32 Days in May

Prologue

January 10

Months Ago

If ever there were a physical manifestation of depression, it would be the Jersey Shore in the middle of January.

Everything is gray.

The water. The sky. The houses. My skin.

I think of my therapist’s last words before we said goodbye.

You are worth fighting for, Nadia. And if this is how you win the war—then so be it.

In my pocket is a lilac Post-it note from her desk. In her sweet, Catholic school cursive, Audrey had written: you are no one <3

It was the first thing that had made me laugh in weeks. Maybe even since November.

How pathetic am I? I’d said when she handed it to me.

And then she’d said those last words before pulling me into a hug.

For years, I’d tried to be someone. Someone beautiful; someone interesting; someone you remembered from parties; someone you could tell a story about.

Now, my mother drives my car while I try to sleep in the passenger seat. She puts on an Italian song we’ve listened to on every drive to the beach for as long as I can remember. The sentimentality of this gesture makes my body recoil with anger. And the lyrics . . . the lyrics make me livid.

Too much trust ruins love. Now you’re the mystery to me.

I find this to be so true, it makes me sick.

I’d tried to be memorable by making myself scarce. I’d tried to be unforgettable by being impenetrable. I’d tried and tried and tried. I didn’t even get a chance to give up. My body did that for me.

“Do you have all your medicine?” she asks for the hundredth time.

“Yes.”

“Did you take it already?”

“Yes.”

“Do you feel better?”

I grit my teeth. “No.”

We’re at the last light before the bridge into Evergreen.

I count the seconds until it turns green.

* * *

March 5

I’m smoking a cigarette, leaning against the side of the house. I shouldn’t be doing this, but sometimes a cigarette is the only way to stop the panic. Everything about smoking disgusts me—inflames my self-loathing and my GERD.

A tall figure with close-cropped russet hair makes their way down the sidewalk. Fuck. Downstairs neighbor. I’m trying to turn and book it back up the wooden steps that lead to my second-floor entrance when our eyes catch.

They look exhausted; the knees of their jeans are worn and caked with dirt, a pair of filthy gloves tucked into the breast pocket of their flannel jacket. The tip of their nose is bright red.

“Hey,” they call out. “You’re Pep’s daughter, right?”

Dammit. “Hey,” I call back. My voice is high and pinched. “Yeah. Sorry for the—” I hold up my cigarette. “I’ll get out of your way.”

They wave me off, pausing at the bottom of the steps that lead to the first-floor door. “Your dad called me.” What the hell? They catch the look in my eye and quickly add, “I think he was afraid we’d get spooked if we heard you moving around upstairs. But he also said you need a job.”

My mouth falls open. That’s low, even for Pep. I can almost hear his raspy, accented voice. She thinks she’s depressed! She thinks she’s sick! Back in Italy no one ever depressed or sick! She just needs a job!

“Of course he did.”

They do a quiet little laugh. An acknowledgment of how ridiculous my father is, and I soften. “Yeah, I figured you didn’t know about that. Anyway, I run a produce stand, and I always need help. I leave every morning around five a.m.—” I hold back a string of expletives. “Just come down and knock if you wanna join.”

Yeah, right. “Cool—thanks.” I sound stiff. I sound like my dad. I clear my throat and add, “I appreciate it.”

They nod curtly. “I’m Soph, by the way. If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to knock.”

* * *

April 1

I’m drinking my afternoon coffee on the balcony when, for the first time in months, I want to write. The sensation starts in my chest—a warm, comfortable light that blooms slowly into excitement or, maybe, delight, growing until it presses at the base of my throat.

I run inside, grab a pen and a notepad from the junk drawer before inspiration slips away.

Pen to paper, I begin:

things i never knew before lupus:

we should be terrified of our bodies. you realize how little control you have over yourself; how all you can really do is react. if i’m afraid, i can look away. if i have a headache, i can take medicine. if someone breaks my heart, i can hold a grudge until i die. but i will never be able to stop the pain before it starts.

I set down my pen and admire the ink pressed into the page. I like these words. These words are different from everything else I’ve written since November. Maybe, they’re the beginning of a story.

When I look up, I see something strange, a blip interrupting the endless gray-blue horizon. Tangled in the low-hanging cable lines that stretch along the wide, empty streets parallel to the ocean.

Twisting and reaching for the dull, flat sky is a single, straggly tree branch. At the tip, there is a blink of pink. So small that without the stillness of its milieu, I would have missed it.

A cherry blossom.