by Jiffy Kate
But she’s not to blame. That’s all on me. If I weren’t so messed up, none of this would be happening in the first place.
“Tripp, we’ve been through this before. I’m not a mind reader. If you want me to help you figure out how to fix it, you have to tell me the problem.”
I do want to fix it. I want to fix me so that I can talk to her.
“Have you ever liked someone you don’t even know?” I ask as I continue to pick at the edge of my shorts, not wanting to make eye contact.
There’s a long pause before Dr. Abernathy says, “Tell me about her.”
I look up and I’m not sure what I expect to see, but it’s not the slight smile that’s on her face. It’s been a long time since we’ve discussed the opposite sex in one of these sessions. It feels so foreign; I don’t know where to start.
“Well, I don’t even know her name,” I admit.
“Okay, but you know something about her. You must want to know her for a reason. Let’s start with the facts. What is it about her that makes you want to know her?”
“I—I don’t know. I told Liza it was because she has these sad eyes, but that’s not all of it. The sad eyes just make me want to take it away . . . whatever it is that makes her look so hopeless. I feel drawn to her and my heart kind of hurts when she’s close by.”
“What happened at the restaurant yesterday?”
I take a deep breath before I begin. “I had a talk with Liza about wanting to talk to this girl, and she told me just to go for it. I wanted to so badly. Something about talking to her made me feel normal, because this time last year, had I not been with Whitney, I would’ve just walked up to her and said hello. So, I’d prepared myself, rehearsed, pictured myself walking up to the table . . . all the things you’ve told me to do when approaching a new situation. But the minute I saw her walk in, I panicked.”
Breathe.
“I almost fell right into her table. I hid in the hallway for a few minutes and tried to get myself back under control, but the second I made up my mind that I was going to do it finally—talk to her—I just . . . freaked. My hands were shaking so bad. I tried to put a glass of water on her table, and when she looked up at me, like really looked at me, I didn’t know what to do. So, I ran.” My hands go to my hair, and I dip my chin to my chest. “I just fucking ran.”
“And then what happened?” Dr. Abernathy asks, always encouraging me to get it all out.
“I got lost, like in my head. All I could think about was how much I hate that I can’t change this,” I say, pointing to my head. “I want to think normal and act normal and the fact that I couldn’t make myself do something so simple . . . I couldn’t take it anymore. Pushing my body felt good. It felt like I was getting rid of all the shit I had built up. I ran for so long and so hard that, when I finally noticed how bad my chest hurt and I slowed down, it took me a minute to figure out where I was.”
“Were you scared?”
“Yeah,” I admit, because this is my safe place. “Especially when I realized I was on Bourbon Street. The smells and the noise and all the people.” I pause as a groan leaves my mouth and I grip my hair. “I already felt a migraine coming on. It was a nightmare. I hid in an alley and called Ben.”
“Good. That’s good, Tripp. That’s what you should’ve done.”
I laugh, but there’s no humor behind it because it doesn’t feel good . . . I don’t feel good.
“It’s not about controlling the situations; it’s about handling them appropriately. You didn’t have any control over how you responded to the stresses of the day. What you were feeling was probably the culmination of a series of stressful situations, and you finally snapped. It happens to everyone, not just people with brain injuries. It could’ve been worse. You didn’t harm yourself or anyone else. We’re calling that success.”
I nod and try to let her words sink in, but it’s hard.
“What about the nightmares?” she asks. “Have you had any recently?”
“I hadn’t had one in a while, probably since the week before school started back. But I had one last night.”
“Same scenario or something different?”
“Same thing—it’s dark, and all I can hear are these eerie, piercing noises. It shouldn’t even be scary. I mean, I can’t see a damn thing. It’s just this bad, ominous feeling I get, and the next thing I know, I’m waking up in a cold sweat, breathing like I just ran a marathon.”
She takes a second to make some notes, and I try not to let my body react to the memory of the dream.
“So, what about your work?” she asks, changing the subject. “Have you contacted them since the incident?”
“Yeah, Wyatt, my boss, he came to the house to check on me.”
“How did that go?”
“I explained what I could. I mean, I apologized for my behavior and promised that I wouldn’t let anything like that happen again.”
“Tripp,” she says, in a calm, but firm tone. “What have we discussed about setting yourself up for failure? I’m not saying that you will have another episode like that, and I hope that you don’t, but don’t put unnecessary pressure on yourself. Don’t promise things you can’t guarantee.”
“I was afraid he wouldn’t let me come back to work.”
“Well, what did he say?”
“He’s a cool guy, so he was more concerned about me, making sure I was okay.”
“That’s good to hear. Do you want to go back to work? Do you feel like it’s too much, too soon?”
“Have you been talking to Liza?” I ask sarcastically because I know she hasn’t. She’s like Fort Knox; anything I tell her stays right here. I know that. It’s why I trust her so much and can easily confide in her.
She smiles and quirks an eyebrow at me. “Stop deflecting.”
“Well, I like my job. It’s challenging, but I don’t feel like it’s too much or too soon.” I have to go back. I have to see her. I’m not sure how Dr. Abernathy feels about that, but I don’t feel like I have any other choice but to go back and try again. Maybe one of these days I’ll be able to talk to her, and maybe she’ll talk back to me.
Maybe I won’t panic.
Maybe she won’t look so sad.
Maybe I can make her smile.
Dr. Abernathy and I sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes while she writes on her notepad, and I think of Ania.
Today is the first day I’ve felt somewhat back to normal since last week, and I’m pretty sure it has everything to do with the fact I’m going to see Ania. The nerves are there and the underlying anxiety, but I’m also . . . happy.
I guess that might be what I’m feeling.
All I know is I want to see her. Even though the last time I saw her was a disaster of epic proportions, she’s all I’ve thought about. And I’ve thought about every scenario and all the possibilities, and the worst thing I can come up with is that she doesn’t show. Everything else, I can deal with. I can even deal with her looking at me weird or whispering about me, as long as she’s there.
I park my bike out in front of the café on the rack before walking around to the back door. I guess I could walk in the front, but I like coming in this way. It makes me feel like I belong here. I’m slowly getting the hang of things. Except for the setback last week, I’ve done fairly well. I’ve broken a few dishes and messed up some orders, but nothing that’s gotten me fired so far. And that feels good.
At the end of our session on Friday, Dr. Abernathy pointed out my accomplishments and different milestones I’ve achieved, reminding me I’m doing better than I think I am. She also told me that, while Ania is a distraction, she’s a welcomed one.
It’s a pretty slow day, and I’m glad. My head has been in the clouds since I got here. I find myself watching the clock and counting down the minutes until she’s supposed to be here. When the big hand finally inches toward the six, my attention switches to the front door instead of the clock.
An elderly couple, who have becom
e my regulars, show up, and as I’m taking their drink orders, I feel like a shot of electricity hits my insides when I hear the bell above the door chime. I don’t even have to turn around to know she’s here.
When I walk back to the kitchen to turn in an order, I want to look at her, but I can’t. I’m suddenly stricken with the fear of what I might see.
What if I ruined my chances of ever talking to her?
What if she looks at me with disgust?
My new resolve I had just moments ago is already fading fast, so I walk faster, nearly running into Sarah when I barge through the kitchen doors in search of safety.
“Sorry,” I mutter, never looking up at her, but I can feel her eyes on me.
“No problem,” she says as she takes the slip of paper out of my hand and calls out my order for me.
In a few minutes, the drinks magically appear on the tray in front of me. “Thank you,” I tell her, partially lifting my head so she can hear me.
“You’re welcome.”
I manage to get through the next hour without any incidents. I allow myself glances in Ania’s direction, but I try to stay focused on my tasks at hand.
The shirt she’s wearing today is a light blue, I have noticed that, and her dark hair is a lovely contrast. And today, instead of staring out the window, she’s been writing in the book she always brings. For a good thirty minutes, every time I look over at her, her head is bent down and her hand is flying swiftly across the page. I wonder what she writes about in that book. I want to know all her stories—the sad ones, the happy ones. I want to know what she’s thinking about when she closes her eyes and takes in a deep breath as if she’s retrieving a memory that’s trying to escape. I want to know everything.
When I make another trip to the kitchen to dump a tray of dirty dishes, the clock on the wall confirms that it’s half past seven, which means she’ll be leaving soon. I wish she would stay longer. We haven’t talked, and I still don’t know anything more than I did the last time she was here, but I just like being near her . . . in the same room as her.
As I walk back through the doors, she’s standing from the booth and adjusting the brown backpack on her shoulders. She pulls her long hair out and allows it to cascade back down, covering her shoulders and the bag. Just when I think she’s going to leave without even a backward glance, she turns her head toward me.
For a brief moment, our eyes lock.
No words are exchanged, and her expression hardly shifts, but right before she looks away, the corner of her mouth turns slightly upward.
And my heart skips a beat, or fifty.
To most people, that wouldn’t have seemed like anything.
They wouldn’t have even noticed.
But to me, it’s everything.
“WHERE’S THE FIRE?” Liza teases as I’m hurrying around the dining room, gathering up my books and notes I’ve been using to study.
“Fire! Fire!” Jack yells, running from the living room, through the dining room, and into the kitchen.
“Stop, drop, and roll!” Emmie instructs in her adorable three-year-old voice that sounds more and more like my sister every day.
“See what you started?” I laugh, cocking an eyebrow at her as I slide the last textbook into my backpack.
“Well, at least they’re properly trained in fire emergencies.”
We both laugh as the two midgets run from the kitchen back into the living room and then back around, making another lap. Jack is now imitating a fire truck, and Emmie is following behind with an armful of stuffed kittens she’s rescued. “I’ll save you, Mr. Goldfish,” she assures the orange-colored tabby she’s clutching by the neck. All of Emmie’s stuffed animals are named after her favorite foods.
“I should get going. I have to be at work by three,” I explain.
“That’s not for another hour. Sure you don’t want to stick around and have a late lunch?”
“No, thanks. I had some of Jack and Emmie’s mac and cheese that Ben made for them earlier . . . and I, uh, just want to make sure I’m not late for work.” I smile over at her, hoping the lame excuse I just gave sounds legit.
“Oh, okay,” Liza says slowly, nodding as a small smile grows on her face. “Well, you better get going then. We wouldn’t want you to miss any of your favorite customers.”
“I’m not. It’s not like the—never mind.” I can’t argue with her. I want to tell her she’s wrong, and this has nothing to do with what she’s thinking, but it does. It has everything to do with what she’s thinking. Somewhere in my mixed up brain, I feel the need to be at work as early as possible, especially on Thursdays. Even though I know she won’t be at the café before exactly six o’clock . . . but she will be there, and I have to make sure I’m there, the earlier, the better.
When I get to work, since I’m early, I busy myself with wrapping silverware and helping Dixie post the new schedules in the kitchen.
“You’re fitting in here just right,” she says to me with a thoughtful look as I tack up the last of the papers she’s been handing me.
“Thanks,” I tell her, giving her an easy smile back. Normally, I don’t handle compliments well, but no one is around right now besides the two of us, and her words are just what I need to hear today.
As customers start to trickle in, I try hard to stay focused, making it my goal for the evening not to spill anything or get an order wrong. They’re lofty goals, but I like challenging myself. And so far, I’m succeeding.
I also try not to watch the clock, but I can only do so much. Tonight, it’s either don’t drop plates or stop watching the clock. I choose to save the dishes. It’s a noble effort.
When six o’clock rolls around, every inch of me is on high alert.
She’ll be here soon.
Surprisingly, I almost feel calm . . . still a bit anxious, but not as bad as last week and certainly not as bad as the week before.
Perhaps it’s because of the almost-smile she gave me last Thursday. I haven’t stopped thinking about her lips making that slight turn since then. And when I allow myself to think about what a full smile from her would feel like, I practically break into a sweat.
In the midst of my daydreaming about Ania’s smile, I don’t hear the chime on the door, but I do feel an immediate shift in the atmosphere. And I know she’s here. My entire body is driven by an unknown force as it turns toward her, like a ship following a beacon in the night.
It’s not until Wyatt clears his throat behind me that I realize I’m standing in the middle of the café, holding an empty tray, and staring at her.
For a second, I’m afraid he might be upset he caught me slacking on the job, but as he continues toward the kitchen, his deep chuckle sets me at ease.
After putting the tray in the kitchen and busying myself with refilling water glasses, I take a chance and look over at Ania. Her face is red, almost like she’s flushed, which immediately makes me worried that she might not be feeling well.
It’s always bothered me that Ania never eats or drinks while she’s here. And I realize I’ve obviously inherited my mama’s intense disdain for anyone going hungry in her presence.
If she’s sick, she might not want to eat anything, and I know when I don’t feel well, water is the last thing I want. When I’m sick, my mama always brings me a cup of hot tea. It doesn’t matter what ails me; she thinks tea will help. Maybe she’s right? Without letting myself think about it too much, I walk into the kitchen and request a cup, gathering normal condiments while Shawn pours the steeping hot water.
I briefly question myself on my way back out to the dining room but shut it down as fast as it pops into my head.
Later.
I’ll think later.
As I reach her table, I’m momentarily distracted by the late evening sun shining through the window reflecting off of something hanging from Ania’s neck. I squeeze my eyes shut for a brief moment before slowly opening them and focusing on the offending gleam distracting me from delivering
the tea.
Recognition dawns and hope seeps out of my body, deflating me like a balloon with a pinhole leak.
If I’m not mistaken, it looks like an engagement ring. It’s not on her finger, where most people wear them. It’s hanging from a chain around her neck, but still, it’s a single large diamond, and she’s wearing it. It must mean something to her, and I can’t think of any other reason, except that she belongs to someone.
I set the mug down and mumble something about her not needing to pay for the tea and then pointing to the milk, sugar, and lemon I also brought because I didn’t know how she likes her tea.
My spirits lift a bit as she gives me another half-smile, slightly bigger than the one I got last week. When I return it, her cheeks flush again.
She must be coming down with something.
In some weird way, thinking she might be sick bothers me more than the idea of her being engaged.
And I hate that she might be engaged. That makes me feel like I’m going to be sick.
“I hope you feel better soon,” I mumble, nodding my head toward her tea, and then walking away, through the kitchen and out the backdoor.
I’m not running, not this time, but I do need a second to process.
I don’t know why I’m so surprised to see her wearing an engagement ring, even if it’s dangling from a chain and not on her finger. Of course, she’d have a boyfriend or fiancé or whatever. She’s easily the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Just because I’ve never seen her in the café with anyone, doesn’t mean she’s not someone’s . . . someone.
But I’m so confused. I know my brain doesn’t work right these days, but I wouldn’t think someone in love would look so sad and hopeless.
Love is supposed to make you happy.
I must be the biggest idiot in the world.
I don’t look at Ania for the rest of my shift, and I don’t watch her leave as I’m bringing the bill to my last table. The pull I feel toward her is still there, though. The recent knowledge I’ve gained hasn’t changed that one bit.
