by Lori L. Otto
I started taking on some freelance projects last week, and it feels good to actually be working again, bringing in some money, doing something creative with my time. I’m beginning to feel a part of myself returning, and it feels pretty amazing.
Teresa is happy to have me back. We stayed up all night, unpacking and reorganizing things, talking, getting reacquainted. I missed my roommate, especially the steamy stories of her love life. I could always live vicariously through her. I haven’t laughed so hard in ages.
She has planned a small gathering for this evening. A few of our friends are coming, as well as some people I haven’t met before, friends of Teresa’s. Teresa told me she invited Chris and Anna, but wasn’t sure that they would be able to make it. While she naps, I decide to survive on caffeine. I’m feeling mildly optimistic right now, and I’d like to keep the feeling going. Sleep brings too much time to myself, too much time to think about Nate. I’ve been sleeping much less, and yet somehow surviving, not feeling tired at all. I really feel there has been some divine intervention happening.
I have finally gotten to the point that I can recall events, words, memories without falling completely apart. People are gradually becoming comfortable bringing him up around me, which is a relief. It was awkward having conversations with people, conversations that you know should have been about him, but weren’t because of the fear of precipitous tears. There are even moments in the day that I can think about other things, focus on them fully. I had worried that a part of me would always be distracted by the tragic events of that night, but I am somehow able to compartmentalize it most of the time, lock it away safely for my own private time.
I’m working on the freelance project, a few illustrations to accompany a short story in a national women’s magazine. It’s a pretty big deal. Teresa was actually the one who got me the job. She writes for the magazine from time to time, knows all the right people. She took my portfolio to her last meeting with the editor, and they had a job for me within a few days. I am grateful for the work and for the income. She is, too. After all, I skipped out on the rent for a few months. I know she was struggling, but she would never tell me that. I should make enough on this project to pay my rent and all the utilities for a month, so I hope that gives her a decent break.
When Teresa wakes up in the late afternoon, she encourages me to shower and start getting ready for the party. One thing I have noticed is that I often manage to distract myself so much that I need to be reminded to do pretty basic things every once in awhile, say fix my hair, put on socially acceptable clothes, brush my teeth. After my shower, I find some jeans and a loose black turtleneck. I dry and curl my hair, put my makeup on, some tennis shoes. I sit down on my bed and continue working on the illustrations when Teresa comes out of the bathroom. She gives me one look and rolls her eyes.
“No, way,” she says. “Number one, no black,” she directs. “Number two, uh, no turtlenecks, and number three, what the fuck is up with those shoes?”
“What’s wrong with the shoes?”
“Sneakers, Em? Really. We aren’t going hiking.”
“I thought this was just a casual gathering...”
“Sweetie, it is. But come on, people want to see Emi, not her frumpy cousin... do you mind?” She pulls me by my arm as I set the laptop back down on the bed. She scours through the closet to find something better for me to wear. After shooting down a few of her initial ideas, tight-fitting low cut sweaters, we settle on a cream-colored v-neck knit shirt with capped sleeves. She goes to her side of the closet for shoes, pulling out a pair of sandals. When I take off my shoes and socks to put them on, she throws the sandals back in the closet.
“Your toes are not sandal-ready,” she informs me. I look down and notice my nails, red polish barely clinging on to the tips of them. “I’m adding pedicure to our list of things to do this week.” Another good reminder from a good friend. “Here, take these,” she says, handing me a pair of sage green mary-jane pumps. “Cute,” she says, looking me over. “It’s just missing an accessory or two.”
We look at each other in silence for a few seconds, obviously both thinking of the same necklace, neither wanting to suggest it. It has stayed in its little turquoise box since the last time I wore it, a week before the accident. I smile faintly and nod my head. “Okay, I’ll wear it.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, I love it, and it would look perfect.”
“Okay,” she says, walking to the dresser and picking up the box. She opens the lid, and I have to take a deep breath before lifting the pearls out. I had forgotten just how beautiful the necklace was.
“Oh,” I whisper as I feel like I might begin to hyperventilate. I grasp onto the dresser to steady myself. I examine the flower closely, its blossom colorful and alive. I hope to be that again someday. I count to ten, forcing myself to breathe in, breathe out, as Teresa takes it from my hands and clasps it around my neck.
“Perfect.”
“Thanks,” I sigh one last time, composing myself.
“Alright, help me get some of these snacks ready,” she says, again pulling me with her to our small kitchen. She pours us both a glass of wine and takes some boxes out of the freezer. “What temperature do I need to set the oven to?”
“Three-hundred-fifty degrees,” I read off the back. I take out a cookie sheet and arrange some mini-quiches on it as Teresa gets out some bowls and fills them with chips and dip. I find a veggie tray in the refrigerator and get it out, arranging the vegetables on a plate. She turns on some upbeat music, and we have a little fun dancing around the apartment with our wine before the guests show up.
The first three to arrive are our closest friends, Patrick, Melisa and Megan. Teresa knew Megan from a previous job and had become fast friends. Melisa was her younger sister, less than a year separating them in age, so they were very close. Patrick was a guy we had all met in a club one night. He was always willing to go out with us at the drop of a hat. What man wouldn’t want to hang out with four attractive drunk women? Teresa and I suspected that he and Melisa had hooked up after one rowdy night, but they never confirmed it and we never asked.
I knew that they had gone to Nate’s funeral, and Teresa told me that they had visited me in the hospital a few times when I was first admitted. I don’t remember a whole lot from that time. I don’t know if my brain was just protecting me from something that would be too painful for me, or if there were drugs involved, but I slept a lot that first week. While I was at Chris’s, they had wanted to drive out one night, but I wasn’t in the mood for company, so I had asked them not to come. This is the first time I’ve seen them in a few months.
“Emi!” they exclaim, rushing to hug me. “You look gorgeous!” Megan says.
“Stunning even,” Patrick adds.
“Too skinny,” Melisa scrunches her nose in mock scrutiny.
“Thanks, thanks,” I say. “I’ve missed you!”
“We’ve missed you! I’m so happy you’re home!”
“Me, too.”
“Where’s the wine?” Melisa asks. I gesture toward the kitchen where Teresa has put out all the alcohol that we have on hand. I guess it’s going to be one of those nights.
We only have one couch, and our apartment is so small that our beds serve as living room furniture, too, so most parties turn into a gathering of lounging, drinking guests. We have extra pillows and blankets for the occasions.
After about twenty minutes, there is a loud knock at the door.
“It’s the boys,” Teresa says, giggling. Boys? Great.
“Who are these boys, exactly?” I ask.
“Bradley, of course,” she explains. “He’s bringing some of his firefighter friends with him.”
“Great,” I tell her, giving her a scowl.
“Oh, it’s not like that, Em,” she says. “They probably won’t stay long anyway, they were just going to stop by before going to a bar later on.”
“Alright,” I concede. She opens the door and
three young, built, handsome men enter the apartment. Megan and Melisa say hi, and it seems they’ve all met before.
“Emi,” I say, waving my hand to them from across the room. They introduce themselves to me and grab something to drink. One walks over to my bed and sits down next to me.
“Emi, was it?”
“Yes,” I smile cordially.
“So, Emi, what do you do?”
“Like, my work, what do I do?”
“Yes,” he laughs. “Like, your work.”
“I’m a graphic designer and illustrator,” I tell him.
“So you draw?”
“I draw a little. On the computer, really. Not so much by hand.”
“I draw,” he says. “Give me some paper.” I open my sketch pad– which is rarely used– and hand him a pencil. He draws a picture of Garfield... I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be Garfield anyway. It’s a fat striped cat leaning over a plate of square food– presumably lasagna.
“Not bad,” I say politely, but I’m clearly annoyed. Who is this man? And why is he here, with me? Is he interested in me? Because it’s just too fucking soon for anything like this. I mean, if things were normal again... if my life was normal... would this be fun to me? Was it ever? Would he be interesting? I struggle to remain calm and... normal.
“You draw something,” he instructs, handing me the pad of paper.
“Uh, no,” I reiterate. “I don’t really draw by hand. Mainly on the computer.”
“Oh,” he responds. “Well, just something.”
“Alright.” I reluctantly take the pencil and draw a flower, shading it slightly for a three-dimensional effect.
“That’s pretty good,” he says. “Very pretty.”
“Thanks,” I blush. This boy clearly doesn’t know good art when he sees it. The flower is average, at best. You’re wasting your time, man.
“So what do you do for fun, Emi?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know, hang out with friends, go out, that sort of thing.” I’m short with him for a reason... for a million different reasons.
“Well, we’re going out later tonight, if y’all want to join us.”
“Thanks, but I’m not sure,” I answer. I am sure, actually, I just don’t want to be rude. “We’ll see.”
“Good enough,” he says. He walks across the room to his two friends, who are talking to Teresa and Megan about something that happened in the firehouse earlier today. They’re all laughing. I sigh heavily, feeling a little overwhelmed and a little antisocial. I’m not ready to be happy Emi, not ready to meet new people. I glance at Melisa and Patrick, who are deep in conversation with one another. I pick up my computer and continue illustrating. In no less than five minutes, the artistic firefighter whose name I’ve already forgotten comes to peer over my shoulder.
“Wow, that’s cool!” he exclaims. I’m wondering if he’s just trying to be nice, to strike up a conversation.
I laugh nervously and thank him. I close the window I was working in and open up an Internet browser, navigating to a weather site to see what the forecast is. I can’t work when people are watching me. I need to feel uninhibited to do my best work. Eventually, he gets bored and walks away.
Needing a boost of confidence from my brother, I pull out my phone and send Chris a text message. “Are you coming over?” A few minutes pass before I receive a response.
“Too late,” he texts me. I sigh as I hear a knock on the door. Teresa answers it, and it’s my brother, Anna, and Jack.
He sees me across the room and says, “We’re already here!” I light up and go to the door, giving him a hug.
“Thank God,” I tell him. “This all just feels weird,” I whisper.
“Em,” he says. “It’s okay. I’m sure you’re doing fine.” Anna hugs me before going to the kitchen to get drinks, and Chris follows to help her.
“Emi,” Jack says, smiling, nodding his head.
“Hi, Jack. What brings you out tonight?”
“We were actually looking at tuxes, of all things,” he says. “Chris seems to be under the impression that I have a better sense of style than he does, so he wanted my opinion on what he had narrowed them down to.”
“So, what did you decide on?”
“We’re thinking top hats and canes,” he says, scratching his chin, his voice contemplative. “And purple and gold, those look pretty sharp.”
“Nice,” I tell him, smiling. “I can see it now. You’ll look just like the boys at my eighth grade homecoming dance, circa 1993.”
“Eighth grade, huh?” He cringes. “In 1993, that would have been my senior prom.”
“Well, hey, old man, a cane may be appropriate for you, then,” I tease.
“You hush, little girl,” he jokes with me.
“Well, did you pick something out for real?”
“We did,” he says. “Just some classic looking tux... oh, hell, who am I kidding? It’s a tux, they really all look the same, don’t they?”
“No. Is it black?”
“Black.”
“Tails?”
“No.”
“Bow tie?”
“Um, no.”
“Three button?”
“Was I supposed to count them?” he asks.
“I guess it’s a good thing Anna was there, or you would look like a gay Mr. Peanut– without the monocle, of course.”
“Of course,” he laughs. “No monocle.” Anna and Chris bring Jack and I drinks.
“So, did he tell you about the tux?” Anna asks.
“As well as any man could,” I tell her, giving Jack a sideways glance.
“They’re nice,” she says. “I took pictures of them on my phone. I’ll show you later.”
“Cool,” I tell her.
“You know, you and I need to go shopping one of these days,” she begins. “When you’re ready, I mean.” She looks at me uncomfortably.
“Sure, Anna,” I assure her. “Just say when, and I’ll be there. You’ve only got six months, you know.”
“I know,” she agrees. “I don’t know what we were thinking, setting the date so soon.”
“I know. You just can’t wait to start your lives together,” I say. “I completely understand.” I feel a lump growing in my throat, but swallow quickly, keeping it from causing tears to well up in my eyes. The last thing I want to do is take any of the joy out of their wedding planning. They deserve an amazing wedding, and as the maid of honor, it’s my duty to help make sure it’s everything Anna wants it to be and more. Sure, it’s difficult. And yeah, maybe she’s having second thoughts on me being a part of her wedding party under the circumstances, but I don’t want her to have any regrets. I will do everything a good maid of honor can do to support her bride.
“How are you settling back in, Emi?” Chris asks.
“Just fine. It’s like I was never gone. Do you guys want to come sit down?” I lead them to my bed and we all have a seat.
“So, you do graphic design?” Jack asks.
“Yeah, I do freelance work for agencies mostly,” I tell him. “Right now I’m illustrating for a story for a women’s magazine.”
“What’s the story about?”
“It’s about child care, actually,” I tell him. “Sort of the pros and cons of day care versus staying at home versus a nanny... typical women’s fare.”
“So what are your illustrations?”
“Oh, well, I’m just drawing the children in each situation... children being children... you know.”
“Do you have any to show?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him, embarrassed. “The drawings aren’t finished yet...”
“I’m no art critic,” he laughs. “I can barely hold a pencil, much less draw. I won’t judge.”
“I guess... okay.” I open up the laptop and navigate to a few of the illustrations.
“Those are amazing, Emi,” he laughs with genuine interest. “I love the masks they’re wearing.”
“Tha
nks,” I tell him. “Just trying to characterize them as the little monsters they can be...”
“Sort of reminiscent of ‘Where the Wild Things Are,’” he says.
“Wow,” I say, surprised. “That was actually my inspiration. I wasn’t sure the reference was relevant enough.”
“I love that book! The pictures are really great. I think this is really... great,” he tells me.
“Well... thanks,” I tell him, blushing. “How do you remember the book, old man? You were a child of the sixties, weren’t you?” I joke with him.
“Somewhere around there,” he responds. “No, actually, I’ve got two nieces and two nephews... and somewhere along the way, I became their designated story teller.”
“How old are they?”
“Twelve, eight, five and two.”
“Wow, a twelve-year-old?”
“Yes, my twin sister, Kelly, started pretty young,” he says. “She married her high school sweetheart. She was twenty-one when she had her first son.”
“Are they still together?”
“Happily married,” he nods.
“So you have a sister, Kelly, and then just the two brothers?” I ask to keep the conversation going.
“How did you know?”
“Remember, they swept in like superheroes to save your life,” I tease him, remembering the altercation on Fifth Avenue.
“Your life,” he says.
“He was going after you at that point.”
“Yeah, good point. Yes, just the two brothers. Matthew’s thirty-one and Steven is twenty-seven.”
“No kids there?”
“Steven’s girlfriend has a daughter, but they don’t have any of their own. They do both want to have kids someday, though. I guess it’s a byproduct of a happy childhood.”
