Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Raya
By the next morning, I’m more convinced than ever that this is a huge mistake.
The doctor told me to go home, so I did, and it was miserable. I was so restless and didn’t know what to do with myself. I tried to heat up some of the leftover soup Poppy brought over, but for some reason the smell made me nauseous, so I ended up putting it back in the refrigerator.
I showered, but even that made me antsy, wishing I was self-cleaning so I didn’t have to waste time washing myself.
I almost went to Poppy’s restaurant and volunteered to wash dishes just to get myself out of the house and keep my hands busy.
What Brian said is true—most people would love paid time off, but I am not most people. Work is more than what I do. Without it, I don’t even know who I am.
On the bright side, my pantry has never been more organized.
Even though I’m jittery, irritated, and unable to quiet my mind, I’m thoroughly exhausted.
Not exhausted. Wrung out.
Last night, I fell asleep before 8:00 p.m., and slept a full twelve hours, and I don’t even feel rested this morning. I’m sure that has less to do with some medical condition and more to do with the fact that my mind knows if I’m awake, I’m going to feel edgy and restless all over again.
It just feels so weird, almost illegal, to not be doing anything. And “not doing anything” means there’s too much time to think. More than once, I’ve had to push memories of those moments in my office out of my mind. It’s the only way to keep from spiraling.
I’m awake now, staring at the ceiling, daunted by the prospect of a whole day with nothing on the calendar. What am I going to do with myself?
I force myself to get up and brush my teeth, then grab my phone and walk into the kitchen to make some coffee.
I stand there, soaking in the silence, convinced I will never get used to it. On a normal workday, I have a plan. A system. I would’ve left an hour ago.
But here I am. Home on a weekday with absolutely no plans. I hate it.
I pick up my phone. “Hey, Siri, what do I do with a month off?”
After a pause, the female voice says, “I found this on the web for ‘what do I do with a month off.’”
The answers are, as expected, not appealing.
Travel. Learn a new skill. Focus on self-care. Staycation. Spend time with loved ones. Catch up on projects you’ve been putting off.
Ha. Catch up on projects. That’s what I should be doing.
I immediately think of ten reasons none of these things will work for me.
And as soon as I do, I feel a dull ache at the base of my skull.
There’s a dizzy feeling, followed by the fear I’ve been forcing myself to ignore.
Because hearing “You have to make some changes” is one thing—doing it is something else entirely.
Where do I even begin?
I have to sit down—so I do. My body is making its case loud and clear. I need to figure this out. I need to find a way to calm everything down.
But I don’t know how.
A realization slowly makes its way from the basement of my mind to the main floor: I constantly feel pressure to do something other than the thing I’m currently doing.
I always feel like I’m not doing enough, and time is against me.
Even after a full day of accomplishing everything on my list, all I think about are the things I didn’t get done.
My inbox is always full.
I open the chat with my sisters and see their unanswered texts from this morning.
Poppy
Just making sure you’re resting, Ray. Feeling better today?
I hope you took the day off. You need to take it easy.
Eloise
You know she doesn’t know how to do that.
Poppy
You never know.
Text back when you get a chance!
I sit there, feeling a little paralyzed, staring at the phone in my hands. What do I say that won’t lead to more concern? More worry. More fussing. They’ll want to tell me how to spend the next four weeks. They’ll check up on me.
Why do I bristle at that? Why is it so hard for me to have others take care of me—or at the very least, be concerned about me?
What did Siri say—catch up on a project you’ve been putting off? That’s what I need—a project. Just a little one, one that I can do from my laptop. I promise myself I’ll drink tea and take breaks. It’ll be totally fine.
I open my computer and click on the Remote Desktop icon, and it auto-fills my work email. After I click Connect, I’m met with an error message.
Username and Password Do Not Match.
Weird. I try typing it out but get the same notification.
I call Jill. She answers on the first ring. “Yes!” Not a question, but almost a cheer.
“That’s the way you answer the phone?”
“Sorry, I just won the bet that you wouldn’t last twenty-four hours before checking in!”
“There’s a bet?!”
“Yep.” She calls out—I’m guessing to the rest of the people in the office—“It’s Raya! Pay up, losers!”
I hear a smattering of voices in the background, groans and yelling.
She comes back. “Sorry about that, I just had to gloat a bit.”
“Funny,” I say, unamused. “Why can’t I get into my work email?”
“Because you’re on leave,” she says.
“Right, but I have to be able to at least check in.” My pulse quickens.
“Sorry, I think they’ve pretty much banned you,” she says.
My pulse quickens. “What? Why?”
“I’m guessing because they knew you’d try to work from home,” she says. “Also, I think Brian wanted to make a point that you should listen to your boss.”
“So I don’t even have access?”
I can practically hear the shrug through the phone. “You’re not supposed to work.”
I roll my eyes. “This is so obnoxious.”
“I would be way more sympathetic if I didn’t just win a hundred and ten dollars in the pool.”
I’m simultaneously flattered that the pool is that much and angry that they bet on this at all.
“Okay, but can you get me into my email? You must have a work-around.” A wave of fatigue crashes over me. I trade the stool in favor of the oversized armchair in my living room. How am I still this tired? I slept twelve hours!
“No. I like my job, and I want to keep it,” she says. “Also, I’m under strict orders.” A pause. “They’re taking your health very seriously. New wellness initiatives and everything.”
“What am I supposed to do if I can’t check in?” I ask. “There are actual projects I’m right in the middle of.”
“Trust the team?”
I push a hand through my hair and sigh. I don’t trust the team. Not to do it the way I would, nor the way it needs to be done.
“I can practically hear you spiraling,” Jill says. “You have four whole weeks to do whatever you want to do! Paid! Good grief, I would kill for that. Take a trip. Find a beach. Something! Enjoy it.”
Right. Easy for her to say. “I gotta go. I have another closet to organize.”
“Lucky,” she says.
I roll my eyes.
“Have a great Thanksgiving, boss.”
I click my phone off. I hate this, and yet, as I sink deeper into the armchair, there’s a tiny part of me that knows it might be something I need. Maybe what I really hate is that—I feel like I’m at war with my own body.
I open Justin’s last text and stare at it—then type:
Raya
You’re not going to believe this, but they sent me home. I can’t work for four weeks.
Justin
Whoa. Why?
Raya
For “my health.” It’s worse for my health to be stuck at home.
Justin
I thought you just had a headache.
I stare at the words. They seem cold.
But . . . that’s what I want, right? No emotion. It bothers me a little that he said it that way.
Raya
More involved than that, but yeah. The prescription is rest.
Justin
Yikes. Sounds brutal.
Raya
Yeah, I’m not one to sit on the sidelines. Do you want meet for lunch this week?
Justin
I’ll have to see how the calendar looks.
Right. Because he still has a job.
Raya
No pressure. Just let me know.
Also I realized with all the health stuff I never sent you the details for Thanksgiving dinner
Justin
Oh, right. Text the details to Andrew?
Raya
I’ll send it now.
I stare at the text I just sent. He doesn’t respond. No thumbs up, no “thanks, have a great day,” nothing.
A business transaction, just like I wanted.
I can’t get upset when that’s exactly what I get.
I send Justin’s assistant, Andrew, a quick email with the details for the Hart family Thanksgiving dinner, then drop my head back against the chair and close my eyes, a low mixture of itchy electricity and dull heaviness churning inside me.
I sit like that for a few moments, and I can feel myself drifting off when there’s a knock on my door. My eyes pop open. Probably Poppy. Or my mom. This is what happens when texts go unanswered. They show up.
It’s nice, but I don’t need anyone to take care of me.
“But every once in a while, wouldn’t it be nice if someone did?”
Finn. Back in my head.
Another knock.
I think about hiding in the bathroom, but everyone in my family knows where I keep the spare key. I’m a little surprised they haven’t used it yet.
I stand, toss my phone on the chair, shuffle to the entryway, and open the door, not even all that surprised it’s not one of my sisters standing on my porch.
It’s Finn.