by Amy Giles
I nod. “It came on really fast though. Like I didn’t even have time to process. And I felt like I couldn’t move. I train sixteen hours a week, but it didn’t matter. I couldn’t get my legs to stand up. Pete and some lady had to help get me to the car. And then Pete looked at me . . . like . . .”
“Like what?”
I rub my eyes and sigh. “He was freaked out.”
“Your friend loves you and was worried about you. Why is that a bad thing?”
“It is when it’s the way everyone around you looks at you as a default setting. Imagine someone shoving a thermometer in your mouth every time they look at you.”
Dr. Engel nods, if not in agreement, in a concession. “I see.”
“It’s just . . . he was the last person who didn’t treat me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I was weak. Damaged.”
Dr. Engel’s benign smiles holds mine. “Obviously, Pete isn’t a trained therapist or medical professional. So what Pete saw was alarming. And he expressed his concern by taking care of you until you stabilized, then took you home. And he couldn’t hide his concern. That’s not a trespass, Lucas. That’s a—”
“Please don’t say ‘gift.’”
“Why? Is someone caring about you a gift you don’t feel you deserve?”
I crack my knuckles in my lap. That question hit home, more than I care to admit. Which is why I’m still in therapy, I guess.
“Think about it, Lucas.”
I nod and clear my throat. Then I change the subject. “Sooo . . .” I pull my left index finger to unlock the knuckle that won’t give. It pops quietly but is satisfying nonetheless. “A new girl started at work.”
He leans back in his chair, waiting for me to continue.
“I mean . . . I knew her before she started. We go to school together. And she and her brother . . . they were at the movies that night.”
“Hmmm . . .” Dr. Engel nods. Go on.
“Her brother died that night too.”
Dr. Engel waits patiently, I guess for me to get to the point.
“Considering everything I knew”—I drag it out and exhale—“I was kind of a jerk about it. I tried to get Reggie to fire her.”
“Really . . . why?”
I shake my head and stare down at my clean white shoelaces. Mom replaced them while I was sleeping, like the shoemaker’s elves in that old fairy tale. She’s afraid some germ might sneak into the house on a dirty shoelace and kill me in my sleep.
“I’ve been avoiding being around other people who were there.”
“Reminders,” he says, and I nod.
“But . . . it was weird . . . we were hanging out yesterday and started talking. I told her about my list. I don’t even know why I told her, honestly.”
I glance up at Dr. Engel. He has that satisfied look like he knows why I did it, but he’s not going to tell me. I’m going to have to figure it out myself. “Well, anyway . . . she got it. Like, I didn’t even need to explain what that list meant to me.”
He leans a little forward. “Your shared experience validates you.”
Now my head nods up and down like a bobblehead toy. “Yeah. Exactly.”
I lean back in my chair to consider this “aha” moment. Validates.
“Connecting with others who shared a traumatic experience can help alleviate those feelings of helplessness you struggle with, Lucas,” he tells me. “It’s why support groups are formed, why they have rituals and ceremonies to honor those lives that were lost.”
I pull at my fingers until I hear the pop in each knuckle. “Yeah, but . . . what if we’re similar enough to be bad for each other? Like ammonia and bleach.”
Cleanup in aisle six, I think. I’m ready to explain, but Dr. Engel doesn’t ask.
His lips tug down. “There’s the risk that a circular pattern can hurt the relationship. Close relationships for trauma survivors may be difficult in general. It requires you to let your guard down.” He raises his eyebrow at me. “Interesting boxing metaphor, wouldn’t you say?”
I scoff. “Yeah.”
Dr. Engel lifts his fists up in front of his face. “You’ve been working on keeping your guard up for the past year to make sure bad things don’t happen to you again. Training your body to respond so you feel less helpless . . . I believe that was your word?” He drops his fists. “So letting your guard down to allow people into your life can be stressful. Do you mind if I ask: Are you attracted to this girl? Do you have feelings for her?”
“Uh . . . I guess. Kinda.” More than I’m willing to admit to my therapist right now.
He raises one hand. “I only ask because I wonder if this is also something that’s contributing to your anxiety.”
I flop back in my chair and rub my forehead. “Great.”
Dr. Engel isn’t fazed though. “Anxiety and excitement are the same physiological response. An adrenaline rush can push a panic- prone person to have an attack.”
“None of this is good news, Dr. Engel,” I inform him.
“It is good news, Lucas. Letting new people into your life, thinking about relationships is wonderful. We will work through this.”
“Yeah but don’t you think it’s a problem that our situations are too similar?”
“Do you?” he asks, and I nod, slowly, reluctantly.
His expression is unshakable. “If you’re careful, mindful, communicate, trust each other, work on problem solving together, it can work. And work beautifully. You can deeply understand each other in ways non-sufferers cannot.”
I take a deep breath and scratch the back of my head. “So what you’re saying is it’s a crapshoot,” I say, trying, and failing, to turn it into a joke.
I stare at the modern geometric patterns of his rug under his feet. His silence is a cue for me to look up.
“I don’t bet, Lucas.” He shrugs but his eyes don’t. They hold on to mine. “But if you like her, and she likes you, and you both put the work in . . .”
By the end of the session, I have a lot to chew on. I also realize I spent most of the hour talking about a possible relationship with Jess, a girl I’m only just getting to know.
Jess
It’s Wednesday. Lucas and I both have off from work today. I only saw him briefly in the hallway at school; he waved and kept going. I don’t blame him after the way I ditched him abruptly last night. The guy’s got his own stuff to deal with; he doesn’t need my baggage too.
Pete stops by my locker at the end of the day. He’s looking healthy again.
“All better?” I ask him.
He puts a hand over his stomach. “Yeah. I puked once and was done. You working tonight?”
“Nope.”
“Lucky.” He sulks. “It’s more fun when you guys are there.” He flops against my neighbor’s locker. “You know what I think?”
“What?” I humor him.
“I’m thinking it’s bonfire season. It’s been nice out. I’m going to see if I can rally the troops to plan something.”
His head turns to follow Gwen Welch’s trek down the hall.
Pete elbows me, but his eyes are glued to Gwen’s back. “Hey, do you know if Gwen’s going with anyone to the prom?”
“You’re asking me?” I point to myself. “How would I know?”
“Gotta go,” he says, and chases her down the hall. “Gotcha!” he yells, tickling her. She turns around and squeals, collapsing into his arms laughing.
Why is it so easy to tell when other people are falling for each other and so much harder to figure out when it’s about you? Last night was great with Lucas, until I made it weird. What would’ve happened if I went to Reggie’s? Did I blow it between us? Was there ever even a chance of there being an “us”?
The house is brightly lit when I come home from school. Inside, my mother sits at the dining room table opening mail. It’s not quite like coming home to something baking in the oven or bubbling on the stovetop, but seeing her up and tackling the
bills is a huge leap for her, for us. Now that they’re opened though, the bills seem to have multiplied, taking over the entire dining room table.
She looks up at me from her checkbook. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I say, taking a seat next to her. She’s organized bills into piles. Next to her is a running tally of numbers on a lined notepad.
I don’t know much about our finances.
I know when my parents both worked they were careful about money, making sure to save.
I know Mom inherited the house. My parents were always relieved that they didn’t have a mortgage to pay off.
I know Dad hasn’t sent a dime since he left us.
I know unemployment checks stopped coming when Mom didn’t make a few of her appointments at the social security office.
And looking at the running tally next to her, I know we owe a lot of money.
Discarded envelopes are strewn all over the floor by my mom’s feet under the table. There’s a recent bank statement in front of her that shows our dwindling account. Her checkbook is open next to her. Glancing over her shoulder, I can tell from the checkbook ledger that she stopped paying bills around mid-February. She’s added a few entries today, under the one I entered to pay the electric bill. She doesn’t ask me about it, and I don’t offer any information.
“How bad is it?” I ask, glancing at the piles around the table.
“Not great. Now would be a really good time for your father to send some of that money he promised us.”
Last time I saw Dad was before Ethan died; he took a job driving a van full of watermelons up from Georgia. He happened to be driving through Queens, so he stopped by to say hello; he left after fifteen minutes. As a parting gift or maybe a consolation prize, he gave us each a watermelon. We couldn’t even get in touch with him to tell him Ethan died; he found out two months later, when he called to check in using someone else’s phone. How can she possibly think he’s going to help us now?
Mom opens another envelope and groans, throwing both hands over her face. It doesn’t take 20/20 vision to see the big “OVERDUE” stamp on the bill inside the envelope.
“I can’t handle this,” she mutters between her fingers.
I act quickly, to fix this, to make this better, because I can’t even imagine what it would be like if our lives get any worse. “Maybe I can pick up a few extra shifts at Enzo’s.”
Sadness settles in the downward tug of her lips. She nods in reluctant approval. “I’m sorry, Jess. We’ll get back on our feet, I promise.”
It’s the empty platitude I’ve been hoping for and just as hollow as I imagined. I swallow and glance back down at the stack of bills in front of me so she doesn’t see terror pounding behind my eyes. These bills are now my bills.
I start making my own piles. There are a few notices from the walk-in clinic from when I got strep in November. There’s a last notice for payment from the psychiatrist who called Mom noncompliant. I think she owes us money, to be honest.
Mom writes a check and sticks it in an envelope. “I should pay the cable bill, right? So they don’t cut us off.”
“That would suck,” I add, trying to brighten the mood.
Licking the envelope, she looks over at me and smiles. “Language, young lady,” she says in a Southern drawl.
After Superstorm Sandy, we lost power for weeks. School was closed, so was Mom’s office, but Dad still had to get to work. To pass the time, Ethan, Mom, and I played a lot of Uno. In our extreme boredom, the game evolved into us taking on these odd Southern belle personas—even Ethan. Every play, every discard, we’d announce in long, slow cartoony voices of what we imagined Southern belles sounded like. It became the soundtrack of our home during happy, playful moments.
Even just a glimpse of her old self perks me up. “You forgot to say ‘Ooh-nnoooo!’” I say in my best drawl. Mom giggles, and I can’t help but laugh too. It’s been too long since we had any kind of laugh together.
We continue opening and sorting the bills. Every time either one of us plops a bill down, we yell, “U-noooo,” turning our misery into a punch line.
Mom reaches for her mug and takes a sip. In our little corner of the dining room, I smell shampoo and tea. She’s showered. She’s laughing. She’s trying.
Hope bubbles in my belly, making me giddy.
Lucas
Lim sits with Enzo behind the counter when I show up for work, Lim still in his white apron. Whenever Lim needs a break from the grocery store next door, he comes here to visit Enzo.
They both look up and acknowledge me, Lim with a smile, Enzo with a grunt.
“Lucas.” Enzo waves me over with a meaty hand. “How’s the girl working out?”
“She’s actually really good. A hard worker,” I say.
He exhales a dissatisfied burst of air. Not the reaction I would expect.
“Why? Is something wrong?”
Enzo waves his hand in the air dismissively, sweeping me away. “Nothing, nothing.”
I find Reggie in her office, massaging her forehead.
“You okay?”
She looks up at me and sighs, shoulders slumping. “Shut the door.”
Leaning up against the closed door, I cross my arms. “What’s going on?”
She holds up a bunch of papers on her desk and rattles them. “The accountant screwed us over.”
“Huh?”
“We got hit with a huge tax bill because Enzo’s accountant made a mistake!”
“Oh shit.” I scratch the back of my head. “But . . . we’re always so busy, right? We’ll be okay.”
“Not busy enough. We never should’ve expanded. We might’ve been able to pull it together if our nut was smaller. Now we have more overhead.” Reggie takes the gum out of her mouth and wraps it in a used napkin. Then she folds her arms on her desk and rests her head.
I pull up a chair. “So why was Enzo asking me about Jess just now?”
She props her head up in her hands like it might just roll off without the added support beams. “He’s thinking of letting someone go. Last one in, first one out.”
“But he just hired her!” I argue.
“I know that!” she shouts back.
“She hardly makes enough money to even make a dent!”
Reggie takes a deep breath. “He’s looking to cut back everywhere. I’ve been on the phone for hours trying to cancel orders that haven’t shipped yet.” She lowers her head back into her folded arms. “I never would’ve hired her if I knew this was going to happen.”
“She’s doing a good job, Reg. We need her here.”
She reaches her hand out across the desk. “Hi, nice to meet you, I’m Reggie. Clearly we’ve never met before, because the Lucas Rossi I know didn’t even want Jess to work here in the first place!”
“Yeah, but . . . that’s changed,” I say.
She opens her desk drawer and grabs a tub of ibuprofen. Popping the cap, she pours two in her hand, looks at it, then tips a third one in. “Look, nothing’s definite. Let’s see if I can dump some of this inventory.” She tosses the pills back and chugs them with her mug of coffee that’s probably cold from this morning.
Then she points to the door, kicking me out. “A new shipment of grills are coming in today. Make room on the floor.”
Jess shows up a little later. She’s in a good mood. A weirdly good mood. Like, none of us even know what to do with this happy ball of energy.
“You on drugs or something?” Joe asks her, narrowing his eyes as she bounces around the warehouse with the handcart.
“Nope.” She wheels the cart through the swinging doors, her ponytail dancing happily behind her. She’s even humming a song under her breath.
A shipment is delayed because the truck broke down on the thruway. By the time he gets here, we all have to stay past closing to unload the truck. It’s after eight by the time we’re done. We meet by the lockers to get our things.
“Jess, you need a ride?” Pete shakes his keys in the air.
She smiles. “Thanks. I’m not heading out just yet.” She makes her way to Reggie’s office and pokes her head in. I watch with dread as the door shuts behind her.
Pete turns to me. “Ready?”
“You go,” I tell him, my eyes fixed on Reggie’s door. I search around for a prop that will serve as an excuse to stay. I grab the broom. “I’m going to hang back a little bit, clean up.”
Pete looks between Reggie’s closed door and me. Then he smirks. “Knew it.” He heads out without grilling me any further, which I appreciate.
I pretend to sweep the floor, inching closer to Reggie’s door. Finally, the door opens. I fall back, just around the corner.
“Night.” Jess waves over her shoulder to Reggie, closing the door behind her, still in a good mood.
That is, until she takes a few steps. She stops midway between Reggie’s office and the bay of lockers, then hunches over, grabbing her knees. She looks like she might throw up. She takes a few deep breaths and straightens, shakes her head a couple of times. I hate spying on her, so I clear my throat. She turns to find me standing there, holding the broom.
“Hi,” I blurt out, because I can’t think of anything better, smarter, more comforting to say.
She nods at me, then turns to leave.
I throw the broom against the wall. “Jess, wait up. I’ll walk out with you.”
She stops but doesn’t turn around.
Grabbing my hoodie off its hook, I ask, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah?” Her voice breaks.
“Come on,” I say. Resting a hand gently on her shoulder, I guide her through the doors and outside. I look around for a place to sit down, desperate to help. Parking meter, fire hydrant, garbage can, mailbox . . . a barren raised flowerbed outside the bank. “Let’s go sit over there.” I point and she follows.
Jess doesn’t as much sit as collapse onto the ledge, folding into herself like a pretzel, arms crossed over her knees, face buried into forearms. She doesn’t say anything, and I don’t know what to say to someone who is literally hiding from me.
Finally, she breaks the silence. “I was an idiot to think anything could ever get better!” With her head buried in her arms, her voice is muffled. She probably doesn’t want me or anyone walking by to see her crying.
