xp_logs | Haller and Callie: Weeding

Haller seeks out Callie to talk to her and gets her to finally open up.

Unlike people, plants were easy to understand. A little water, a little sunlight, and a little care and they would flourish. So when Callie wanted to escape from people, she turned to plants. Plants weren't busy asking if you were feeling okay because you weren't as attentive in class as you should be, or commenting on how you look tired. They didn't look at you with pity whenever they saw you.

They were always bright and smiling, even at the worst of times. She admired them for their strength and beauty, and wished she could emulate them. But barring that, she could at least take comfort in their perfection. And by helping them grow she would be participating in this perfection, and maybe just maybe a little of it would rub off on her.

As Callie knelt in the dirt of the flower bed her focus was currently targeted on. She had lost track of how long she had been out there pulling weeds, but she figured it had to be at least an hour, maybe more. Though the temperature was cool and comfortable, there were still beads of sweat dripping on her face. Using her arm, she attempted to wipe some of her perspiration away, but only succeeded it mixing it with the tears that were slowly streaming down her face.

That was the other thing about plants, it didn't bother them if you cried.

Then, coming up the path behind her, there was the distinct scuff of heavy-soled shoes. The steps were slow and measured, sufficient to give warning -- and, if necessary, allow the listener time to prepare. They stopped a respectable distance away from the crouched girl.

You could never tell, but sometimes you could guess.

"Hey," Jim said, hefting a canvas bag. "I thought you could use some lunch."

Callie wiped her face clean one last time before mustering a smile and turning around to face the familiar voice.

"Hi Mr. Haller." Her voice was as calm and even as she could make it. She had hoped no one would be out to bother her, but that's what she got for working so close to the mansion. Next time, she promised herself, she would venture further away. "Thanks. But, um, I'm not really hungry?"

Jim had come prepared for excuses. He sat down in the grass a few paces away, reached into the bag and extracted a bottle. "I also brought water. You look like you could use it. Probably a break, too. There's also some wipes if you want to clean up a little." He popped the cap of the bottle, nodding his head towards the bag in invitation.

She needed to keep hydrated, that much she couldn't deny. So she slowly rose from her patch of earth and made her way to where the counselor was sitting. "Thank you," she said as she accepted the bottle and took a long sip. "I don't mean to be rude, but it would be a bit wasteful if I were to clean up now just to get dirty again, but thank you for the offer."

"Don't worry about it. It was just on the off chance you felt like lunch, but didn't feel like eating that pound of dirt everyone's supposed to eat in their lives all at once." He took a sip and looked at the flowerbed and the pile of pulled weeds still nearby. "It's looking nice. It's weird, every year I forget how fast stuff starts growing once the weather gets warm. Right up until the first good rain and the ground explodes, anyway."

"It keeps me busy," came the response as the girl lowered herself onto the ground. She picked at the label, slowly peeling back the paper from the plastic. "It's a lot, but it keeps my mind focused on where I should be. Like meditation, or prayer, you know?"

The counselor nodded. "I do the same with painting. Focus, and only on the thing you chose to focus on. It's calming. A good way to empty yourself out."

Jim exhaled slowly and leaned back on the heels of his hands. "Since I don't want you to dread where this is going, I might as well tell you that all the stuff you think I'm here for I probably am. I'm not going to harass you with questions or anything, though. I like my privacy, too." He pulled at the grass with his fingers and gave her a half-smile. "Still, I thought I might as well check."

Looking at the pink girl, Jim wondered if Callie, too, had the feeling that this was some kind of dance. He admitted to not being 100% in his certainty; you never could be, short of reading someone's mind, and that was something he didn't do with students. Still, he had his suspicions. Or had developed them after realizing the timing.

There was only one thing Callie never seemed to talk about.

A heavy silence hung over them for a few moments, marked by the sound of fingernail tapping against plastic as Callie continued to struggle with the wrapper. She didn't know what to say, or if she even wanted to say it. Although these people were her friends, there were just some things she still didn't feel comfortable talking about, especially when so many of her classmates had it much worse. And if they could handle it, so could she.

"I try to keep myself busy so I don't think about it," she said finally as she locked her gaze with his. "Sometimes it doesn't really work. But you just have to keep going really. Can't stop living."

"Can't stop living." Even now she wouldn't say the words, but that was all the confirmation Jim needed.

For how many of us is it family?

"That's true," Jim said. "There's times where you have to not think about it, because you need to be able to function. Sometimes it's the only thing that can keep you going at all. But you also can't stay busy forever." He leaned forward, her gaze still met with his own. "And if you did let yourself slow down, just for a little while . . . would it be so wrong?"

Callie blinked, but did not look away. She wanted to show that she wasn't scared, but deep down she was terrified, terrified that people would see how vulnerable she was. She didn't mind showing some of her weaknesses, but not this.

"I guess I'm afraid if I slow down I'll start to think and I won't be able to function again." She shrugged. "Inertia is a difficult force to overcome. It's easier to not think about. You don't get sucked in, you can just continue on."

The shake of the counselor's head was short but certain. "That's not true, though." Jim ran a scarred hand over the grass again. The lawn was still flush with recent growth. He sighed. "I remember Mr. Marko complaining about all the dandelions. He had to explain why, because I didn't grow up with a lawn so I didn't get it. I mean, they're green, and if you keep up with the mowing you can't even tell. But they're still weeds, and they grow fast. So you can either waste a lot of energy with maintenance, or you can block out a time to go after the root." The half-smile he gave her was sad. "Dealing with pain is the same. Like somebody told me a long time ago, if you don't bleed, you can't heal."

"Dandelions aren't bad per se, I mean they have a lot of uses, but they can- oh!" Callie's eyes widened in understanding. Sadness was like dandelions. She viewed it as a bad thing, something that she had to get rid of all together or else it would take over the rest of her emotions. But it didn't have to be? "So what you're saying is that like dandelions, I should take care of the bad feelings so that they don't pollute the good ones but also like dandelions they have a purpose too? Like putting the greens in a salad or having bees use their pollen for honey. So that you turn something that's bad into something that's good? But how do you do that?"

Jim was a little surprised; Callie's knowledge of horticulture had actually improved his attempt at metaphor. Surprised, but not above following her lead. He set his hands on his knees. "When something bad happens," he said slowly, "there's this impulse to try and hang onto your life exactly the way it was before. But that's not how life works, really. It's always changing. We're always changing. Everything we are, we are because of what's happened to us. And because of the people we've known in our lives." He tilted his head at her. "When you refuse to think about a thing it's not just the bad memories you avoid, it's the good ones, too. And that's too much good -- and too much of what made you who you are now -- to just lock away."

Her lip quivered as Callie turned her attention to the grass and her hand casually moving through it. Without saying a word, she shifted her position, pulling her knees up and resting her chin upon them. She could feel her eyes watering, and quickly used her shirt to wipe them. With a sniffle she hugged her knees tightly. "But if you think about the good stuff it leads to thinking about the bad things...," her voice cracked before trailing off. "And they hurt."

The counselor didn't make any move yet. He just remained seated on the sunny lawn, attention focused on the huddled girl as the birds in the trees trilled on.

"They always do," Jim said softly. "But even if we can't always control what happens, we can control how we let them affect us. It's true, the good things and the bad things are tied together -- but pain fades, and good or bad, those memories are yours. Proof of her that nothing can take away . . . unless you push it away yourself." His mismatched eyes rested steadily on Callie's flushed face, and his head tilted forward in the slightest of inclines. "It hurts. But life should only be able to take away someone you love once."

"I...I forget she's not here sometimes." The words came slowly as Callie tried to regain her composure. Her eyes flicked up at Jim for a second before returning their gaze to the ground once more. "Like there's something I want to tell her and I'll start dialing her number or writing her an e-mail. Then I'll remember and it makes the pain feel new all over again. Like thinking about how she couldn't come to the play, or how she won't be here to watch me to go prom, or see me graduate or anything." Tears were slowly running down her cheeks, but she did nothing to wipe them away. It felt like too much effort to keep her face dry, too much effort to move. "I mean she's in heaven looking down, but it's not the same. It's not, because I won't see her or feel her or be able to talk to her. Like there's so much I want to talk to her about that I can't. To tell her I'm sorry, to tell her I love her, to wish her a Happy Mother's Day, and everything else. But I... can't."

Jim was silent for a moment. It was so unfair, he thought, that there was so much that could be said about death, and so little that would help. But that was the wrong way to go about it anyway, wasn't it? He wasn't the one who needed to talk. Yet grief was something private, personal. Difficult to share, even for someone without Callie's sense of self-containment. Even now, she still hadn't referred to the woman as anything but "her". It was a gentle distancing, but significant nonetheless. How can I close the space? he wondered.

What I have wanted someone to say to me?

In an act of almost unconscious mimicry, the telepath drew his knees up to his own chest and set his arms across them. "Your mother," he said, his voice soft. "Do you think you could tell me about her?"

"My mom?" Callie looked up at him through reddened eyes. A small smile toyed with the corners of her mouth, wanting to show itself until at last it appeared. "Well, she was my best friend...."

For some time after that Jim only spoke to ask a question or voice acknowledgment. The girl talked, and the counselor gave her what he had: an ear to listen, and, when the time came, a hand on her back to steady her against the sobs. The shadows grew longer.

What to do next would come later. For now, this was enough.