Page 5

I shuffled in through the door, kicking off my shoes and placing them by the door before sliding on a pair of fuzzy white slippers with little bows on them. My purse went on the hook by the door, my pink water bottle on the counter. Everything had its place, but I wouldn’t necessarily call myself organized. I mean, it was to me, but it wouldn’t be to anyone else.

My hand brushed open the half-closed door to my bedroom. It was the brightest room in the apartment and always felt like a breath of fresh air in here. A white oversized duvet was folded neatly on my bed, blue floral sheets folded over and peeking out from the big, fluffy pillows in front. A few stuffed animals sat on the pillows, and twinkling lights surrounded the ceiling since the big light was a big no for me.

I tore off my sweatshirt, throwing it on the bed before stripping off my sweaty yoga clothes and tossing those in the hamper in the corner. I hit the moon light in my bathroom rather than the bright overhead light. My sister, Lacy, bought it for me a few years ago, and it quickly became a favorite to have on. The soft golden light that it emitted scattered along the room. The actual light was in the shape of a full moon, and all the little craters shadowed when it was on. It was a nod to my slight obsession with the moon and stars. Something small and sort of silly, but during recovery, it was something that made baths and showers more pleasant rather than the very dreaded activity they had come to be.

As I rinsed off, memories of racing came back again. Racing had been my entire life, something I had dreamed of and trained for since I was very young. I had earned my way up through the ranks, made it all the way to racing and being sponsored in F2. I even won a championship before one race ended in a fiery crash. A crash that left my left leg shattered. The scars and burns that littered my hand and leg were duller now. My car had been clipped, sending me flying into another and tumbling into the barriers. Race cars back then didn’t have the same precautions they do now. I had been trapped in the car for far too long.

I turned the water up to higher heat and stepped under the showerhead, letting the water wash over me and closing my eyes. I felt the heat rise and was brought right back to the moment. The flames caught quickly, and I had hit my head so hard that by the time I was blinking back to reality, all I could see was fire. I had tried to get free of metal crushing into my leg and trapping me in the car. I remember how slow the pain came, how my heart raced with adrenaline. Someone was shouting over coms on my headset, there were marshals surrounding the car, everyone was screaming, and it was so so loud. Everyone was confused why I wasn’t getting out of the car. They didn’t realize I couldn’t, that my leg was crushed under metal, twisted at an angle that would never heal properly.

The sting of the water getting too hot brought me back to reality. I hissed at it, or at the memory, I couldn’t be sure. My eyes were still screwed shut as I reached blindly for the nob on the wall, yanking it to the opposite side. Icy water covered me in seconds.

A shock to my system.

Slowly, another sound entered, the familiar ringing of my phone in my sweatshirt pocket, tossed on the bed. I let it ring, ignored it as I let the water wash away the memory of that day. I sank down, no longer trusting my legs to hold me. The cool porcelain of the tub under me and the water trickling down from high above now helped ground me. Tears mixed with the water from the showerhead. I tucked my knees into myself, wrapping my arms around them. Sometimes, everything felt like too much and I felt too small. Sometimes everything was too loud and too big, and I just wanted to blink out of it all.

My phone started ringing again. I wasn’t sure how much time passed before I got up. Before I turned the water off, wrapped myself in a towel, and put it all behind me. I flopped onto the bed with a long sigh and fished my phone out of the pocket of my sweatshirt.

Three missed calls from my sister. I immediately called her back, letting her know I was fine. After the accident, I had moved home. But recovery was hard and long, so eventually, Lacy and I moved into our own apartment in the city. I needed the change, needed to stare at something other than my childhood bedroom walls or the sadness in my parents’ eyes every time they looked at me.

“Maise, you can’t not answer my calls!” Lacy was already rushing out as soon as she picked up. “You can’t do that, you have to pick up, you said you would always pick up—” Her voice cracked, ending in that frantic tone she got when she was worried.

“Lace, I’m okay,” I assured her. She let out a sigh on the other end. “I was just in the shower.”

“Okay, okay good. I just—I thought… And today is…and… Fuck, you scared me, Maisey.”

“I’m okay,” I repeat. “I’m okay.”

“Promise?” she asked in a voice sounding so small like when we were little. I exhaled it all, trying to center myself. I was okay most days now. Life was rather normal. I had a boring desk job in analytics, I took the train into the heart of the city to work, I got coffee at the same place every day, I went to yoga every Tuesday. I was a lot closer to okay than I used to be. But today made me miss loving something so fiercely, waking up excited to train and work.

“Promise,” I responded.

“Good.” Another sigh came through the receiver. “You’ve been taking your meds?”

“Yeah, of course.” I was good about remembering, but bad days were still bad days. Depression had that all-consuming trait about it. I had come so far in the big picture of things, but some days it felt like I would fall right back into what I called the depression hole. It was a constant battle of climbing the ladder and falling back in, and I was well sick of it by this age. But the bad days were much further apart now. I shivered at the memory of a few years ago, still living with Lacy in our shared apartment when I couldn’t get out of bed most days. I didn’t want to. My regular monthly therapy had been changed to weekly for about a year now, my therapist reassuring me that healing wasn’t linear. And life after a traumatic event would have bad days or months sneak up on me. That didn’t make me any less of a worthy human. If anything, after the last year, I wanted to try more things, to cherish life even more. Sure, there were still bad days, but I had a healthy list of coping mechanisms, a therapist, a best friend, and a family to call on if I needed. Even if picking up the phone felt impossible sometimes.

“I met someone through the work event, and I realize this is insane, but they need an answer by end of day, and it’s just, like, so stupidly perfect for you,” my sister said, interrupting my thoughts.

“Lacy, you’re not making sense.”

“Okay, just bear with me.”

“You’re freaking me out.”

“You know I have that colleague who works for that investor who sponsors F1 events?”

A pause.

“Yeah?”

“Well, they need a strategic analyst for this presenter gig.”

“And why does this include me?”

“Because you are the best analyst, and you love the ins and outs of racing and all those minute tiny details that get winning results, and this is perfect for you, and you could go back to the racing world,” she continued rambling into the phone as my heart stopped beating altogether. A job in Formula One? I didn’t need a job, I had one. One that paid well and let me have my own apartment, one that let me move on with my life. Leave all that behind. I squeezed my fingers together, making a fist, trying to ground myself. My fingers brushed the scars on my leg, sending a chill through me.

“Lacy, I—” I choked on the next word, not fully able to say I couldn’t. I couldn’t go back to the world that held every piece of my trauma. Was ten years enough that I could hear the roar of cars again? Could I bear being near a paddock without being sent back to that day?

“I know, I know Maise.” Lacy’s voice was pained as she said it. “But just—for a moment—just try not to think about it. Think about how you spent your life obsessed with the data, those weird graphic charts or whatever. How it was your advice that Th⁠—”