Chapter 7 #2
She sets her drink down, her gaze lingering on the near-empty glass.
She makes a noise that could be a laugh, but it’s forced and dark.
“It’s twofold, I guess. My migraines have gotten worse as work has gotten more stressful, and since not enough people who can make any real change care if people walk into schools with guns…
I mean, I literally could die at my job.
I guess any of us could die anywhere at any time, but it feels… particularly unsafe these days.”
She pauses to gulp down the rest of her drink. “Sorry, that was kinda dark.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m glad you felt like you could tell me. It never even occurred to me to think about that.”
I pause before continuing to give weight to the moment. I’m not sure what to say, but I want her to know that what she says matters to me, so I give her words the space they deserve.
“If you did leave, what would you do?”
She peeks at me through her eyelashes, then lowers her gaze, tucking her hair behind her ear and scratching absently at her neck. Her chin dips to her chest, and she shrugs. She definitely has an answer to my question.
“I don’t know. I—I was accepted to a graphic design program at a local community college.”
“You’d go back to school? Abby, that’s amazing. When would you start?”
She chews on her bottom lip, her face scrunched like she’s in mental turmoil over something. “In August. They need to know by July first.”
That’s in two weeks.
“You haven’t said yes? Why not?”
“Remember, the health insurance thing?”
“Can you teach and do like a night school program?”
She shakes her head. “Not with my migraines. I don’t have the spoons for it,” she says.
“The spoons?”
“With chronic pain, I only have so many spoons—only so much energy to do things. So if I have no migraine day, no pain, no other symptoms, something like brushing my teeth might only cost me one spoon. But on a day when I have pain, depending on how much pain or if I have any other symptoms, brushing my teeth might cost two spoons. I don’t know how many spoons I need for a graphic design program, but I know that right now, at the end of my days, I don’t have a lot of spoons left, and so I use them for things like seeing Hazel or my parents, and making myself meals to freeze so when I have migraines, I’m not just eating crackers and peanut butter.
I’m already just skating by; I don’t think I could take on anything else. ”
It’s hard to swallow around the lump in my throat.
I knew from our college days that sometimes her migraines kept her from doing things, that even if she didn’t have pain, she’d be recovering from the migraine and her energy would be low.
She pushed through a lot of things, though, and I suspect she downplayed her pain or energy levels a lot of times.
It sounds like she’s taking better care of herself, but it also still sounds like a lot to deal with.
“Okay, no night school. So you’d have to leave your job.” I ask, “Is it just health insurance holding you back? There’s non-work sponsored options—I’ve helped some of my guys figure out what they needed. I can help you if you— I’m not trying to, like, step in and fix anything, I just…”
I like helping. I like helping you.
“No, I know, I appreciate it. It’s not just that. It feels…selfish.”
“Selfish?”
“I don’t know, it’s just like…what’s the point? I’m doing good work. I’m educating young minds and inspiring the next generation. To leave and go do what? Make logos for businesses?”
“I think you’re underselling how important that is.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I have a logo for my business and that was a hell of a lot harder of a process than I thought it would be. The guy I worked with talked a lot about brand and identity. The logo he made me feels like a reflection of who I am and what my business is. It’s not educating the next generation, but it is important. ”
“Graphic designers don’t get special weeks at restaurants and appreciation weeks. Teaching is a noble cause.”
“Look, I’ll give you the health insurance reason, but that one is…” I shake my head and finish my drink.
“What?” she presses, a hint of defensiveness rising in her tone.
“No, I just…I get it. I see why you’re stuck.”
She raises her eyebrows at me, waiting for the rest of what I want to say.
“Yeah, you’ve created an airtight argument about why you can’t leave. So you’ll stay forever whether or not you actually want to.”
“Miles,” she groans. “It’s not that easy.”
“What does Hazel think?”
Abby’s eyes stay fixed on her empty glass. She skates her finger along the top edge of the glass, avoiding my gaze. “Hazel…doesn’t know.”
“Wait, what? You haven’t told your best friend that you applied to a graphic design program and you’re thinking about changing careers?”
Abby presses her lips together in a thin line. “When you say it like that…”
“I’m just surprised. Hazel seems like the perfect person to tell.”
Not to mention, I’m reeling that she told me before telling her best friend.
Either she thinks I’m that trustworthy, or she doesn’t expect to talk to me again after this and is confessing to me the way one might confess to a person on an airplane as it’s going down—out of desperation to get it off your chest.
“Why? Why keep it from her?” I ask.
She’s quiet for so long, I’m not sure if she’ll answer.
“Because I…” She sighs. “If I say it out loud to her, that makes it real. And I don’t know if it’s real yet.”
“If what is real?”
“The wanting.”
I’m about to say something else, but she inhales deeply, like she might say more, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from talking.
“When I was a kid, I wanted to get better so bad. I didn’t want to be sick as often as I was.
I saw how tired my parents were. And wanting didn’t get me anywhere, so I…
just stopped. I don’t always trust myself to know what I want, and sometimes even when I do know, it feels silly to say it out loud because wanting only made my life harder then.
Things got easier when I accepted that I would always have migraines and have to deal with being sick.
“So I’m trying to figure out if this—going to a graphic design program—is something I really want or if I’m just hoping it will fix something that can’t be fixed. Like, maybe I’m just burned out and all I needed was a vacation, some time off to clear my head, and then I can get back to it.”
She gestures vaguely, indicating that this vacation might be the thing she needs to keep soldiering on as a teacher. To keep putting her body on the line for the noble cause of teaching.
I can hear the wanting in her voice. It’s real, but it’s as real as the fear there, too. Abby knows what she wants to do, but she lacks the confidence to do it.
I wish she could see herself the way I see her. She’d never doubt herself again.
I would tell her, but I’ve pushed enough tonight. I don’t want her to run away again.
“Well, I hope however many days you have left here give you the clarity you need. Another drink?” I point to her empty glass.
“Actually, would you get me some water?”
“Just water?”
She thinks for a beat. “No, I’ll do a margarita on the rocks, please.”
I don’t want her to go yet; I’m not ready for this conversation to end.
Sleep schedule be damned—I’ll stay out here all night if it means I get to spend time with her.
I just have to not fuck things up tonight, and then I can take it one day at a time.
I need to find out how much time she has left here.
I carry the drinks back to our table, whiskey on the rocks for me and a margarita, a water, and a Gatorade for Abby.
“What’s this?” she asks, taking the small bottle of red Gatorade.
“I thought the electrolytes might help keep you hydrated. I know it used to help after a migraine; I don’t know if it helps before.”
She’s fighting a smile, pinching the corners of her lips together. “That was…thoughtful. Thank you,” she says.
“So, um, how long are you here for?” I ask.
“Question for a question?” she asks as the wind blows a few strands of hair across her face. She peels them off, gathering her hair to one side and holding it so the wind doesn’t take control anymore. My god, she has no idea how adorable she is.
“Question for a question,” I confirm.
“I have a week left. It’s a ten-day trip,” she says.
Seven days left to spend with her. Yeah, I’m keeping her here tonight as long as I possibly can.
“Your turn,” I prompt, tilting my glass toward her.
She twists her lips to the side in thought.
As she brings her attention back to me, moving her lips like she’s about to ask the question, there’s a loud clash of a drum.
A few gasps around the beach follow the sound, and then there’s another drumbeat equally as loud.
And then another, and another, volume intensifying as the sound travels toward us.
A line of drummers, each with a single drum tied to a rope around their neck, approaches the dance floor.
The resort attendees who were on the dance floor are gone now, replaced with men in black slacks and black vests.
Our table is close enough to the stage that we can see their eyes are lined in black, with dark eye makeup to match.
All the lights around have dimmed to a dull yellow, the tiki torches providing a glow effect on the drummers.
The drummers’ song is faster now, a powerful rhythm climbing toward a climax, and just as they hit it, a burst of flames from behind them has those in the crowd catching their breath in surprise and joy.
Two women appear behind the drummers with a staff each, lit at both ends with fire.
They walk forward, the drummers parting down the middle and taking positions off to the side.
They start a new song, and the two women, clad in black sequined bodysuits with thigh-high glittery boots, start their dance.