Speeding down the highway, the odometer’s needle steadily drifted between markers for 100 and 120 kilometres/hour. The exits became less unfamiliar as I left the east end of the GTA (Greater Toronto Area). Then, I quickly looked down at the clock. It was 3:30 PM.
The Crossing Guard would be there. Or at least, I think he would.
I thought about pulling off the expressway, and heading into the collector’s lane to make the local exit. Actually, the idea had crossed my mind before I even left the Whitby Starbucks on Consumers Drive; I would be simply refilling my gas tank there instead of at the station besides the coffee joint. I decided otherwise, refilling the almost depleted tank before heading onto the 401.
Where the exits seem to fly by and missing them become so common, it felt as though everything was frozen in motion and time. The option just made itself so present, signalling me to get off the highway and onto the local roads, en route to the gas station by my old house. You can’t help but ask yourself, though, for what purpose?
There was no plan or follow-through for after pulling into the gas station. Was I just to watch his interactions with other young girls? Or was I to approach him with the burning questions that had followed me for the last four-and-a-half years of why didn’t he have any qualms of what he did, and who his daughter was at the University if she really did teach at NYU like he had said those many years before. The two questions, seemingly so far removed from one another, yet so inextricably close, both stand in equal footing in putting me at unease; the former haunted me whereas the latter kept me on constant guard.
The decision not to press the issue legally was already made on my part. I reasoned after filing my note with the police that I had other things to do than to settle old scores, but that truth was partial. Sure, I may not have cared to have to deal with court appearances and have my identity revealed in exchange, finally, for his, but the decision not to pursue was more so for the third party involved – ZZ Teacher D. Even if the proceedings resulted in nothing on the grounds of it being a “he said versus she said,” ZZ Teacher D would still be dragged into the mess that I dug up on account of she being the one I told and the obligatory respondent. And though I asked her to keep mum, discretion and policies aren’t for minors to dictate.
Those few seconds in which I argued with myself whether or not to go into the collector’s lane quickly passed. I made up my mind. I kept driving. I just kept on driving and sped past the exit signs.
Evidently, all of this gnaws at me still. Letting “this” go without answers isn’t something that I am used to, especially when soem kind of resolve is so much within reach. I don’t get to tie up the loose ends here – they just dangle.
In the midst of it all, I don’t have ZZ Teacher D as a friend anymore – that decision wasn’t mine, she made it without my knowing. And probably, that’s what hurts the most about all of this now – losing a good friend.
In purest simplicity, the only decision I made was to talk about it, and everything else before and thereafter was out of my hands.
Image via Flickr (user: nayukim)