Sunday, May 21
I can hardly believe Memorial Day Weekend, and the official start of Shore season, is almost here. Every moment of winter
and spring had passed at an excruciatingly slow pace, taunting me with alternating cold snaps and unseasonably warm weekends,
punctuated by cherry blossoms that blossomed then wilted, blossomed then wilted, in a never-ending edge toward longer, warmer
days.
Why couldn’t May pass like that? Why couldn’t this entire month stretch on with the same languid drip of February?
Regardless, the start of the busy season means more deliveries, so Soph and I head out before sunrise like the only thing
that’s changed is the weather. Dawn breaks earlier and brighter behind a heavy layer of fog. I finally only need a flannel
to keep me warm. I grab Marco’s favorite green one off the back of a dining room chair and scribble a note letting him know
my schedule for the day. I sign it with a heart and a capital N .
On our way out to the farm, Soph keeps stealing sideways glances at me, probably waiting for me to open up, explain where
I’ve been. It’s easy enough to ignore this early in the morning. I bury my face in my thermos of coffee and turn up our favorite
morning radio show, knowing that when we get to work everything will move as it always does. Indeed, once we get to work the
only sound between Soph and me is the steady crunch of grass and gravel underneath our boots as we load up the flatbed with
our deliveries for the day.
I forgot how quick and strong Soph is. The only time they pause is to point out a gopher they spy scurrying through the high grass along the path that leads from the road to the greenhouse and fields.
I’m trying my best to keep up. I can’t remember if I ever did, but today it feels like I need to. Soph’s bigger than me, both
taller and broader, but when they stack three crates and carry them without a dolly, I do the same. I barely make it to the
truck before my knees buckle and the crates slip from my quaking fingers, falling with a raucous thud—thankfully—onto the
bed of the truck.
“Whoa.” Soph jogs over, steadying me with a hand on my back. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I grunt, trying to recover, but the way the raw wooden slats slid through my hands, they managed to take a solid slice
of flesh with them. The outer side of my hand looks raw and pink, blood just beginning to rush to the surface with a sting.
“Fuck. Shoulda worn my damn gloves.”
“Hold on, I have a first aid kit.” Soph climbs into the cab of the truck, returning with a blue nylon pouch that unzips to
reveal all the medical supplies they might need to perform a minor surgery. Soph quickly swipes an alcohol-soaked piece of
gauze over my wound.
“Shit,” I hiss again, biting down on the inside of my cheek. My already weak hands are locking up from the pain and the sudden
chill moving over me, now that my heart isn’t thundering from effort in my chest. A cold sweat drags down my skin.
“I can take it from here—”
“No, you can’t. You’re literally gray right now.” The moments play out like a stop-motion film with frames removed: Soph puts both their hands on my shoulders and leads me around to the pas senger seat of the truck. Now I’m seated and my hand’s bandaged and resting against my chest.
I lean my head back and let my eyes fall shut, taking a series of big, gulping breaths to calm my nerves. “You’re worried
about me,” I say without opening my eyes.
Gravel crunches under their boots as they sway from foot to foot. “You’ve been pushing yourself a lot lately. I don’t want
you to overextend yourself.” After a moment of quiet, Soph adds: “Allie wants you and Marco to come over for dinner tomorrow
night.”
I blink my eyes open. “Are you staging some sort of love intervention?”
“No, not yet.” Soph laughs, leaning against the open door. “We just want to hang out with you—both of you. It’s been a while.”
“Then why are you asking me like there’s a gun pressed to the back of your head?”
“I-I don’t know, I wasn’t sure if...” Soph takes a moment to gather their thoughts. “It’s already the twenty-first.”
I look away. It is, isn’t it? We have about a week left together, and neither Marco nor I have made any moves to amend our
contract. “What can we bring? Lemon squares? Balderdash?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”
I press a thumb to the center of my forehead, the beginnings of a headache forming. Did I take my medicine last night? I can’t
remember. It’s been so easy to forget. Tonight I’ll get back on track. “It’s okay. I’m really happy right now, okay? I am,
and maybe it’s absolutely delusional but I’m just going with it.”
“If you open up to him about being sick, maybe you guys could figure something out—”
“What if I don’t want to be sick?” I cut Soph off. “What if I just want to be this version of me a little bit longer? Is that okay with you, or have you been in contact with my fucking sister and you’re working together on a full reeducation plan?”
“Jesus Christ, Nadia.” They sigh, dragging a hand down their face. “Sorry. I’m trying to be here for you.” Then, after a pause:
“I didn’t know about your sister.”
I can’t bring myself to look at Soph, so I direct all my words at the reed-lined horizon and the empty stretch of highway
ahead of me. “If I could be this version of Nadia forever, I would do it in a heartbeat. I can do anything he wants. I can
go anywhere. I can get on a plane and show up at an art gallery and eat sushi in New York.”
“I hate that I know exactly what you mean,” Soph says. “It’s like... like, even after I came out to my parents. I just
wanted to be who I was with you guys with them. But...” They pause to drag their teeth over their bottom lip. “I couldn’t.”
Neither one of us does well with vulnerability, so I send my eyes down to my injured hand resting in my lap. A dark stretch
of blood is peeking through the fabric of the Band-Aid. My throat hurts. I feel the soft rot of fatigue in my bones.
“I think I’m feeling better now,” I say. “Let’s finish this up.”
Instead of staying at Marco’s, I decide to head home. Alone in his cavernous house on the bay, I pack my bag and leave a note.
I feel it coming. A migraine, a flare-up, a something . My body isn’t recovering like before; each throb through the injured center of my hand reminds me of this. My thoughts are
simultaneously foggy and jagged; each one passes through my head like a thunderbolt, rocking me with a red-hot jolt of pain
that travels through the nerves on my face, down my neck, into my bloodstream. The pain colonizes my body.
I’m terrified of Marco catching me in my lie like this: walking into the living room to find me green with nausea, dry vomit on my shirt; crying on the bathroom floor, locked up and disoriented by pain.
I’ll tell him tomorrow, I promise myself as I crawl into bed. I need to take my medicine but it’s so far away. I actually don’t even remember where
I left it.