Chapter Thirty-Four
I pull the golf cart up to my grandma’s house and sit in the muggy silence of the driveway for a moment, trying to gather my racing, pinging thoughts.
Upon my arrival in Lakeview at the beginning of the summer, I sat in this same place, spiraling over the loss of my career, my sense of failure smothering me.
That damsel was a defeated, slightly melodramatic version of me, but that was okay, because feeling your feelings is not for the faint of heart.
Unfortunately, if you ignore them long enough—and I’m speaking from experience here—they’ll hijack your nervous system.
I see it now, that it wasn’t my talents and abilities slipping away, but running nonstop for months on end.
Whenever my brain or body signaled they could use a break, I’d shoved that aside in favor of overachieving.
I couldn’t simply climb the ladder; I wanted to do it the fastest and most impressive.
I didn’t simply send my boss articles and ideas during my free time, but while eating breakfast, bushing my teeth and putting on makeup, or during my walk to the coffee shop—which I somehow considered my self-care break of the day.
Any praise I received created an obsession to help more, endear more, become more valuable to everyone but me.
I had done to myself what my mom did to me, until coworkers expected me to shoulder their tasks in addition to mine. Again and again, I would think: I can’t keep up this pace; I just have to make it another month; and for the love of God, when’s it ever going to let up?
That led to panic attack after panic attack, which I hid in hallways and bathrooms and my apartment, intense enough I couldn’t conjure my coping skills or ground myself for what seemed like forever.
Then I’d crash out for five or six hours of sleep, rinse and repeat.
Perhaps if I admit to the Cronies they were right, the other conversation I need to have with them won’t be quite so tricky.
Burnout was unlike anything I had ever experienced, and a scary headspace I never wish to visit again. I’m not sure I realized how bad a toll it took on my mental health prior to 3:47 this afternoon, when Jan and I officially crossed the 85 percent occupancy threshold.
“We’re done,” she had said, uncorking a bottle of champagne she apparently kept in the office for special occasions and declaring we were taking the rest of the afternoon off.
Meanwhile I was thinking, oh good, I’m not a sham.
Which also meant I didn’t lie during my video interview when I informed Horizon’s Publicity Firm they’d be lucky to hire me.
First thing Monday morning, after a tense weekend that was slightly less rocky than the beginning, Mom had headed to the airport to return to Indiana while I’d headed into the office to process applications.
After four days of calling, running credit checks, and filling out contracts for new residents, Jan and I reached our goal.
By end of day tomorrow, we might even reach 90 percent.
That’ll set Jan up nicely. I’ll create a publicity plan through the end of the year for her to follow, too.
The curtains on the living room window shift, and Grandma Helen, quickly joined by Fifi, peek out the window at me.
Guess that’s my signal. I stand and pocket the keys with their obnoxious flamingo keychain, strangely sentimental over the golf cart that’s doubled as my chariot for the past three months. I brush my fingers over its decorative flowers, cataloguing every detail.
Okay, so there also might be some procrastinating going on, and it’s about more than this evening’s activity, what’ll be the last of the “Make Mia” challenges to fulfill my bargain.
Although, let the record show, I’m 100 percent daunted by the regret Wanda’s chosen for me to live out with her this evening.
…
I thought about it a lot, and I’ve decided to break the news after I’ve survived skydiving. Because hey, if the parachute doesn’t open, I’ll never have to tell them I’m leaving, and what a not-extreme-at-all silver lining.
Wanda and I stand opposite each other, stepping into harnesses while Grandma Helen fusses between us. It depends on the minute whether she’s assisting or shaking her head and muttering under her breath what a ridiculous idea it is for the two of us to jump out of a perfectly good plane.
For the record, I wholeheartedly agree. I’m the type of person to have to prepare myself mentally anytime I’m about to board a flight, and I’m talking on a commercial airline. Not a little prop plane with a door that’s supposed to open mid-flight.
Don’t think about the risks, don’t think about the risks.
In other words, do the opposite of what my brain does all day every day, and in case I wasn’t fighting my anxiety hard enough, here’s a waiver to sign.
No big deal, just swearing we’re physically capable and covering the inherent risks, such as equipment failure, weather, decision-making of other participants, and collision.
Cool, cool, cool, I am not freaking out.
Buckles jangle as the instructor comes by to check and adjust our harnesses, yanking hard enough on a strap I stumble and nearly faceplant on the cement.
Ooh, if that happens, do I get to skip the plane ride and jumping-out part?
This whole getup is also heavier than expected, and I dart a hopeful glance at Wanda, waiting for her to decide this is too much for her eighty-two-year-old body…
Only to be met with her widest, most dazzling grin. Given she’s all smiles, all the time, that’s saying really something. Flyaway strands swirl around her face in the breeze, and she gives an enthusiastic squeal that means yep, I’m very much leaping out of an airplane today.
I glance at Grandma Helen and raise both eyebrows—with meaning. Are you seriously letting us jump out of a plane without you?
“Skydiving’s never anything I wanted to do,” she says.
“Yeah, me neither, and that goes for salsa dancing, performing standup, and a photo shoot in my underwear, too.” Their zany adventures put me through the social interaction wringer, and while my pits are sweating a river over what Wanda and I are about to do, I truly am braver and more confident than ever with my accomplishments under my belt.
“But my grandmother told me I needed to take more risks and actually live my life. Surely you’re not saying it doesn’t apply to you, too? ”
She purses her lips, and I see where my mom gets it, though I know better than to mention it. “Well, granddaughter, I’ve lived my life plenty, and I meant follow your heart, not fall thousands of feet through the air.”
“While strapped to some dude,” I point out. “That’s right up your alley.”
Our instructor pauses his adjustments on Wanda, and I meet his gaze, practically daring him to contradict me before we’re packed together in a tin-can plane.
Then it hits me I shouldn’t do any threatening of people involved in my future safety, even with my eyeballs. Luckily, Wanda’s already charmed him into forgetting I exist, and that’s how I prefer it.
Until the parachutes get passed around—that’s a yes from me, except only our instructors will technically be wearing them, which is totally okay and not terrifying at all.
Then again, I’d rather not have to figure out that timing or yank the cord, and if I let my GAD and my OCD combine forces then I’ll be all QRSLMNOP.
My lungs constrict tighter no matter how many breaths I take, and holy shit, what-if-the-parachute-doesn’t-open?
I look to my grandma, feeling like the scared thirteen-year-old in a secondhand leotard again. I just want to be safe.
Physically, financially, and mentally.
“How do you think I ended up in small town, Indiana?” I hear my mom’s parting words over and over again.
It’s not like I can stay in my grandma’s and Wanda’s guestroom forever—I’m most definitely not retired, nor do I have the financial means to lease any of the houses that are filling up quickly.
Stability, a salary that eases the strain of surviving month to month, and enough reassurance and control for me to feel free enough to be me.
Those are all things I need, desperately, which is why I can’t pass them up.
It’s a pity I won’t be here to settle in Mags.
As usual, any concerns that filter in bring friends.
“Mia.” I don’t realize I’ve bent and braced my forearms on my thighs, until Grandma Helen places her hand on my back and rubs. “Hey, I’m here. Deep breaths. Do I start with things you touch or see? I can never remember.”
I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out besides the shallow gasps of air and the resulting dizziness. But her question has an image forming in my mind, of the thing I most want to both see and touch.
God, I wish Noah were here. It’s a thought I don’t want to have, and a longing that nearly consumes me. I got in too deep, but I refuse to call it a bad thing, because this past week has been one of my favorite weeks ever.
“What is it about him?” I’d asked Mom while hugging her goodbye, only for her to crinkle her brow in confusion. She might’ve forgotten what she said that night after the open house, but it’d worn a nettlesome path in my brain.
“Noah,” I reminded her, and the stacked-up seconds she took to reply left me irritated and on edge, my heart so vulnerable and bared.
“I’ve always been a bit jealous of what you’ve accomplished. You’re driven and go after what you want, undeterred by how much you fumble and flail.”
There it was, a backhanded compliment that smacked the confidence I’d rebuilt back down to the ground. It recovered faster than ever, though, a pang that was immediately eclipsed by the information Wanda had let slip, purposely in front of me, if I had to guess.