9. Julia
Julia
The first thing I became aware of after I woke up is that my neck hurts.
And not the kind of hurt that elicits concern followed by a dramatic Google search that ends with me discovering I have six hours left to live.
It feels more like a very specific punishment your body delivers when you fall asleep on the sofa, apparently designed by someone who believes human necks bend at ninety-degree angles.
I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling for several seconds before the rest of my body starts reporting its grievances.
My shoulder hurts, one leg is half numb beneath the blanket, my mouth tastes like something crawled inside it and died, and yesterday’s green sweater is twisted around my torso in ways I can’t even begin to explain.
“Lovely.”
I reach blindly towards the coffee table until my fingers find my phone. 6:17 a.m.
“Oh, fuck off.”
I’ve slept for almost eleven hours.
The last thing I clearly remember is coming home.
I also remember pieces after that, but they feel disconnected from each other.
Pieces like opening the refrigerator and standing there without knowing what I wanted.
Walking into the living room. Pulling the blanket over myself because apparently walking upstairs to my perfectly functional bed was asking too much. And then nothing.
I sit up carefully and rub both hands over my face.
I don’t feel terrible, which is almost disappointing considering yesterday’s performance.
Mostly I feel wrung out, like somebody took everything inside me, twisted until there was nothing left and then forgot to put me back into the shape I started in.
Kind of like when you start assembling IKEA furniture and give up half way because the instructions weren’t all that clear.
I give myself a moment to gather my thoughts, no matter how scattered and murky they feel at the moment because apparently therapy is going great.
Second therapy session in and I feel worse than I did before I started.
Because I was sure that the only thing worth unpacking and discussing was my father.
Mom and I were fine. At least I thought we were as long as she kept to our agreement that we don’t rehash the past and that walks down memory lane were as frowned upon as me going to the gym.
No matter how much Tessa persisted because apparently, a sound mind comes from a fit body but I was more than happy to cultivate my personality of a permanently exhausted pigeon.
I take another look at my phone and realize that it’s high time I peel myself off the couch if I want to make it to work on time. My stomach growls the second I stand.
“Yeah, yeah.”
Coffee comes first because I may be emotionally damaged, but I’m not an animal.
I shuffle into the kitchen, start the machine and stare suspiciously at the refrigerator while the coffee maker gurgles behind me.
Looking at the fridge brings back another fragment of last night, cool air against my legs while I stood with the door open.
What the fuck was I doing? Probably trying to eat.
Excellent effort, Julia.
My phone rings before I can investigate whether anything in there can qualify as breakfast.
Tessa.
I answer and put her on speaker while reaching for a mug. “Good morning.”
“Okay, first of all, why do you sound like you've been smoking for forty years?”
“Because I apparently slept on my sofa in yesterday’s clothes.”
“Come again?”
“I came home, laid down and woke up about five minutes ago. Apparently my body decided consciousness was optional.”
There is noise on her end, followed by what sounds like a car door closing.
“Jesus, Jules. Are you okay?”
And there it is. I’m fine is already sitting on the tip of my tongue when yesterday’s session comes rushing back with enough clarity to annoy me.
I stare at the coffee pouring into my mug. “I think so.”
Look at me. Growth.
“How was the appointment?”
I hesitate before answering because once I do, it’ll all come back rushing in. And while it was noon somewhere in the world and that would justify drinking at this time, nowhere in the world was early enough to unpack that much trauma.
“We talked about my mom,” But I say it anyway, because it’s Tessa.
“Oh.” There is another rustle on her end, then Tessa sighs. “So, same old shit?”
“Kind of, but actually, there was this thing that came up about when I was twelve and I think maybe—”
“Oh, shit. Hold on.”
I stop. There is muffled talking on her end, Tessa answering someone I can’t hear, followed by the beep of what sounds like a car locking.
“Sorry. I’m trying to get into work and fucking Rachel just texted me that she called out again, which means guess who gets to deal with her shit for the second time this week?”
The unfinished sentence dies quietly in my mouth. “You?”
“Ding, ding, ding.”
“What happened this time?”
And just like that, we move on.
Tessa tells me about Rachel, whose grandmother has apparently died for the third time since January, and I laugh in all the appropriate places while pouring coffee into my favourite oversized mug.
By the time she finishes explaining whatever disaster is waiting for her at work, what I was about to tell her no longer feels important enough to drag the conversation backward.
It’s fine. The irony almost makes me laugh, while bad timing makes me want to hurl. My phone vibrates against the counter while Tessa is still talking. Mom. I open the message.
Mom:
Just got home from my appointment. Everything is fine, bloodwork looks good and the doctor said there’s nothing to worry about. I know you’re busy and have your own life, so I didn’t expect you to remember it was yesterday or ask how it went. Anyway, now you know I’m still alive.
My stomach drops with immediate precision, just like always when she sends text messages like these.
She’s always been good with words like that, especially when she wanted to hurt someone.
Mainly me. And just like clockwork, before I even have the time to rationalize and remind myself that this is what she always does, that this is how she calms her own mind and that I shouldn’t let myself get sucked into it, the guilt sets in.
Always guilt first. Fuck. I forgot. She told me about the appointment last week.
I should have remembered. It would have taken thirty seconds to send a message and ask how it went.
Then, right on cue, the anger comes right behind it because of course she couldn’t simply tell me everything was fine.
She had to put the little hook at the end and wait for it to catch. Because it does, every fucking time.
“Jules?”
I realize Tessa has stopped talking.
“My mom just texted.”
“Everything okay?”
“She had her doctor’s appointment yesterday. Everything’s fine.”
“Good.”
“Yeah.”
My thumb hovers over the keyboard while the apology starts assembling itself automatically.
I’m sorry. Yesterday was awful and I completely forgot...
I stop. Yesterday was awful. Does she know that?
No. Did she ask? Also no. Eight of ten times we talk, she never starts the conversation by asking me how I’m doing.
It always starts with a monologue about all of the things that are wrong with her, all of the reasons she’s not feeling well, and then she manages to add little comments on how she needs to do everything by herself because there’s no one to help her.
No matter how many times I offer or tell her to call me if she needs anything, my mother always chooses to keep quiet about the things she needs but then conveniently manages to shift the blame on me because I’m not helping.
It’s a lovely little dance we do and every single time it works like a charm.
I end up feeling guilty for failing in my daughterly role and for having a life that is not rainbows and sunshine, despite the fact that my mother seems to think it is.
But then anger flares again, immediately followed by guilt for even being angry, because she’s my mother and she had a doctor’s appointment.
Maybe wanting your daughter to remember something important isn’t some massive act of emotional manipulation.
But that’s the fucking problem with us. There is always another side.
She loves me. I know she loves me. I love her too, but somewhere along the way our relationship became this strange accounting system where every missed call, forgotten appointment or a message becomes evidence that I don’t care enough, while neither of us ever talks about why calling her doesn’t come naturally to me in the first place.
I learned distance from somewhere. Apparently neither of us particularly enjoys discussing where.
“What did she say?” Tessa asks.
I read the message aloud.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” She mutters and a laugh escapes me.
“Thank you for that nuanced psychological assessment.”
“You're welcome. My invoice is in the mail. Don't answer her right now.”
“I should at least tell her I’m glad she’s okay.”
“You can tell her later. You're already doing the thing.”
“What thing?” I bite my lip because I am already doing the thing, but obviously I need Tessa to remind me that I am.
“The thing where you're about to spend the next hour writing a three-paragraph apology because you forgot one appointment.”
I glance at the empty reply field. She’s annoyingly accurate.
Tessa exhales, and I hear another door opening on her end. “I have to go before my entire day catches fire. Take a shower, eat something and go to work. Leave your mom’s message alone until you actually know what you want to say instead of apologizing because she made you feel guilty.”
“Fine.”
“Was that a real fine or a Blackwood fine?”
“Oh, fuck you.”
She laughs. “There she is. I’ll check on you later, okay?”
“Go save the world from Rachel.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”