The Exact Opposite of Okay(69)
Another unknown number, but a different one.
Hey, Izzy! It’s Meg. From math class? I hope everything’s okay with you. I know you must be having a rough time, but I just want to say that I think you’re so strong and brave for the way you’re handling it all. Sorry it’s taken me so long to work up the courage to text you . . . I didn’t want to come on too strong! Anyway, I’m around next weekend if you wanna hang out at some point? Mx
Some of the tensed-up muscles in my chest relax. I’m not alone. I’m not.
With every scrap of resilience I have left, I force myself to bury the dark thoughts – thoughts about permanent ways in which I could make all of this stop – and keep breathing.
I dry my damn eyes, pull back the covers and climb into bed, knowing tomorrow can’t possibly be as bad as today.
Sunday 10 October
7.20 a.m.
I fall asleep cuddling the bottle of bleach Ajita gave me. After crying for roughly eight millennia I wake up with my standard raccoon eyes and scarecrow hair, but I wake up. And things feel a little brighter.
Pulling on a crumpled sweater and some jeans, I deliberately avoid my reflection in the mirror, knowing I probably look a bit Wicked Witch of the West. The apartment is silent. Betty must be out, or still in bed. I grab my phone and purse and head for the door.
I know where I need to go. Somewhere I haven’t been since I was thirteen; since Betty let me stay off school because of a paper cut.
Outside it smells of wet grass. The sun is weak and watery, but there’s no wind. The streets are that kind of Sunday morning quiet – barely any cars, barely any people, just the odd jogger and dog-walker. And pigeons. Lots and lots of pigeons.
My bike’s ancient gears clank and groan as I pedal almost robotically, staring two feet in front of the handlebars at all times. The odd thought flits into my mind, but I let each one fizzle out, not engaging with it on any real level. I feel tapped out, emotionally and physically, and it’s sort of nice just focusing on the slight ache in my legs as I crest a hill I haven’t mounted in so, so long.
The cemetery sits on the only hill in our town, which is generally as flat as the Netherlands. There’s a tiny church, which seems empty – I think it’s too early for morning mass – and one giant oak tree shading the oldest tombstones in the graveyard, most of which are covered in thick moss. They’ve all been tended to immaculately, though, and the grass is neatly trimmed. One fresh grave near the entrance is swarmed with bouquets of flowers and notes. It makes me sad to look at, so I turn away. I’ve got enough grief of my own without absorbing a stranger’s.
There’s a bench I used to come to a lot when I was eleven or twelve and I first got my bike. It was the first time I was really allowed to go out alone, without my grandma with me, and I used the opportunity to visit my parents a lot. I know I could’ve done it when I was younger, with Betty by my side, but I always got the sense she dealt with things by not thinking about them and just pushing through. Seeing the spot where her dead daughter was buried in the dirt would make it pretty hard to do that.
Overlooking my parents’ gravestones – modest and plain, side by side, the exact same death date – is a memorial bench, made of a dark stained wood. It’s not covered by the oak tree. Instead it sits with its back to a low stone wall, basking in the low autumn sun. Far enough from my parents that I don’t have to read their names and birth dates, but close enough that I can still feel their presence.
Everything looks exactly the same as I remember it; exactly as I pictured it would be. Except for one thing.
Betty is sitting in the spot I used to, right in the middle of the bench where the plaque is. Her white-gray hair is wrapped in a purple paisley scarf, and she’s leaning her arm on a walking stick I haven’t seen her use in years. I’ve always suspected she used it when nobody was watching; when nobody could witness her needing help. She’s as stubborn as me.
She doesn’t look up as I approach and prop my bike against the wall, nor when I perch next to her on the bench. If she’s surprised to see me here, she doesn’t show it.
“How you doing, kiddo?” she asks, cradling a Thermos of coffee in her hands. She’s wearing at least three silver rings on each finger, kooky old bat that she is.
“Concerned that my grandmother is wearing more rings than, I don’t know, Saturn. But other than that, fine.” [I know, it’s incredibly frustrating that I just had an epiphany about needing the people I love, and yet I’m cracking jokes and masking the hurt like I always do. Hey. Old habits die hard.]
The lie is not in the least bit convincing. She snorts. “Right. Sure. And I’m Harrison Ford.”
“I wish,” I say.
“Me too. Then I could have sex with myself.”
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, this would’ve given me a laughter-induced stomach ulcer. But not today.
I sneak a sideways glance at her face, on the hunt for signs of crying, but her cheeks are dry and her eyes aren’t red-rimmed. She just looks tired.
I sigh. Here goes. “I’m just . . . overwhelmed. So overwhelmed it’s hard to process everything.”
Preparing for her usual up-by-the-bootstraps, bravado-boosting pep talk, I square my shoulders. But it never comes.
After a long pause, she says in a small voice, “Me too.”