Standing with the Wounded

Standing with the Wounded  by Quitley Ivy


         One calm July morning around six o’clock, I found myself sitting out in my grandfathers wide pasture watching the sun slowly come to life just over the hills of  Kentucky.  I knew it was Saturday and that this was the day my cousin, Jakob, and I collect the milk and eggs. Then we go over to Michael’s Grocery and sell it for money, but I was too lazy to reject the soft blanket of grass and the cool earth.  I knew my boyfriend had volunteered to help and was probably already waiting, but this morning was simply just too comforting.  I really don’t know what made me think it.  I really don’t know what made me notice it either, but as I lay in the green and gold sea of grass, I thought “Could I have changed it?  Could I have stopped her 16-year-old life from coming to such an abrupt halt?”  I guess I was convicting myself of this crime because a few weeks ago I attended the funeral of my best friend, Krystal Cane.  Unfortunately, I attended her death too.
  I finally stood up and dusted off my wanna-be-Ralph Lauren-jeans and headed back up to the quaint little farm-house.  I finally rounded the porch at seven o’clock.
“You’re thirty minutes late, Grace.  Do you expect to get around in the real world by being late?  Sometimes, Grace, you can be so indolent.” said my grandfather as he walked through the wooden doorway.
“Sorry Paw.  I’ll do better next weekend.” I said as I slowly, but surely made my way to the gleaming metal basket that held the chicken eggs.
“Grace, I know your upset about Krystal, but you can’t discontinue your life.  There was nothing you could have done.” Jakob said as he walked up with a bucket of milk and with those words I sat down on the hard surface of the knotted porch and started to cry.
“You don’t understand.  I watched her die for a month and she never even knew it hurt me when she lied, cheated, and tried to be sneaky.” I said jumping from a hand being laid on my back by my boyfriend Tommy, not noticing his presence.
“I know it hurts, Gracie, but you’ve got to step up to the plate, be a woman, and move on.”  I got up and walked out to the rusty red colored barn and gathered the eggs as usual.  I thought if I told myself over and over that it wasn’t my fault it would be better.  I still remembered how it happened.
  It was around May when I went over to Krystal’s house to study.

I made my way up the leafy driveway of the Kane home and instantly became aware of a sudden dreariness of the day.  The face I saw didn’t make it any better either.
“Hey come on in!” Krystal said trying to be cheery even though I could tell she had been crying.
“Are you okay?” I asked sensitively as I stepped onto the freshly waxed floor.
“Yea I just hurt my arm on the table that’s all.  I’ve got my books in the dining room if you want to go ahead in while I get us something to drink.”  I walked into the garden themed dining room and sat in one of the chairs.
“So how did you hurt yourself?” I yelled across the room.
“I hit my leg getting up to go answer the phone.” She replied.
“I thought you said that you hurt your arm.” I said as if I was a nosy detective.
“Oh, well, all these body parts keep mixing me up.” she said trying to sound truthful, but you could just hear the lie behind every word that she said.
“Okay.”
“What you don’t believe me?  Is that it?” she said as if I had slapped her right across the face.
“I didn’t say that, Krystal.  I just said ‘okay’ as in ‘okay I’m sorry you hurt yourself’” I said trying not to let my temper boil over.
“Why you don’t care if I hurt myself?  Is that what you are trying to tell me?  I can’t believe you Grace Manu’ette Regale!”
“Krystal Amanda Kane, you know I didn’t do anything.  Now what’s going on with you?  You’re tripping out on me and I don’t know what I should do!” I said trying to be calm.  She then stood up and went to the kitchen.  After a few minutes she came back.
“Grace, I’m sorry I guess I expected too much from you.”
“What in goodness name are you talking about?  All I did was correct your mistake.” I said knowing it was no mistake.  Something was going on and I needed find out. 

“Grace!” I heard someone yell out at me. “You have a visitor!”
I made my way threw all of the weeds and I immediately noticed the Maroon Volkswagen out in the drive way.
“Oh my goodness.” I seemed to push up through my tightening throat.  I rubbed my sweaty palms on the thighs of my jeans and stuck my hands in my pockets.  It was Krystal’s mom.

On my way home I kept trying to figure out what possibly could have been wrong with Krystal.  She lied to me straight in my face.  I, Gracie Manu’ette Regale, may can not notice many things, but I do notice tear stains.  Those weren’t tear stains of just an infliction of pain.  It was much worse, and it saddened me to the very core that I couldn’t help someone so close to me.  I did what came natural to me and ask Tommy McAllen, my sweetie since grade school. 
“Do you know what’s up with Krystal?  She bugged out on me today.” I asked him when I arrived at “The Shop” It’s where all of the local teens go to hangout.  It’s basically your general diner with personal rooms.
“No, sweetie, I don’t.  What happened?” he replied smirking.  I didn’t even take his reply to mind.  I was taking in every piece of him.  On days he works he just looks like a normal guy in a pair of filthy overalls, but today he had on a white button up with a black shirt underneath, a pair of faded blue jeans, and boots.  His green eyes and perfect complexion always leave me squirming.  His blonde and brown hair sweeping over is right eye is more than enough to make any day better.
“Gracie?” he said waving a hand in front of me. 
“Oh sorry.  Uh…what was the question?” I said laughing at myself.

         “Hello Ms. Regale.  I’m here to ask you a few questions.” She said as if she was a detective of some sorts.  You could say that her daughter dying didn’t look as if it had fazed her in the least.
“Hi, er…Mrs. Kane.  What questions can I answer for you?”  I said turning as red as a tomato.
“Come with me, Ms. Regale.”  I followed her as she walked toward a moss covered log.  She pulled out a sky blue handkerchief and laid it out to sit on it.  I’m guessing she didn’t want to get her expensive dress filthy.  As for me, I plopped straight down onto the log jolting it a little.  Seeing her jump in fright gave me a real confidence boost.
“I need to know exactly what Krystal talked to you about…death related.”  She said brushing off the leg of her green dress.
“What do you mean?” I asked calmly, even though I knew what she was implying.
“As in did she mention she wanted to die?” she said.  I almost laughed until I realized she was serious.
“What?  You mean suicide?”
“Well…It’s a possibility isn’t?” she said staring me down with here fierce eyes.
“No it isn’t!  I was… am her best friend and she didn’t commit suicide!” I belted out with immense sound.
“No need to get into a fuss, Mrs. Regale.” she said with a pinch of anger in her voice.
“I’m not fussing.  I’m trying to get a point across to you that my best friend, your daughter, did not commit suicide.  Not ever did a word of that mutter out of her mouth.” I said smirking a little from a smudge of a mossy grass stain on her Italian made dress.
“Fine, answer this, Mrs. Regale.” She said blinking.
“Shoot.”
“Did that boyfriend of hers say anything to you?” she said knowing she worded it just to piss me off.
“What are you saying now, ma’am?” I said trying not to give her that kind of pleasure.  Krystal’s boyfriend, Brenton, was your average guy.  He was insanely hot, but as dumb as bricks.  He had that preppy blonde hair, blue eyes, and a pretty masculine body.  He was really into drugs and no matter how many times we tried to tell Krystal she never listened. 
“I’m saying did he….”
“No”, I cut her off , “he didn’t.  He was sweet as pie to her and treated her like a queen.”
“Well, that’s all I had to ask.  I trust you to let me know any changes in evidence.” she said standing up.
“Of course I will.” I replied honestly.
“Oh, and Mrs. Regale.” she said as she turned walking to her car, nearly tripping on her heel.
“Yes ma’am?”
“Here’s my card.  Keep in touch.” She said smirking.  I took the card and read it as I heard her cranking the car and leaving.  The chatter of the engine made me want to pick up a rock and throw it at her.  The card she handed had every number she had came in contact with it seemed.  It read:


Mrs. Maria Kane
Therapist
Cell- 1-(777)-555-3212
Work- 555-7687
Home- 555-2346

         I folded the card and stuck it in my pocket.  I didn’t really care what she said, told, or asked because I know in my soul that Krystal Kane was not suicidal, and I was going to prove it.