Later that night, after putting fresh sheets on Mimi’s bed, vacuuming the whole house, and cleaning the kitchen, I sank into the couch and cracked open one of my new Edward Phelps romance novels, a fresh seltzer fizzing on the coffee table in front of me. It’d become my nightly ritual. It felt so luxurious, I almost felt guilty, but each day the urge to use that evening downtime for something more productive lessened.
I was enjoying reading again.
“Hey, Mimi!” I called out the window of Mimi’s compact SUV at the petite woman with a white bob, a Burberry scarf, and the same red carry-on size suitcase she’d had for years. I woke up early and took the bus to the boat, and then another bus from Woods Hole to Logan Airport. I met Mimi’s driver in central parking as planned, and pulled around to pick her up in the terminal. Normally it was my parents who helped transport Mimi back to the island every year. I didn’t appreciate how time-consuming it was until today. But I didn’t mind. For the first time in years, I had time to do something like this for her. It made me happy—being able to do things that helped my family.
“Hi, Val! Thank you so much for doing this.” She kissed my cheek when I joined her on the curb. I picked up her suitcase and put it in the car.
As I drove us back toward Cape Cod, we caught up on her time in Florida and how my parents and my brother were doing. I told her about the books I’d been reading and the new shops that had opened in town. I briefly talked about my experience at work that led to my burnout and the need for a medical leave. I suspected she already knew most of it from my mom, but she listened attentively anyway.
When I finished, she said, “They worked you to death at that firm. I don’t envy this generation with cellphones and laptops. I’m so happy you are taking a break and that you chose to spend it on the Vineyard with me. We’re going to have the best summer!”
I smiled, and genuine excitement filled my veins.
A few days after Mimi arrived, I forgot to close my blinds before bed and woke up with the first rays of the sun. I wasn’t used to how bright it was here in the mornings.
After a cup of coffee sipped in front of a lackluster pantry, I went back to Morning Glory Farm for provisions. Maybe the handsome, dark-haired stranger would be there again for another morning grocery run.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t. But they did have some gorgeous pale-yellow sunflowers, a new quiche flavor (zucchini and parmesan), and heirloom tomatoes. I grabbed a bunch of fresh basil too, my mouth watering at the idea of Caprese salad for lunch. Knowing Mimi, a night owl, wouldn’t be up for a few hours, I stopped in town for a second coffee.
Iced coffee in hand, I meandered to the fishing pier and climbed the steps to the upper deck observatory. I leaned over the railing, looking down at the waves that clapped against the edge of the pier.
Only a few fishermen remained down below, lines in the water. The rest would have packed up hours ago. The salty air was still cool, the heat of summer not yet upon us, especially up here where the wind roared through in a never-ending stream. The sun was only halfway up in the sky, its light reflecting off every wake in the water, making it shimmer and dance.
I tugged my sweater around me and sat down on a bench, watching the handful of boats passing by, breathing deeply. Easily. For once, I didn’t feel like there was somewhere else I should be, something else I should be doing. There were no work deadlinesor overwhelming projects hanging over me on this pier. Even the tick of checking my phone every few minutes had gone away. Another deep breath, and it got caught in my throat on its way out. I swallowed. My eyes filled as a sense of whole-body relief spread through me. The freedom of not being shackled to that phone, of not being beholden to deadlines that were always“as soon as possible,”and never soon enough.
I feel like I can breathe.
I shook my head, eyes brimming.
I don’t know if I want to go back.
10
“How have things been going this week? Have you been able to work out, cook…read…and write?” Wendy tapped her pen on her notebook for each activity. Clearly, she took diligent notes during our session last week.
A smile spread on my lips, as if on its own. “Great, I’m still doing those things every day.”
“When you go back to your firm, do you think you’d be able to set some boundaries so you could continue doing these things you enjoy?”
Of course not,my brain retorted. I took a moment before answering. “Honestly, not for long. Some weeks are a little slower, leaving me time to do those things. But more often than not, I’m working from 7:00 or 8:00 a.m. until after 10:00 p.m. every day, with limited breaks for meals and to commute.”
She seemed stumped for a moment before she continued. “Well, stick with them for now while you’re off, and then perhaps in our next few sessions we can brainstorm some ways that you could prioritize maintaining these activities—at least the ones that are most important to you—after you go back to work.”
I nodded in agreement, but the churning in my gut told me no amount of brainstorming would help me maintain a workout andcooking routine for more than a week or two at a time once I got back, let alone reading or writing. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t tried in the past. Once my average hours of sleep per night dipped below six—and they would—it became too hard for me to justify spending my free time on anything else.
“What’s your return-to-work date again?” Natalie asked, glancing up from her cutting board to her phone camera.
I sighed. She was cooking dinner, but I was already in my PJs, sitting cross-legged on my bed. “July 15th.”
“Sorry to bring it up! You still have”—she paused to count—“eight weeks, though. That’s a long time.”
“I know.” I forced a smile as my stomach roiled. I was just starting to feel whole, and I was just getting really into the writing. The last thing I wanted to think about was going back to Peters & Dowling. Eight weeks felt impossibly short.
“Do you even want to go back?” Natalie asked the question my therapist hadn’t yet broached during our first three sessions.
I rolled my lips between my teeth as I considered telling my best friend the truth.
“No,” I whispered.
