Chapter 7 #2
You learn quickly, especially in college theatre, that different brains work differently.
My costume design teacher, for example, was so talented when it came to drawing and inserting subtle symbolism in costumes.
She’d dress someone just so and tell you about their past, their current circumstances, and how you should feel about them.
What she couldn’t do was keep track of her schedule or budget.
At first, I was really annoyed by her. Why couldn’t she keep it together?
She can recall millions of facts about Alphonse Mucha but not that she’s meant to teach a class, just like she always does, every Tuesday at three?
Until eventually, I grew to appreciate her.
She couldn’t remember that she had to teach Tuesday at three because Tuesday at two forty-five she was struck by an idea that turned into winning our production awards.
I am not about to design any amazing costumes, or write the books that make me want to squeal and kick my feet like Fae, but what I can do is give my clients the space they need to do so.
Plus, it helps that my clients are all really, really appreciative.
Around noon, I hop on my call with Fae and wander into the kitchen. We’ve got this tradition where we do our one-on-ones over lunch. And while it might be silly, it at least ensures I eat lunch on the days that we have meetings.
Opening my fridge, I can immediately see that it’s past time I got groceries. When I first had trouble leaving after my incident, Tom offered to get groceries for me. Since then, I’ve kept letting him do my grocery shopping because I obviously don’t want to go out.
I’m still staring blankly into the emptiness, hoping something will magically appear, when Fae joins the meeting.
“Hey girl, why are you looking at that fridge like it’s gonna grow food?”
I turn around and smile, leaning over the laptop screen. “Apparently, it’s time for groceries.”
Fae visibly sighs, her shoulders sagging. “Same, but I just can’t bring myself to go. It seems like such a waste of time,” she grumbles.
“Yeah, exactly.”
Definitely not exactly, but it sure sounds like a much better excuse than “just the thought of going to the grocery store makes me feel like I want to vomit.”
A slow, creeping smile—one I know means she’s had an idea—works its way onto Fae’s face. “I have an idea,” she says. “Let’s get lunch.”
While in theory I would love to get lunch with Fae, she lives in the south, so there’s no way I’m making it there for lunchtime, never mind the fact that I’m not leaving my house.
“What do you mean?”
“We’ll get delivery!” she chirps, picking up her phone and tapping into it. “Wait, you can get delivery where you live in the middle of the woods, right?”
“Yes, New Hampshire’s weird that way. I actually only live five minutes from town.”
Nodding, Fae rattles off the few places that actually deliver to my house and asks what I want. She must see the discomfort on my face because she frowns.
“Ada, I know you are not about to offend a southern lady by not eating her food. I’m not there to ensure that you are properly fed, so this is the best I can do. Refusing to let me buy you lunch right now would be a good way to get fired.”
The corner of her mouth hitches up in a smile, just enough that I’m reasonably certain she’s only joking, but I’m not about to press her on it.
I let Fae order me a pizza, that way I’ll have leftovers, and ask her to choose the option where I won’t have to talk to the delivery guy.
She throws her head back in laughter. “No shit, I don’t think that has ever been set to anything else! I don’t want to have to look someone in the eye as they are delivering me way too many tacos.”
Over the next half hour, we review the presents I’ve purchased for her family and her upcoming schedule. We’re almost done with our call when my doorbell rings.
But instead of the normal ding dong, it plays “Jingle Bells.”
At this point, I’m shocked I even still feel surprised.
Sleepy Ada strikes again.
On screen, Fae’s eyes light up. “That is so cute!” she squeals, and it takes everything I can do to keep a smile plastered on my face.
“Isn’t it?”
“Yeah! Now go get your food.”
Outside there is, of course, a pizza box, but it’s sitting on top of a green plastic tub.
There’s actually a pile of green plastic tubs… that should be in my garage.
I blink at them, because it’s one thing for me to forget ordering something online, or changing something in an app on my phone. Walking outside to my garage and hauling out a bunch of boxes feels like something I should remember.
Not wanting to look at the evidence of my spiral a second longer, I snatch the pizza box and slam my front door, putting my back against it. My heart thrums out my back and reverberates into the wood of the door. I pull in a deep breath through my nose and ease it out of my mouth.
This is really nothing new. Sleepy Ada gets up to shit overnight, and so what if she’s leveled up? All I need to do is go back to my call and get through the rest of the day… maybe reach out to a therapist or two.
On my wrist, my watch dings with the notification from our family group chat.
My parents and siblings are constantly talking about performances and Sunday dinners, so it’s pretty steady a lot of the time.
I should leave… but I can’t bring myself to because it feels like leaving the family, instead of just a chat.
It’s been hours since I’ve been able to check my phone for messages—I try really hard to be present when I’m on a client call—and after clearing all of their texts, I notice I’ve got another text message from “Person A”
Person A: I thought you might not be putting them up because the boxes were too heavy. I pulled them out for you
Below is a picture of my porch, obviously at night, with a bunch of green tubs. A telltale flare of light tells me that it was snowing when the photo was taken.
If my heart was racing before, now I’m worried it has stopped entirely. There’s a reason that people often go to the hospital when they’re having a panic attack, this shit hurts. Right now, it feels like an elephant is stepping on my chest.
I shake my wrist, like my watch is an Etch-a-Sketch and that might make it all go away, but I’m obviously not delusional enough to believe that.
Wiping my face clean of panic, I stand in front of the laptop.
I can barely process what is happening, but I know that I cannot, under any circumstances, deal with this in front of Fae.
“I’m so sorry, something has come up, and I think I need to go. Could I get a rain check on our lunch date?”
Brows drawn together in confusion, Fae nods. “Of course. Is something wrong? Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, no, it’s just a little hiccup. But it is time-sensitive.”
I let her assume that another one of my clients is having a problem. It’s the most reasonable explanation, so I’m grateful that she takes the bait. Her eyes widen. And she nods.
“Oh, silly me. Talk to you soon!” she says, rushing to close the call.
As soon as the line goes dead, I realize that maybe I’ve made a huge mistake.
Because now I’m alone.
The blood drains from my face, and I feel cold all over.
Sleepy Ada didn’t send me a text an hour ago. I was on a call.
There is no way I moved all of those boxes in my sleep.
I’d have bruises or dirty clothes, right?
Like a shot, I run into my room and dig into my hamper, desperate to figure this out. I’m having trouble breathing, and all I can think of is figuring out if I did this or not.
The clothes I wore yesterday, while obviously dirty, don’t show any signs that I even left the house, let alone walked to the garage and rooted around to dig out the Christmas decor. Henry can go out on his own and does unless we’re going for a walk. We didn’t yesterday.
With that yielding no evidence, I scurry back to my front door, where my most often worn shoes sit in their boot tray.
My snow boots, which should be damp if I wore them out, are dry and clean.
I haven’t needed to wear them out yet this season, but I’m pretty sure that even in my sleep, I’d have known that boots were the way to go last night in the light snow.
Next to them, my sneakers are dry, and they’d be sopping if I’d worn them out.
Sinking to the ground, a hysterical giggle bursts out of me.
It doesn’t make any sense. Nothing I’ve found suggests that I left my cabin in the middle of the night, sleep-walked to my garage in the snow, dug out a bunch of heavy boxes, and then carried them back to my porch.
I know I didn’t send a picture to myself an hour ago.
Who could have my number? For that matter, what is the likelihood that someone got my old number and knows my new number?
Extremely, abysmally, unlikely, even in a small town.
Henry ambles over from where he’d been sleeping by the fireplace and flops down onto my lap.
He’s not a service dog, but his weight still releases something in me, and I shatter.
Tears plop onto his dark fur, but I’m not shaking as much as I might be otherwise because of him.
He looks up at me with his sad, droopy eyes, and I release a wail.
He deals with so much from me and gives me back even more.
Outside, the lighting shifts as a cloud passes over the sun, and I startle.
Fuck.
Anyone who walked by could see inside my house right now.
“Sorry, Henry.” I push him off and scramble around my house, closing all the blinds. “Computer, lights off!” I yell, and the house descends into darkness punctuated by the small slivers of light around the blinds. Tears are streaming down my face, and my racing thoughts make me feel dizzy.
He’s coming to get me.
I’ve finally lost it.
Nothing makes sense.
I should go home to Utah.
I can’t leave, or he’ll find me again.
I need to call the cops.
Why can’t I just let someone take care of me?
Why?
Which thoughts are reasonable? Which thoughts are unrealistic? I’ve lost touch at this point. I pour myself into bed, clothed, because right now it doesn’t matter. I’ll regret it when I’m sweating, but I just need compression as fast as possible.
So much is happening.
None of it makes sense.
As soon as I’m horizontal, Henry climbs in next to me, whining. I hug him tight, hoping that this time he’ll be able to help me keep my thoughts under control.
Instead, I’m dragged back to that Boston night. The chill of the air on my skin, the sound of my feet on the pavement. I don’t see it or hear it, but I feel it. The choking fear clamps onto my throat, and I sob out a moan, long and low.
Someone’s only trying to be nice. I just need to let them be nice.
But I can’t just let it be that. Someone’s been here, without my knowledge or consent, and no matter how much I try to convince myself that it’s not some elaborate plot.
That my mugger isn’t over a hundred miles away from where he attacked me.
That he’s probably just some punk kid and doesn’t think about me… ever… I can’t. My body believes it.
I fumble around on my nightstand, sniffling, until I find my TV remote.
I turn on the TV and go to my favorite show.
Maybe it’s silly to have a TV in my room for these occasions only—I never watch it otherwise—but it feels like a necessity to watch my comfort show.
It’s dumb, I know every word, and that’s exactly what I need right now.
I burrow into the covers, and when a few seconds of grasping doesn’t find my pod, I pull them up to my neck and put a pillow over my head.
Tailoring my environment isn’t going to stop this, but at least it will help me ride it out.
Because with as confused as my head is now? The next day or so are going to be a lot of napping, a lot of tears, and a lot of time in bed.
After, I can figure out what this means.
After, I’ll make some sense out of it.
After, I’ll become human again.
For now, though, I’ll survive.