4. Howling – Stella
Wednesday morning, I feel the bone-deep exhaustion that makes it harder than normal to leave my bed. I should’ve known it wouldn’t be gone for long, the foggy blanket of depression, but it’s been a good while since my last episode.
Recurrent brief depression, my psychiatrist calls it. I call it the waters.
My life is like the ocean.
Sometimes, I’m at the top, floating on my back, the sun on my face. Happy, warm. Whole.
Other times, I’m in the deepest, dark blue depths, so cold I can’t remember what the sun feels like anymore. I”m numb.
So I spend my days on the edge of a knife, knowing that if I stay directly on the blade, I can swim in the happy blue sea, but the slightest breeze can send me plummeting into something dark. It becomes an emptiness in my soul, the wind blowing inside, howling within me.
It’s a constant battle, but I don’t want it to win today, so I force myself to roll out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom, squinting as I flick the light on. I use the toilet, diligently avoiding the mirror as I wash my face and brush my teeth and hair, clipping it back, all while avoiding the gaze of the stranger in the mirror. I don’t want to see the blankness on her face, the bags under her eyes, the redness from my late-night crying jag.
Instead, I head downstairs to start the day, continuing my routine even though I’m off today. It helps, I’ve found, to continue the routine on days I feel the dark waters creeping up.
Shuffling to the kitchen, I flip on the coffee maker, grab a slice of bread, and slip it into the toaster before opening the cabinet above the coffee maker. Meticulously, I pull out three orange bottles, opening each and tapping until the pills fall into my hand. I then return them to their home and knock the pills back with water.
Getting medicated was the best decision I ever made for myself, but it requires routine, which has never been a strength of mine, especially on mornings when I feel that all-too-familiar weight in my legs. It’s like treading through the shallow end of a pool. Every step takes just a bit more effort than normal.
While waiting for the coffee and toast to be made, I shuffle back to my bedroom, grab a white tee and a pair of jeans, and slide them on before combing my hair and putting it into a French braid.
I don’t bother with makeup, a tiny rebellion against my mother, who believes leaving the house without a full face is a capital offense.
I may have shifted to fit my parents’ mold, but no matter how deep I bury myself there, the little rebel still holds onto the small pieces of the old me I let her grasp.
Drinking my coffee and munching on toast, I note how quiet my house is for the first time in a long time. When I bought what had been my dream house since I was young, I slowly started to fix it up on my own. Even though there are four bedrooms, I stopped with just the kitchen, bathroom, living room, and main bedroom.
It’s a majestic farmhouse, but I’m just one person. One day, I realized there was no point in fixing it beyond the needed rooms, so I stopped. It never bothered me before, though. But for some reason, the creaking of the wind against the outside, the emptiness… it feels heavy. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath through my nose, praying it’s not the start of another episode. It usually starts this way: taking note of how my life didn’t amount to what I once was sure it would.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge those thoughts before they take hold, and at five-thirty, I grab my keys, hop in my car, and head down to the Ashford Diner to start another day of blissful monotony.
“Hey, Sandy,” I mumble distractedly as I walk into work in a daze I can’t seem to shake. To be fair, that’s how every moment has felt since yesterday afternoon: a daze.
Because Riggins is in town.
Riggins is in town, and he came to my house.
He’s in town with Gracie. That alone could make me cry for long, heartbreaking hours.
But even more, Riggins knows we’re married.
How?
When?
It’s been seven years since we got married and I left and five years since I last saw him. Now he’s coming back into my life, shaking up everything in my predictable little world?
I’ve curated my life for the least amount of upset and confusion humanly possible, from living in my house on the outskirts of town to avoiding having to talk to people when I don’t have my shield up, to being exactly what my mother wants me to be, to working at the family restaurant even though it was what I once swore up and down I’d never do.
The restaurant was started by my grandmother, and when she passed, was given to my mother who worked there her entire life. As soon as she had the keys in her hands, she tried to move it from a cozy family breakfast restaurant to a snazzy upscale brunch place.
If we lived in New York or Philly, it might have worked, but instead, we live in Ashford, population 992, and the people here have zero need for a mimosas brunch at ten on a Tuesday.
So now, Monday through Friday, it’s pancakes and eggs and hearty breakfast foods in the morning, BLTs and patty melts at lunch, doors closing at three. On the weekend, we offer brunch options, but they’re rarely ordered. It never stops angering my mother that instead of classy groups of girlfriends visiting for Bloody Marys, she gets rowdy groups of families and maple syrup smeared on everything.
When she realized the restaurant would never become what she envisioned, she gave up, hiring nearly everything out and making me manager when I returned back from tour so she would have to do the least amount of work possible.
In a way, even though it isn’t what I’d ever have chosen for myself, I’m grateful. I have a steady job that keeps me busy and my mind from wandering too much. I don’t need the money, but having a job in town also helps with nosy questions I don’t want to answer.
I like the job, except for on Wednesdays when Mrs. Crawford rings the bells over the door, giving me a shitty look before I even have the chance to greet her.
Mrs. Francesca Crawford is my mother’s sole remaining friend after treating everyone so terribly in Ashford, no one wants to spend time with her. Some people would see that as a wake-up call, but my mother, bless her heart, only sees it as proof that this little hick town is so much below her.
“What, no one works here anymore? You just sit around and dilly-dally?” I look down at the table in front of me, where silverware and napkins are sprawled as I roll them up for the upcoming day. “Is that what your mother’s paying you for? No wonder you can’t afford updates to that hole you bought, Stella.” I bite my tongue and the urge to be just as rude back to her. I’ve done it in the past, and while the satisfaction simmers for a few moments, the utter and all-consuming chaos of dealing with my mother after the fact is so not worth it.
“Of course not, Mrs. Crawford. How can I help you?” I ask after giving our hostess, Amelia, wide, joking eyes and standing, ready to start my boring, predictable little life.
My safe life.
A life Riggins Greene no longer has the right to haunt
When I get home from work, that hope dissipates when I open my mailbox and see a single postcard with a familiar scrawl on the back.
Good to be home, little star.
All my love, Riggins.