18 Things by Jamie Ayres Page B

college yet, and Sean and Kyle. I had thought Conner was just taking me out to dinner to a fancy French restaurant along the Grand River channel, but when we arrived, everybody was waiting for me in the back room. The picture showed me seated in my chair, sixteen balloons behind me, Conner down on one knee. His present, besides the party, was re-gifting the Morticia Addams gumball machine ring I’d given him when we were eleven.
The Addams Family
was one of our all-time favorite movies.
    “I didn’t think he possessed a single sentimental bone in his body until that night,” I said.
    Dr. Judy closed the scrapbook, then rested her hand gently on mine. “Where’s the ring now?”
    I walked around her desk, then shoved the book back into my tote. “In my night stand at home. It’s too painful to wear.”

    I sat in my bedroom after counseling and a long day at work, staring at the sweet sixteen picture. Deciding not to leave this one in the scrapbook, I walked over to my backpack hanging on my swivel chair, all ready to go for Tuesday. I taped the picture to the inside of my planner, where I’d see Conner’s face the most. Then I opened the drawer on my nightstand, debated for a minute if wearing the ring would be too painful like I thought, then slid it on my finger.
    Hurt like hell.
    But I’d keep wearing the ring as a reminder of my pain. Conner would be the only guy I ever loved, because if I never loved again, I’d never have to be this sad again.

    In a rare act of kindness, Mom agreed to end my sentence one day early so I could attend the last day of the annual two-week long Coast Guard Festival downtown. The leniency was probably only because we’d signed up the Cantankerous Monkey Squad to compete in the Battle of the Bands. It was part of the festival’s concluding events. Bands came from all over the midwest to compete because the festival attracted such big crowds every year. So Mom knew I’d be forced to sneak out again if she tried to keep me from attending.
    Sitting at our cozy glass-top kitchen table, I sipped my vanilla flavored coffee and hoped this little bit of comfort would last me through the day. Looking up, I counted the coffee mugs I’d purchased for Dad over the years. Ever since they started letting me drink coffee, mugs were the only thing I gave him for birthdays and Christmas. Eighteen cheap porcelain cups with cutesy pictures of snowmen, stockings, lakes, and golfing greens lined the top of our kitchen cabinets.
    Mom wasn’t so sentimental. She’d never hung my school work on the fridge, never told me good job for all my straight A’s, only, ‘Why did you get a B on this test?’ Perfection was the standard in my house, not the exception. Picturing those formative years when my parents were my best friends proved difficult now. They didn’t conceive until their late thirties, so all their friends’ kids were much older. Having no playmates my age until I started elementary school meant I’d developed an old soul from the start, participating in their grownup conversations and drinking coffee—starting in third grade—albeit, only miniature cups back then.
    Sighing, I flipped open my laptop and typed another blog, keeping time.
    I feel small and tired today. Forget today, how about every day. Things have been so tough in my life lately, and I can’t remember when life was good. Minute by minute, I struggle not to think of the accident. I wish I had courage to face tomorrow. I wish I had peace over what happened. I wish I felt like there was a purpose to my life.
    Right after Conner died, I thought I’d never go on, like the only thing ahead of me was suffering, loss, grief. Then I started my life list. The 18 Things helped push me toward a goal, but now I feel like all my dreams have fallen flat. I’ve worked hard all my life, but what’s the use? Things didn’t work out for me. I don’t know how to handle all this grief. Before Conner’s accident, if someone