Underwater(16)

Evan leaned in to hug her, then introduced us when they broke apart.

“Morgan, Janice. Janice, Morgan.”

Evan’s mom stifled a yawn, then held her hand out to me. When I took it in mine, I could feel the bones through her skin.

“I’m so sorry I haven’t come by to introduce myself,” she said. “Things have been…” She paused, searching for the right word, finally settling on “busy.”

I told her I understood even though I didn’t. I had no idea what it was like to be busy anymore. My life before was busy all the time. Every second I lived had something in it. But not now.

“I need a shower,” she announced. “I’m glad I finally met the neighbors. Or, well, one of the neighbors.”

She ruffled Evan’s hair the same way I do to Ben, only she had to stretch up to reach him. He looked embarrassed. And then she headed inside, the screen door slapping shut behind her.

“Well, that’s my mom.”

“What does she do?”

“Everything.” Evan sounded tired just thinking about it. “My aunt’s having a rough time, so my mom took over running her restaurant while she works through some things. She knows what to do because their parents owned a diner when they were growing up. But the hours aren’t easy. My mom’s always there instead of here.”

“You must be lonely.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s okay. I understand why she has to do it. And it’s a job. We couldn’t exactly move here unless she had one.”

I probably could’ve asked a whole bunch of questions that would’ve convinced Evan to tell me his whole life story, but I didn’t want to sound like Brenda. Sometimes it’s nice to know someone without having to talk all the time.





chapter nine

Brenda comes at one p.m. just like she said she would. She always does exactly what she promises. She’s wearing leopard-print workout pants and a sweatshirt. She has on running shoes like she is going to compete in a 5K for rock stars instead of just trying to convince me to walk to the mailbox.

“Nice jeans. Does this mean you’re ready?” She says this like she’s known I’d go all along.

Of course, I can feel all the things I can’t control happening to my body. My erratic heartbeat. My armpit sweat. My stomach cramps. I know Brenda can tell because she puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes it, anchoring me.

“It’s okay. We can start right here,” she says.

I look at her standing outside my door like it’s no big deal. It seems so simple. Why can’t I go? Why can’t I just cross the threshold and step outside? I think hard. I can’t do it. I turn my back to her to head inside. She grabs my shoulder and urges me back around. There’s something about the way she regards me right then. It’s in the shift of her hip and the squint in her eyes.

“You’re ready for this, you know?” We make eye contact. It’s the kind of eye contact that means something. She makes me believe her.

And maybe that’s all I need, because before I know it, I’ve pushed myself through the door. But the physical reaction to what I’ve done is instantaneous. I’m standing on the welcome mat, but it feels more like I’m standing on the edge of an airplane wing in flight. I wobble, out of control. My senses ramp up times one thousand. The sun is so bright that it makes my eyes water. The air is so fresh that it stings my nostrils. The birds tweet so loud that it hurts my ears. But Brenda still stands there, looking at me, knowing I can do it. So I stay put, feet planted on the ground.

“How are you feeling right now?” she asks.

“Overwhelmed.” I’m sugarcoating. The more accurate word is terrified.

“You should be proud of yourself. I’m proud of you.”

I look at her, and it’s obvious she means what she says. I fall to my knees, right on top of our welcome mat, and sob. I rock back and forth, clutching my stomach because I want to be able to shove the feelings back inside. But I can’t. I cry, loud and long. Brenda squats down next to me. She puts her hand on my shoulder. I feel it. There’s just enough force to let me know she has me and that I won’t float away.

“It’s okay,” she says. “You’re okay. It’s a big step. You’re going to be emotional. But you got outside. I might’ve overestimated with the mailbox. We’ll go slower. Baby steps. Just know that I hear you.”

Her voice is soothing. Her words still me. My crying calms. I can catch a breath. It’s decided that I won’t go farther than this today. But this far is still good.

We finish up our hour on the welcome mat. She asks me if it feels good to be outside.

“I like the smell of the air,” I admit. And then we talk about it.

She asks me what I notice. What I hear. What I see. “Does it seem different?”

I try to explain what it feels like to be here. Outside. It’s more than visceral. It’s emotional, too. I try to put that into words. Brenda says she understands.

She doesn’t even write anything down. When I ask her why, she says it’s because she doesn’t need notes to remember this. She tells me that today was a breakthrough. She says it’s literally the first step out the door.

“How did you know I was ready?” I ask when we stand up again.