrific day of painful adolescent realizations. I never spoke a word to any of them again. Nevertheless, inch by agonizing inch, my eyes were instinctively drawn to analyzing my three former best friends.

  Two dark-haired boys in baggy pants walked up to their lunch table and started making casual conversation. I watched the sickening scene of batting eyelashes and pretentious body gestures. This was the kind of crap they pushed me aside for. I turned away in disgust, wishing the day would end.

  ***

  I walked home from school that last awful day of seventh grade with an overload of thoughts tumbling through my head. The familiar sounds of my neighborhood broke the tension—the faint hum of a lawn mower—a train whistle blaring in the distance. Walking home was always somewhat therapeutic for me. I lived in a two-story stucco house snuggled in a neatly groomed suburban neighborhood. Most of my neighbors were lawyers, engineers, and doctors who were all too absorbed in their careers to think about starting families. I don’t think I ever saw any of them come of out their house in my entire existence. I didn’t have much to choose from when it came to rebuilding my social life. Why my parents chose a neighborhood so desolate, so devoid of human life was beyond me.

  At that moment, my brain stirred from its preoccupation. In front of the vacant Miller household was a fifty-foot moving truck which was parked directly across the street from my residence. I wondered, was the heat just making me delusional, or are we really getting a new neighbor?

  My heart raced in anticipation at the sight of this new discovery. To see someone finally occupying the property was an unexpected surprise.

  The closer I got to my house, the more rapidly my eyes scanned the front yard of the new neighbor. Two young blond boys stood in the driveway. A mixture of apprehension and excitement grabbed me by the throat as I watched one of them unload items from their green station wagon. For me to tell if he was around my age or not would take a good amount of investigation. A few feet away, two moving men hauled a coffee table into the house. I huddled in between two overgrown shrubs in my front yard, hoping my staring wouldn’t become obvious.