Chapter 32 Sam
SAM
Rosie murmurs something in her sleep, and I reach across my body to brush a lock of hair off her cheek, my fingers automatically diverting to dance across the light smattering of freckles that have gotten a little darker since I first saw her on the plane.
Her fingers curl into my chest before relaxing again, a tiny little hum accompanying the action.
While she sleeps, I’ve been replaying the end of the evening.
She choked and then started to laugh, and while the choking wasn’t funny, her laughter was contagious.
I couldn’t remember the last time I laughed just because someone else was laughing, especially without knowing the cause of it.
Yet, I couldn’t seem to help myself, and it felt amazing—until her tears of laughter turned into something less funny.
In the blink of an eye her expression went from joy to grief.
To someone who has never experienced great loss, I’m sure they would have missed it.
They would have seen pain and wondered what was wrong.
But I saw the way her eyes widened as if witnessing the worst moment of her life.
The grimace that seemed to freeze her body, and then the memory detonating with a strangled wail that pulled me from my seat.
She apologized over and over again while we got ready for bed. She was sorry for hurting me, for crying, and for being unable to escape the memory that made her sad and in turn hurt me to witness.
“I…is it okay if we just go to sleep? I can sleep on the couch. I just, I can’t…” I hadn’t replied. Instead, I took her by the hand and stood silently next to her while we brushed our teeth and then got changed. Held her quietly until her breathing levelled out.
I have a sneaking suspicion that Rosie is one of the only people in my life who understands what it’s like to have your world turned upside down and to feel lost in the version you’re left with.
Robin Williams’ character yelled about being home, running through the house he hadn’t been in since being sucked into Jumanji, and I wondered if I was ever going to experience that again, the sense of being home.
I felt at home when I moved over here. Always felt at home with my parents, but since their deaths…
Life feels like a series of mundane challenges.
Boring to the observer, exhausting to me.
Existing is exhausting.
I focus on Rosie’s breathing, trying desperately to see the beauty in this moment, but it’s in the quiet darkness that I struggle most.
I jump when fingers brush my neck, spilling my coffee in the process.
“Shit,” I curse, standing up and spilling more.
“This is ice cold,” Rosie says, taking the mug from me, sad brown liquid dripping down the side and onto the floor.
I honestly hadn’t noticed. I’ve been sitting in the conservatory since four a.m. thinking—well, I don’t even know what I’ve been thinking about.
Wallowing is maybe a better description.
Slipping in and out of a depressive state while yawning periodically.
Every yawn a reminder of the minutes and then hours spent wishing for sleep that seemed right around the corner, but refused to come.
“Hey,” Rosie murmurs, setting the mug down and resting a hand against my cheek. “How long have you been up?”
I need to blink a few times before she becomes clear. She’s illuminated from behind by the sun, her red hair ablaze, framing her beautiful face.
“Early,” I croak. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Her hand drops lower to my jaw. “Does it hurt?”
It’s not my jaw, I want to say. It’s my head. It’s my body. It’s my heart. There’s a dull ache everywhere.
“My jaw is fine,” I grumble. “Sorry about the mess.” I force a smile, the line between her eyes deepening with concern.
“Something’s not fine,” she says softly, pulling on my hand and guiding me back into the chair.
She sits across the table from me, and I can see the questions whirling through her mind.
I’ve already told her what I deal with. It’s not a secret, and yet I’m hesitant to remind her.
I don’t have a lot of experience being open about this.
My parents were gone by the time I was diagnosed.
Colin knows, but he’s the one who knows me best. One therapist called it complicated grief.
Another suggested I suffered from a depressive disorder alongside the grief.
It explained why things seemed so much worse for so much longer.
Colin unpacked a lot. He insisted that I always seemed good as long as I was busy.
The busier I was, the better I hid things.
The better I felt, in all honesty. High-functioning depression was what I’d read in forums. Successful people who threw themselves into their work so while symptoms existed, they didn’t feel as obvious.
They certainly didn’t look as obvious. Part of me still wanted to keep searching for what it was, despite the official diagnosis of PDD.
I wanted the chance to see how I’d be if I got to do something I loved again.
I juggled the what-if of it all constantly.
“It’s frustrating up here,” I say, pointing at my head.
“Have you taken your meds yet?”
“No, I wasn’t hungry, and I can’t take them on an empty stomach.” I force myself to look at her and not through her. It shouldn’t be this hard. I like looking at her more than I have any right to.
There are some days, like right now, I wish I could go back to assuming how I was feeling was purely because I didn’t sleep well. Navigating this whole depression thing with the knowledge can be draining in a way I never expected. Hyper-awareness is a bitch.
“Are they the pills on the vanity?” Rosie asks, standing and heading back into the main house.
“Yeah, but you—”
“Shh, let me get them. I’ll make a quick breakfast too.” She holds her hand up when I try to argue. “I’m hungry, and I need coffee. I’m not coddling you, Sammy.” She glares at me, her face only softening when I nod and relax back into the chair. “Good boy.”
Good boy… Maybe that’s my kink. But only when she’s saying it because I do as I’m told.
Rosie makes a breakfast featuring soft-boiled eggs and toast soldiers, and I manage a small, yet real laugh when she sets the plate in front of me. A pill lands on the table beside it along with fresh coffee, and I offer a barely audible thank you.
I need to pull it together. This is supposed to be a fun, no-responsibilities getaway, and I get the feeling Rosie now feels like I’m someone who needs to be taken care of.
“I can’t remember the last time I had toast soldiers,” I say, picking up a strip of toast before looking up as she settles in the chair across from me.
“They’re Maggi’s favourite thing. If she could have this”—she waves at her plate—“for every meal, she would.”
“I probably would have wanted the same at her age.”
Silence descends as it usually does when we are having a meal, but this one feels heavier than the rest. I eat half my breakfast and then swallow the pill, urging it to do its job faster than ever before, knowing that there is no speeding up the process.
I want time to slow down here with Rosie.
I want time to speed up to make me feel better.
It’s a never ending cycle of hurry up, no wait, slow down.
I know I feel this way because I’ve been inconsistent with taking my meds. Lulled into a false sense of being better. Now I’m learning firsthand that there isn’t a cure for this, and I have to accept it and stop leaning into the denial. Denial is so easy though. Acceptance—now that’s a challenge.
The sound of a fork being set down pulls me out of my little spiral, and I glance up to find Rosie studying me. I don’t know how I feel about being a puzzle she seems to want to solve. I don’t want her to have to.
“I’m going to call Maggi in a bit, but do you want to go for a walk after?”
I want to talk to Maggi too. I also want to go back to bed and see if I can actually get some sleep. “A walk sounds good,” I agree.
I insist that I’ll clean up since she made breakfast, and that way she doesn’t have to wait much longer to call her daughter.
She paces outside the kitchen window, laughing now and then and gesturing enthusiastically.
I can practically hear Maggi telling her a story about finding some faerie door or doing an impression of her grandfather.
Even after the dishes are done, I stand there and watch, wishing I could join in, but I know why she didn’t invite me to partake in the call.
Maggi wouldn’t understand that this isn’t going to continue.
She was already attached, and that was on me for being so involved, but it happened before I realized.
Drawn into her powerful little orbit without a hope in hell to pull myself out.
So now I’ll force myself to wait on the sidelines, accepting that I won’t be called into the game.
When Rosie hangs up, she stands outside for a few minutes, arms crossed, head tipped toward the sun like a flower. She smiles to herself, and I wonder how the hell anyone could be depressed when someone like her exists in this world.
“How’s Mags?” I ask when she comes in, busying myself by putting away dishes, trying to appear like I wasn’t frozen in place, watching her.
“Ya know… I doubt the little shit misses me one bit.” She leans against the counter. “I was probably the same way with my grandparents, though. Mind you, they weren’t taking me on fun adventures.”
“No? What were they doing?” I ask, placing the last mug in the cupboard next to her head and then mimicking her lean.
“Cooking with my grandmother and fishing with my grandfather. Two things very centred in reality. What about you?”
I try to remember what it was like with my grandparents. My mom’s parents lived closer, so I saw them more, but I definitely had more fun with my dad’s. Maybe they tried harder since visits were few and far between.