Chapter Nine
Bizzy (Elizabeth)
It’s been three days since my visit with Dr. Fraine.
Other than accepting the medication he sent to my dorm, I’ve spent the time lying listlessly and staring out the window at blowing leaves.
I’ve skipped classes and ignored Ripp and JJ’s text messages before finally shutting my phone off.
Sleep only comes when I can’t keep my eyes open a second longer. It’s dreamless…
But this morning, I woke up with renewed purpose spurred on by a memory.
“Mom! Mom! Come look at this… I did it! I got in!” Taking the stairs two at a time, I look down at my acceptance packet from Cornell University.
She peeks out of the bathroom while wiping her glasses. “You did?” she asks in a shrill, excited tone.
I start jumping up and down, startling our dog, who yips in surprise. Mom grabs my forearms as she begins to jump with me.
“I knew you would!”
Still buzzing with excitement, I dial Siler, joy bursting from me.
“You’re in,” he says as he answers.
“How did you know?”
“You are… am I right?” He laughs as he puts his phone on speaker.
But that was only the start. As I get dressed for the day, the past that felt removed… stolen from me, trickles back in.
Are they working? The meds must be helping.
I even fish around in a desk drawer and pull out a sketchpad, the urge to draw irresistibly strong. Drawings I’d done on cardstock fall out, each with little notes meant to cheer people.
Memories flood me of tucking the notes into bags, lockers, books… hoping to lighten someone’s day or give them hope. I remember how much I loved seeing the recipients read them and then tuck the notes away, keeping them like some kind of talisman.
As I sit cross-legged on my bed, I sketch more, write more notes. I forget my problems. For two hours I remember who I am: Elizabeth Ahrens, an artist, an eternal optimist, a girl who looks on the bright side. Who doesn’t give up.
Not on myself, not on anyone.
Siler! I jump up grabbing my phone to call him. If he doesn’t answer, I can’t blame him. I’ve grown distant.
He answers on the second ring. “Bizzy, is that you?”
A flood of apologies follows, a rushed explanation of feeling better, of remembering more.
I skirt over the omissions I made before leaving home.
I settle back as he tells me about Duke; the long practices, the roommate who makes curry every day, how much he brags about his best friend, Biz, who drew all the Star War characters for his sixteenth birthday, displayed with pride in his apartment.
I cry… happy tears for the most part. But I’m scared that I’ll lose them again. The memories… the vibrance I feel today.
Like I’m not dying.
Like I’m a normal college student with a long future ahead.
“Come watch us play West Point in a couple of weeks, please? Pretty, pretty please, Biz.” He pleads with me. “You can ride with Mya. I think it’s a three-hour drive.”
That sounds… unpleasant at best.
But I want to see him so badly, I relent. “I’ll be there.”
“How’s she been? Mya, I mean.”
“Umm… so I haven’t talked to her since she picked me up. I don’t think she likes me much.” But the feeling is mutual.
Siler sighs. “Give her time. She’s an acquired taste, but once you know her better you’ll see how loyal she is. She’ll grow on you.”
“I trust you, I do. It's just hard to believe after meeting her. I guess I’ll proceed with snacks and caution.”
Siler lets loose a belly laugh. God, I’ve missed hearing that. If my time is limited… I need to use it better. That includes keeping Siler and my parents close. The sulking is done. What good was it doing, besides making me more miserable?
“You need to meet my new friend JJ; you’d hit it off…” I tell Siler all about him, realizing I’ve missed JJ, too. Our last interaction was strange at best. It’s not every day you catch your co-worker sneaking through windows. “...maybe he’ll come with me to your game.”
My energy doesn’t flag a bit after disconnecting from Siler. I scroll through my messages. The last one from JJ: Update please-r u alive?
Deciding to get some fresh air, I choose to see if JJ is at the art gallery instead of merely texting him back. It’s the least I could do… some face-to-face explanation. Except, how do I explain my absence without lying?
I slide two of my notecard drawings into my pocket before leaving.
With my renewed spirit, I notice things I hadn’t before.
The student in the room next door has poems written on food wrappers adorning the wall by their entrance.
A strong scent of jasmine emanates from the lounge at the end of the hall.
Friendly smiles and greetings come from several people as I make my way outside.
Maybe I haven’t been paying attention.
The lack of friends could be the result of being closed off.
The bright fall sun makes me squint as I pass a group doing yoga on the lawn. I make mental notes to catalog the things catching my attention… the man with headphones dancing in a circle, the breeze causing a woman to stop and put her hair up.
Just like I’ve always done… finding inspiration for my drawings.
Two blocks from the art gallery is a dance studio.
I’ve barely paid attention to it before today.
What grabs my gaze is a dark-haired young woman in a leotard and tights, sitting with her back against the wall next to the door.
She’s slumped forward, shoulders rising and falling.
She digs in the backpack next to her for tissue.
Lingering briefly near the corner, I debate whether I should bother her. But then I think of the notes in my pocket and where they’ll do the most good.
“Bad day?” I lower myself onto a decorative boulder placed a couple feet from where the dancer sits.
“That’s an understatement.” She wipes her eyes with the tissue before sniffing.
Then she tells me she’s getting back into dancing after an injury.
Her hopes of making the dance company she auditioned for fell through.
Then her boyfriend broke up with her. With each added problem, her crying accelerates.
I move closer to sit beside her. After introducing myself, her mouth drops open. “You have to be kidding me. I’m an Elizabeth, too. Liz Timms.”
Carefully placing a note I drew this morning of a little girl chasing a leaf with the message, Don’t forget why you started, inside her partially open backpack, I listen as she recounts the phone call with the jerk of an ex. I know I was meant to meet her today and deliver this.
I’m getting up to walk the rest of the way to the gallery when a furry moppet of a dog plows into me, a leash dragging behind him. Tail wagging and full of aggressive licks, he whimpers in excitement.
“Is he yours?” Liz asks, springing up to grab the leash.
I check his tags and see that my new pal is named Jubilee, but his owner neglected to put an address or phone number on it. Shaking my head, I tell her, “No, and I’m not sure how we’ll find who he belongs to.”
I debate whether I should try to hunt down an owner looking for their dog or continue to the gallery, but I’m not even sure JJ is there.
“Guess I’m on a mission to find Jubilee’s home.
” I take the leash from Liz before squatting down next to him, scratching under his chin. “Isn’t that right, buddy?”
Liz, thanks me for listening. She asks for my phone number, saying it’s been hard making friends at Rockefeller Amherst. I’m eager to exchange numbers, not only because she seems kind, but because it feels hopeful. Like I’ll have the opportunity to make new friends and have new experiences.
Maybe New York was the best decision I could’ve made.
I rest my case.