I shake my head and chuckle at her bad fishing joke, and I wipe a stray tear.
Why did I sabotage the strongest relationship in my life? Because he cared? Because he’d sacrifice anything for me? Was I afraid that I would have to change to be enough for him?
“I told Dominick I want to stay here for college, and I want him to go to Boston.”
“Since when?” She stuffs an armful of T-shirts into my hamper.
“That’s why he’s not talking to me. He offered to stay here, too, and I said no.”
“Wait, why do you want to stay?”
I shrug. She whistles low and long while tossing a white sock into the pile.
“Alex, listen. I’ve known you forever. If you suddenly want to stay here for college, you really are screwed up.” She sits on the corner of my bed. “What happened to becoming a kick-ass lawyer and taking Boston by storm? Leaving your family that stresses you out? You said that your father randomly goes wild or numb, and your mother is pathetic and naïve about it. Never mind how much Benji tortures you, which I cannot believe with a face that gorgeous. Why would you want to stay here when Dominick”—she picks up the picture and shoves it into my hands—“brings out the light in you?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I can’t see physically separating myself from them. I can’t do it. And I don’t want to stop Dominick from going to school in Boston.”
“Just promise me,” she says and hands me a tissue from my bureau, “that you will at least apply to some Boston schools. Keep both options open in case you change your mind.”
I nod. She means well, but she doesn’t understand the hold Dad has on me. Like a tractor beam in
Star Trek,
pulling a ship out of its journey to safety. There’s a pull inside of me, and I cannot break the connection.
Over the next
month and a half, Arianna and I meet on a weekly basis. She explains that what happened when I was younger with Dad has gotten stuck inside of me, and I react to other situations as if that event is happening again. The vertex incident with Dan only made it worse. She does a form of therapy called EMDR. By following a back-and-forth pattern either with your eyes or by tapping your legs or arms and thinking of a traumatic memory, you can rewire your brain to deal with it with less and less fear and pain. It sounded like bullshit to me at first, but somehow it works.
Arianna taught me how to do EMDR to myself in moments when I feel major fear about something. It’s not a cure for anxiety since anxiety can be environmental and genetic, but it will help me to manage it. If my panic attacks continue, she also recommends taking an antidepressant. Certain ones can be super effective at eliminating panic attacks. I’d rather not go that route if I don’t have to because the last time I took them, they made me feel terrible. My Ativan prescription gets to stay, but I’m noticing that I don’t need it as much anymore. I can’t believe I didn’t get this kind of therapy sooner. It’s like superglue for the cracks inside of me.
"How's school going?"
Arianna asks. “Did you bring your grades up?”
“School’s been fine. Boring, actually.”
“Boring’s good. How’s your anxiety? Have you been exercising? Breathing?”
Of course I’ve been breathing. Otherwise, I’d be dead. “Yes, I’ve been walking around the block after school.”
“Good. And how’s the situation at home?”
I take a deep breath. “My dad’s avoiding me by working longer hours. He’s drinking more, too. I triggered him again. I’m keeping my distance until I can pull myself back together.”
“Wait, it’s not your fault. You are allowed to need help. You are both different people.”
I nod and stare at my hands.
“Alex, you are not your father. You are not responsible for your father. You are only responsible for yourself.”
I nod, but deep inside I know that’s not true. I’m his daughter. I’m supposed to care about him. Look out for him. I think about Benji, and how he doesn’t seem to care like I do. How he can just move on with his life.
“I’ve been wondering how come other people can cope better than I can. Am I just a weak person?”
She smiles. “No, you’re not weak at all. You’re sensitive. Sensitive people are some of the most caring, creative, greatest thinkers of our time. Sensitivity is only a weakness if you let it be. You have to learn to see your sensitivity as strength. Sensitive people can see through fakeness. They spot problems others overlook. And while they desperately seek to help others, when they feel threatened or hopeless, they have trouble processing the stress. But that doesn’t mean you are weak. It means you are human. The world needs sensitive people like you to stay in balance.”
I consider her words.
“I feel so out of control when my negative thoughts take over and start looping and my body reacts. How can I turn that into a strength?”
“How about this: have you ever heard of a mantra? Like a catchphrase? Memorize the line: Don’t get tricked by a thought. Got it? Don’t get tricked by a thought. Try saying that to yourself when you have an irrational thought.”
Seems too easy. “I’ll try it.”
“Also, some people find it useful to write in a journal when their brain feels overwhelmed. You could try writing all of your thoughts and feelings down. Don’t worry about grammar or spelling. Just free write, scribble, doodle, whatever. You can even take it a step further and slam the book shut to swish those big feelings into mere flat words on a page. Takes the power away. Or rip or burn the pages. Thoughts are meaningless, fleeting, random ideas with no power unless you give them power.”
“I have a journal that I use sometimes.”
Understatement of the century.
“Good. Keep that up if it’s working for you. Also, exercise. Exercise is a powerful stress management tool. Following a healthy plan for managing your symptoms is the first step to becoming your strongest self.” She pauses, then asks, “Have you started applying to colleges? That’s always a stressful time for seniors.”
“Not yet.” I think about what Dominick and Rita said to me. I’m still not ready to face that decision.
On Halloween weekend,
I take a bus to my new job at the Techno café. I enter the restaurant and try to sneak by Xavier, the manager, but the bell over the door gives me away.
“You’re a half hour early. Keep it up and you’ll be a manager in no time.”
“Great,” I mumble. “More responsibility.” Arianna thought a job would be good for me seeing as I feel out of control in crowded spaces. Face my anxiety.
So far so good. It’s been a week.
I take orders from college students, professors, and elderly folk. Most of them only want coffee or cappuccinos to sit and chat over. I hate coffee. I don’t understand how so many people could be addicted to the diarrhea-colored liquid. It tastes like dirt. Plus, I’d be up all night between the caffeine and insomnia. But I’m happy to serve it, as long as the tips help me save for college and distract my brain from overreacting.
Minutes turn to hours, and soon most of the customers leave. I work until 6:00, and around 5:30 the manager tells me to refill the napkin dispensers. I hear the bell over the glass door ring, which means I have to serve another customer before I leave if I want the tip. Great. I slowly push a handful of napkins forward onto the springed metal platform inside the dispenser. Without looking up, I ask, “Coffee?”
A familiar male voice answers, “Nope. Just you. And maybe a jelly doughnut.”
Dominick sits at the counter. Oh God, I forgot how good he looks when he smiles at me. I bet he feels better than I remember, too.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, trying not to smile. “How’d you know where I work?” I hand him a doughnut wrapped in wax paper.
“Rita demanded that we follow through on our Halloween pact for senior year. Said you forgot about it with everything going on. She’s waiting in my car.”
He takes a bite of doughnut, leaving a trace of powdered sugar on his bottom lip. “She’s been worried about you.”
“Were you worried about me?” I hand him a napkin.
He grins. “Not falling for that one. I’m here because it’s Halloween, and we have a tradition.”
I laugh. “Seriously?”
“Completely. And I still want to know why you were with that guy.” He licks his thumb and pointer finger clean.
My manager clears his throat. I start filling salt shakers. “Jealous much? We aren’t even together anymore.”
His smile fades. I meant to say it in a flirty tone.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. The guy thing wasn’t my fault. Okay, so it was partly my fault. I tried to avoid him, but he wanted me to poke the hologram.”
We stare at each other, and then we crack up laughing. The manager clears his throat again.
I move to the next table and pick up a pile of napkins. Dominick stands awkwardly, fidgeting with his hands in his pockets. The bell over the glass door pierces the silence as a mustached stranger strolls into the café and sits at the counter. I take his order for a cup of coffee and a bagel. While my back is turned to toast the bagel, I hear the bell ring again. I turn around to see if I have more last-minute customers only to discover that Dominick is gone, his cash left on the counter.
Every particle in my body screams to go after him. He drove here, found me at work. I need him back in my life. But I also need to be protective of myself and learn to be in control of my emotions. I just started getting myself on the right track, trusting my own instincts. Yet there’s something about Dominick that fills me with peace instead of worry. I just don’t want to fill him with a sense of burden.
My heart bangs against my ribs to escape, and I can’t stop thinking about running out the door, chasing after him, and screaming his name down a lamppost lit alley.
Dominick! Dominick, wait!
And he’d turn around in slow motion like in a corny romantic film, and we would speed toward each other and embrace in one swoop and kiss. Oh, and kiss the most juiciest kiss known in the history of romantic moments captured forever in books and movies. And then it would downpour, of course
.
But no, I’m not that kind of girl. I can’t take risks in love or life. They backfire. Besides, this is real life, and I still have customers.
By the time
I leave the restaurant, a giant knot gnaws at my stomach. I made the wrong decision. I should’ve gone after Dominick when I had the chance.
Why do I keep sabotaging my chances with him?
I whip out my phone, but before I can even type a message, Dominick’s familiar black Ford Fusion, his father’s old car, pulls up beside me with Rita in the passenger seat.
He stayed.
“I thought you left,” I say as I hop in the backseat. The TARDIS air freshener that I gave him still dangles from the rearview mirror.
Dominick explains from the driver’s seat. “Your manager kept giving me dirty looks, so I thought I should wait outside.”
Rita throws a plastic bag at me. “You didn’t think we’d forget you? It’s Halloween. It’s our tradition.”
Inside the bag is a short-haired ginger wig, a robe, and a wand. I stick the wig on my head and throw the robe over my clothes. Freshman year, the three of us unanimously wanted to dress up for Halloween like Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley. Only we all wanted to be Harry, and none of us wanted to be Ron. Dominick had argued that he should get to be Harry since he’s a guy, and that Rita and I should just both be Hermione since we’re girls. That gender logic was never going to fly with us. Everyone wants an equal chance at being the hero. We compromised and made a pact. Every Halloween we would rotate characters. I thought we were done since Dominick and I aren’t together, but apparently I was wrong. Thank you, Rita.
Rita places a pair of dark plastic glasses on her nose. My red wig itches. Dominick tosses on a long, brown haired wig.
“Dude, you are the ugliest Hermione ever ,” Rita says, cracking up. I giggle along with her, and Dominick turns to grin at me. His shadow of facial hair combined with the bad Hermione wig and his glasses turns my laughter into snorting.
“With that wig and your glasses, you kinda look like a strung-out Harry.” Rita and I both get louder and more hysterical.
“Shut up or I’ll curse you with my long wand,” he says in a deep voice and waving his plastic wand.
“Long? Really?” Rita asks. I bop her on the head with my wand from the backseat.
We drive to Buttonwood Park, ditch the car, and for the next two hours we act foolish, cursing random people, saying inappropriate things, hiding in leaves to scare kids, sometimes trick-or-treating when houses seem willing to hand out candy to older teens.
In a fake Harry Potter voice, Rita asks a random group of girls, “Would you like to whomp my willow?”
Dominick chuckles.
“That joke worked better when you were Hermione,” I say.
“Oh, right.” She grins deviously.
Dominick walks by my side, sometimes brushing up against my arm. I want to reach out and hold his hand. It always made me feel safe. Its absence hangs between us like an abandoned friend.
As the cold settles into the night, we head over to the Dartmouth Mall since they let kids trick-or-treat there. It’s dead for a weekend. I chalk it up to Halloween parties elsewhere, but the more we walk around, the more I sense something isn’t right.
“Something’s rotten in the state of Massachusetts,” Dominick announces. He swings his wand in the air. “Where is everyone?”
“Right? It’s too quiet,” I mumble, chewing on a Starburst.
“Maybe the vertexes sucked them all up,” Rita says. She tosses back a mouthful of Nerds from a box.
“Not funny,” I reply, and I don’t laugh. None of us laugh. The mall is never this still. I’m waiting for a giant tumbleweed to roll past Old Navy.
We cut through Sears to return to the parking lot but stop when we see a crowd of parents and costumed children gathered in the Electronics area. They stare at the wall of glowing television sets, all with the same vacant look in their eyes.
“What’s going on?” I ask a row of people in front of us.
No one answers. It’s never a good sign when you ask a silent crowd a question and no one flinches. Especially when you’re standing there in a ridiculous Ron costume.
I wonder if the vertexes have suddenly turned them into zombies or taken over their brainwaves, and somehow the three of us are immune.