All I Need: Ian & Annie

by Callie Harper

  The story of the comeback had its appeal. In the long run, fighting and struggling might offer a few glimmers of true happiness. I’d sipped from that cocktail over the past few weeks with Annie. There was nothing like it.

  But sitting there in the dark, bottle in hand, I knew the other path would be a lot easier. How simple it would be to slide down further still. I had the isolation, the painkillers, everything I needed to go right down the drain. It would take a lot less energy than climbing uphill. I still felt worn out after all the effort I’d exerted after my fall, pulling myself across the slippery, muddy path. It took no energy at all to sit and drink, inviting the numbness to replace all other feelings.

  At that moment, I honestly didn't know which path I would take. It could go either way. How I'd end up was anybody's guess.

  15

  One Year Later, Annie

  "Do you think this works?” My roommate Colleen appeared in the hallway. She wore a long, lime green corduroy skirt with a mustard orange shirt and a tight plaid jacket.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Thanks, Annie.” She marched off to ruin the eyesight of everyone she encountered on the streets of Edinburgh. I loved her for it.

  She was one of my more conventional flatmates. I lived with an ever-changing mix of them, coming in and out at all hours of the day and night. It might sound crazy-making, but to me, small-town girl that I was, I felt like I had a front row seat to a daily festival. They were each hilarious in their own way, aspiring artists, musicians, and writers. We were all in our 20s and all doing our best to make it in the big city, or, rather, the second-biggest city that Scotland had to offer.

  I'd moved about six months ago. It had been hard, harder than I’d anticipated to disentangle myself from my family. I loved them, that was the problem. My mum really did need help with Brian, and that was the anchor that kept my ship at harbor.

  Until our family finally caught a break. I didn't like to think of us as a hard luck bunch. Self-pity never looked good on anyone. But when my father died so young, and I watched my mother work her fingers to the bone while I deferred my dreams, year after year, the thought had occurred to me every now and then. Why couldn't we hit a stroke of luck?

  Last summer, we finally did. Kensington, the school where Mum worked, launched a new pilot program specifically for special needs students. As Mum was a full time employee, they offered Brian a tuition-free spot. The day the headmaster called her into his office to tell her about it, my mother had come home in tears. I thought she'd been fired. I brought her tea and rubbed her back, telling her everything was going to be all right.

  “It is,” she’d agreed, barely able to choke out words through her emotion. “It really is going to be all right. Brian's going to be okay.” We'd both started crying when she'd explained it all to me, how the school was going to dedicate a small, well-supervised dormitory for special needs children. He wouldn’t be bullied or ignored any more. He’d receive quality care and the best education possible, all without additional expense to us.

  When Brian started ninth grade in the fall, it had made all the difference in our lives. Knowing he was in such a good spot erased the constant cloud over my mother’s head and replaced it with a sunny, blue sky. She got to see him every day since she was already there for work. She no longer needed to arrange childcare or fight with school administrators to advocate for his needs. Brian thrived in his new environment. What more could a mother want?

  It had transformed my life as well. I could leave. Jess and Liv, 19 and 16, were both doing their best to live up to the stereotypes of teenagers who wanted nothing to do with adults. For once, I was happy to comply with their wishes. Yet, I'd still been worried about how my mother would take it when I announced that I wanted to move to Edinburgh. Her reaction had made me cry all over again.

  “I'm so happy for you.” She'd thrown her arms around me in a big hug, kissing my cheek. “Go and live your life. You've done far more than I ever wanted to ask of you.”

  So, I've gone and done it. Back in September I'd moved to Edinburgh with about 100 pounds in my pocket. I found a cheap flat and work behind the counter at a local coffee shop. The best part was, I enrolled in some graphic design courses through the extension school of a local university. Class met at night, after a long day of working, but I never missed one.

  Back in high school, I hadn't been a terrible student, but I also hadn't been one of the best. I'd sat squarely in the middle, sometimes engaged, sometimes not. Now that I was an adult, had chosen my field of study and felt motivated to gain some skills so I could get my dream job? You'd better believe I was a model student. I sat in the front row, a used laptop charged and ready for notes open before me, 10 minutes early to every single class.

  I loved my new life, the teachers and fellow students in my classes, my crazy flatmates. It felt like I was finally spreading my wings and learning to fly. The only weight dragging me down was Ian.

  I missed him. My head knew he was an asshole. He was unreliable, depressed, and had a mean streak that seemed to surface whenever I really let my guard down. But my heart ached for him.

  I couldn’t forget how it had felt to be with him. The way he’d looked at me, listening and encouraging, seeming to believe in me more than I had myself. That had been intoxicating. At night, I still felt consumed by memories of his touch. I burned and shivered as if with fever, yearned and longed without relief.

  I'd accused him of being an addict, but it turned out I was one as well. Physically, I’d made a clean break from him. I had walked out of his house that morning and never went back. I hadn't called or texted. He hadn't tried to get in touch with me, either. As much as I talked tough, I was devastated that he didn't. Just thinking of how much I'd felt for him, and how quickly and easily he’d let me go, it nearly ripped my heart out.

  Mentally, the break was far from clean. During the months I was still living back with my family, I thought about Ian all the time. Everything reminded me of him. I wanted to tell him things that happened, hear his laugh, get his advice about conflicts at home. I worried about him. He needed help, and the caregiver in me wanted to keep doing the job whether or not it made sense. Some nights, the urge to take the train out to his place and knock on the door was so strong I almost couldn't believe I'd resisted the next morning.

  But somehow, I managed, and once I got to Edinburgh I suddenly became extremely busy. The new setting, the hectic pace of life, all of the new faces and personalities in my life didn't heal my wounds. But they did distract me.

  Almost a year had passed since I'd seen him last. Strangely, what I thought about most now, was that I wished I could say thank you. I gave Ian some credit for the changes I'd made in my life. I hadn't always liked the way he'd said it, but he was the one who'd pointed out to me that I kept deferring my dreams.

  But picking up the phone and getting back in touch with a lost love wasn't exactly simple. What we'd had had been intense, painful too. I had no guarantee that he would welcome my resurfacing in his life. Honestly, I was frightened about what I would hear on the other end of the call. Would he be sober and able to talk to me like an adult? Or would he be drunk as a skunk, hurling insults and swears?

  Call me chicken, call me smart, I didn't know which one I was being, but I didn't get in touch with Ian. I didn't rule it out in the future, but I felt like I needed to get my life more firmly established before I did. He had such a strong effect on me, I almost worried that talking to him would upset my applecart. I still held out hope that one day, somehow, our paths will cross again. But I didn't let that hope get in the way of pursuing my day-to-day reality.

  Up and out to work by seven a.m., I made hundreds of people their lattes and espressos, remembering complex orders, warming up scones, and serving it all up with a smile. At three o'clock, I clocked out, dashed back for a quick shower to rinse off all of the splashed coffee and steamed milk, grabbed a hasty dinner on the go, and made it to my graphic design class. />
  I loved the teacher of that class. She was who I wanted to be when I grew up. She worked at an advertising agency, teaching as an adjunct faculty member at night. She wore smart ruby-red glasses, pumps that matched, and took no bullshit from anyone. We hadn't exchanged more than a few words, but I hung on every one she said during class.

  That night, she found me as I was filing out. “Annie, can you stay after for a few minutes?”

  “Sure.” Heart pounding in my chest, I stepped to the side as the rest of my classmates filed out. I hadn’t even realized that she knew my name. Was she going to call my bluff? There I'd thought I was pulling it off, starting a new life for myself in the city. But maybe she'd seen through me? She might be about to tell me that I'd never amount to anything, so I shouldn't even be trying. I should take the next train back to my hometown with my tail between my legs.

  Once everyone left, she tapped and clicked away at her laptop. “I’ve had a look at your latest project.”

  I couldn’t read anything in her tone of voice, positive or negative. My heart stopped. “Oh yes?” I squeaked.

  “It’s good. Really good.”

  The rush of breath as I exhaled was probably audible in the next classroom over. “Really?”

  “You’re very talented.” She took off her glasses and nibbled on the end of one arm, as was her habit when she was thinking. “I was wondering, where are you currently working?”

  “Coffee ‘n More, in the South Side. It's a little place. You might not have heard of it.”

  “Not in graphic design, then?” She frowned.

  “No.”

  “What kind of a job would you like to have?”

  “Oh, anything really. I'm just trying to pay the bills.” I shrugged.

  “I mean using your talent and skills,” she corrected me.

  “Right, that.” I straightened my shoulders, knowing I was going to need to stop selling myself short. “I’d love to work at a design firm, or an advertising agency like the one you’re with.”

  “I have a contact I might be able to use for you.”

  “Really?” I tried to play it cool and not let my eyes pop out of my head, but I felt a little bit like she might be a fairy godmother in disguise.

  “I don’t do it often,” she warned me. “I don’t want to over-use this connection, but I might be willing to make an exception for you.” She scrutinized me, still biting at the tip of her glasses. “You’re talented. You’re a quick learner. You come to every class. I can see how hard-working and motivated you are, sitting there in the front row. You remind me of myself when I was your age.”

  Nearly speechless, I managed a, “Thank you.”

  “Would you be interested in an internship?”

  “Yes!” I held myself back from throwing my arms around her and giving her a hug.

  “Hold on, now.” She must have read my excitement level even without the hug. “I’m not sure it will be paid.”

  “That’s OK, I have to start somewhere. I need to get my foot in the door, start making contacts and learning about the field.”

  She nodded in agreement. “I’ll talk to my person.”

  “Can I ask where the internship would be?”

  “I’ll tell you as long as you don’t mention it to anyone. I don’t want to be deluged with people asking for referrals.”

  “I promise.”

  “Callahan and Spence.”

  “WOW!” I brought my hands to my cheeks, a huge smile breaking across my face. Callahan and Spence was the premiere advertising agency in the city. I’d give anything to work there. They were so far up the food chain, I hadn’t even let myself dream about getting a job with them. I figured I’d have to start much smaller, with the minnows and guppies before getting to swim with the big tunas.

  “Yes, well.” She gave me a rare smile. “That’s all for now.” She put her glasses back on and returned her attention to her laptop screen. “I can't promise anything, but I'll see what I can do.”

  Two weeks later, she put me in touch with her contact. The week after that, I went for an interview. Thankfully, one of my many flatmates was around the same size as me and had a smart silk blouse and trim black pants I could borrow. I couldn't afford to go out and buy a new outfit just for an unpaid conversation. But Callahan and Spence was the real deal, so I splurged on a pair of heels that made me feel full of confidence.

  This time, I didn’t have to walk up a slippery stone path in the drizzle to a crumbling castle. This time, I strode down the pavement to a modern, high-rise building. My knees knocked as I pivoted in through the revolving glass door. In the elevator all the way up to the top floor I nearly threw up with nerves. When the doors parted, I almost felt as if I were stepping into a drawing from my 10-year-old imagination of the ideal workplace. All glass and metal with high ceilings, the office was spacious and chic. Simply standing in it made me instantly feel cooler.

  I couldn't remember much about the interview. My blood rushed in my ears, my palms sweated, but apparently I managed to string together enough credible words. Or perhaps it was my teacher's words that really convinced them to give me a try. She'd shared some of my work and given me a glowing recommendation.

  “Can you start on Monday?” They'd made the offer via phone, which was fortunate because then they couldn't see me leap around in joy like a maniac.

  “Monday is perfect!” I agreed, breathlessly.

  It almost felt surreal, heading to work at a real design firm, with some of the most talented people in the business. I soon discovered that my internship had much more to do with fetching coffee and picking up the dry cleaning of the real graphic designer I worked for, but I didn't mind. I figured if I hung in there and made a good impression, plus learned as much as I could, it would pay off in the end.

  Everyone was for the most part friendly, and I could tell one of the executives in the firm took a bit of a fancy to me. Mr. MacArthur, or Greg as he told me to call him, was in his early 30s and not unattractive in a sort of business-casual way. He made a habit of stopping by my cubicle to say hello. On Fridays, when everyone went out for happy hour, he always swung by to make sure I was planning to join. When I would leave that evening after a few hours and only a couple of drinks, he'd always try to stop me and say I should stay.

  I knew that by ignoring his advances I was also turning down a possible opportunity. A man like Greg could open a lot of doors for me. I might even grow to like him if I gave him a chance, but instinct told me no. He struck me as pretentious, with his bow ties and wire-rimmed glasses. It seemed like he was trying too hard for a retro-hipster look, and most of the conversations we’d had had been entirely about himself.

  But those were all proxy reasons for not giving him a chance. The real reason was Ian. I couldn't forget him. I knew it might help me move on if I actually went on a couple of dates, or even just hooked up with someone else. But in my heart I knew that might backfire. Trying to fall for someone else would probably just end up reminding me how no one could compare. Besides, I couldn't force myself. I just had to give it time and hope that one day my heart would move on.

  Until then, I threw everything I had into learning everything I could, doing each task I was given in half the time allotted, making myself as useful as I could on any big project. I put in as many hours as they would let me, all without a paycheck.

  Finally, in April, a real job opened up on the lowest rung of the paid-position ladder, an assistant to an assistant. The firm was so renown that they received over 500 applications. They hired me. I got to quit my café job, buy a few outfits of my own, and start feeling like a real professional. Everything was coming together. Now if only I could invite my heart to the party as well, I'd be all set.

  16

  Ian

  I took my coffee in the kitchen. It was modern, with all the bells and whistles a corporate executive would demand. Already showered and dressed in a crisp dress shirt and pants at six a.m., I scrolled through headline
news.

  More countries wanting to leave the EU. Concern over the value of the Euro. A small, high-growth company acquired by a large conglomerate. Nothing I hadn’t expected.

  Time to head into the office. I made my way over to the elevator, relying on my cane. Some might find my gait halting and unsteady. To me, I felt like an Olympic sprinter. After a decade and a half of not being able to walk, the fact that I could make it across a room relying on my own power with simply the assistance of a cane? It was nothing short of a miracle.

  Ten months ago I’d had major reconstructive surgery on my left foot. I’d spent the next six months in New York City receiving stem cell therapy, laser therapy, physical therapy, anything specialists could offer me. The difference this time around was I was steering the ship.

  During the last round of medical treatments, my parents had been at the wheel. They’d dragged me around, a reluctant adolescent, scared but pretending not to be, overwhelmed yet too proud to admit it. I’d been a kid and I hadn’t asked enough questions, hadn’t known how to prepare myself for the grueling aftermath. The thing surgeons didn’t always tell you about surgeries was you had to be an active participant in your recovery. They focused on the technical work, the precision craft necessary to make miraculous internal changes in our bodies. But even the best-executed surgery could be fouled up without follow-up care.

  This time around, I asked questions. I interviewed relentlessly, got second, third, even fourth opinions. I showed up with a stack of articles about cutting-edge therapies, then went straight to the people who’d authored studies and asked which doctors they’d most highly recommend. I treated my physical health like a research project instead of a point of pride, admitting I needed all the help I could get.

  My parents hadn’t been involved. I didn’t even let them know about the surgery until after it was over. This time I was doing it for myself, not to fulfill my father’s goals for his son, or to assuage my mother’s sadness. I did it because I wanted to gain more mobility and experience less pain.