"You need to go home and talk to her. Constant tension isn't good for anyone," Eli gently affirmed, rubbing small circles on Julia's cold hand with his thumb.
"What are you; my therapist?" Julia yelled in response. "You do this all the time, Eli! You tell me to make up with her, to talk to her, whenever she kicks me out and I stay with you. But when I'm actually living there, you tell me I need to get out; that it's not good for the baby to be stuck in that environment. Make up your mind!"
"Well, stress isn't good for the baby. But she is a part of your life whether you like it or not. It'll make Thanksgiving mighty awkward if you keep fighting with her. Someone would ask for the potatoes and the next thing you know, there'd be a fork in someone's shoulder," Eli joked, trying to lighten the mood.
Rain pelted Morty's windshield. The sky was painted with the dark silhouettes of the clouds. The surrounding trees swayed in the howling wind; the playground equipment screeched and cried with the sounds of abandonment. No children would be visiting today; not with such a vicious storm on the horizon.
"I'm so sick of this, Eli! You don't take anything seriously. I swear it's like talking to a five year old most of the time. Everything is a game to you! I'm done." Julia popped open her door and grabbed her bike, which was parked against the nearby tree.
"Julia, wait! I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by that. It was a just a joke," Eli called after her. "I was just playing around."
"I don't want to hear it, Eli. I'll call you tomorrow." She hopped on her seat and started pedaling into the street; not seeing the rapidly approaching headlights.
"Julia!"
"The last thing she said to me was, 'I'll call you tomorrow,' and I feel like I'll be waiting for tomorrow for the rest of my life. It's my fault she's dead," Eli cried into his hands. "If I hadn't made that stupid joke, she would've still been in my car and she wouldn't…she wouldn't be gone! If I could've kept her inside for just a moment longer-" His voice broke as his small frame was racked with rapid sobs.
"Eli," His therapist started, "Eli, this is not your fault. Look at me." The boy refused to look up from his calloused palms. Her voice softened. "Look at me, honey." She tilted his chin up with her hand, forcing him to look her in the eyes. "Julia's death was a tragedy, but Eli, you did not kill her. That distracted driver did."
"But if I hadn't—"
"There is not enough room in my office for all of these big buts. We will never know what would've happened if you hadn't have had that argument."
Eli stared blankly at the wall, biting his cheek to prevent himself from crying. He took a few shaky breaths before he opened his mouth again. "You know," His hands shook as he spoke. "Weeks after she died…I'd call her phone. I just needed to hear her voice again, I guess."
"And now?"
"Her parents shut off her phone." His face fell.
"You know what, Eli? I have a little project, if you will, that I would like you to do for me. I think it will really help your healing process."
"What," Eli snapped. "I would love to hear this great plan that will magically take all my pain away." The therapist seemed a bit taken aback but ignored his remark.
"Whenever you feel sad or guilty; whenever you feel like doing something you're going to regret, I want you to write a letter."
"To you? Brilliant idea, Dr. Know-it-all. Isn't that exactly what my parents are paying you for; except it'd be nonverbal?"
"No," she kept her composure. "No, Eli, you are not going to write me a letter. You're going to write to Julia."
"What?"
"Whatever you are feeling; angry, hurt or sad. I want you to write to her; tell her what you are feeling, why you are feeling it. Write what is on your mind; what you would've told her if she was really here. I want you to vent to Julia. Get all your feelings out there. I want you to write every day, or at least try to, and when you come for your weekly sessions on Friday, I want you to bring the letters you've written and we'll lock them up in a safe. Do you think you can do that for me?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Eli, you always have a choice. Everything I say is merely a suggestion. Would I love for you to do this assignment? Yes. Do I think it will help you heal? Yes. But can I force you to do it? No. And that's fine. I'm here to help you in any way that I can and if right now the only help I can offer you is being a non-judgmental ear, then so be it."
"Can I go now?"
"Oh yes, our time is up isn't it?" Eli stood up to go. "See you next Friday, Eli." He nodded and left to meet his parents, mulling over his little 'project' with every step.
"Hey, Eli," Adam yelled, running down the main hallway of Degrassi to catch up to his best friend. "Hey, man, what's up," He panted.
"Oh…hey, Adam," Eli greeted, trying to put on a pleasant tone. Adam saw through it, but left it alone, knowing all too well why his friend was upset.
"Did you do the homework for Purino?"
"No."
"Oh…" Adam's voice trailed off. "Hey, do you want to come over tonight and play some video games?"
"I don't think so," Eli said flatly, leading Adam into the classroom.
"But-but, come on, Eli," Adam whined. "It'll be fun. And maybe I can ask my mom to take us to the comic book store."
Eli sighed, looking into the desperate, wide eyes of his friend. "I'll think about it, okay? I'll let you know by last block. Cool?"
"Cool."
The bell rang and the class quieted down, expecting the arrival of Mr. Purino. Marco Del Rossi waltzed in instead, placing his large messenger back on the desk. The class sat in silent awe. They had had Marco as a TA before, but never as a full substitute teacher.
"Hello class. You guys should know me, but in case you don't, I'm Marco. You can call me Marco or Mr. Del Rossi, but Marco is preferred," He giggled, winking at the class. "Please take out your text—"
"Excuse me, Marco," Principal Simpson interrupted. "I'm sorry to disturb your class, but we have a new student transferring today." A petite girl stood out from behind him. She pushed a strand of white hair out of her face and behind her ear, biting her lower lip.
"Hello," Marco greeted with a wide smile. "What's your name?"
"Rapha," The girl replied. "Rapha Washington."
"That's an interesting name. Why'd your parents choose that?" Marco beamed from ear to ear, pestering the girl with his upbeat personality.
"They named me after the archangel Raphael; the healer."
"Very cool. Well, thank you Mr. Simpson. Rapha, why don't you take a seat next to Adam? Adam, will you raise your hand?" Adam did as he was instructed and Rapha quietly took her seat. "Thank you. Now, as I was saying…"