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“Nothing’s wrong with her, Zee, that’s the way she talks when you’re not around,” I answered softly.
His mouth twisted in disgust. “Fuck me, what a headcase. I know the things she says, somehow I didn’t imagine her saying them like that.”
He stalked off towards their bedroom shaking his head. “Mara, you don’t call her until you’re ready, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir!”
She saluted smartly, and I laughed, happy to see that spark.
I was a bit shocked, never having seen Zale speak to anybody like that. I’d never seen anyone stand up to my mother before. I wished someone had done that for me.
He stuck his head back in from the hallway. “I should be so lucky to have that kind of obedience from you.”
“Wow,” I breathed when he left, “too bad we didn’t put him on the phone years ago.”
“She had better control years ago, and she’s tweaked lately because I haven’t been reacting to her digs like I normally would.”
“It’s going to get worse, Mara. When narcissists sense they are losing control, they up the drama, sometimes making you the villain, and them the victim. Please don’t let it bother you. Maybe give it a couple of weeks before you call her.”
It was time to communicate some truths to my sweet sister.
“Maybe.”
“Don’t feel sorry for her, Mara. She doesn’t feel sorry for you.”
I left for home shortly afterwards and let myself into my apartment. Mine. Paid for with my money. Money I earned, money my father left for me, not trusting my mother with the whole lot.
I grabbed the remote and started my playlist. I looked around and took comfort in my surroundings. I trailed my hand over the fabrics of my cushions and lap blankets, the lines of my art pieces. I lit my lavender candles, made myself hot chocolate in Barrett’s mug, checked my orchids for water.
I did everything I could to ground myself in the present. No matter how I tried, the past was crawling up my throat and there would be no escape from the yearly assault of memories.
Chapter 10
Twenty-Eight Days
Willa
“Hey,” Junie lifted her head to greet me when I swung open the door. “I could feel you from the street.”
I didn’t doubt it.
I spiraled downwards every May, every passing day pushing me inevitably forward to the date that was never circled on the calendar but stood out for me like a beacon, nonetheless. I fought it. I kept busy, focused on others, pushed away the pain and practiced positive self-talk.
I lit candles and listened to music, named five things I could see, four things I could touch, three things I could hear, working hard to keep myself grounded in the present, but no matter what I did, the clock ticked steadily onward towards a wave of grief so damn huge I woke up choking on its humidity weeks before it reached me.
I could neither hurry it up nor avoid it. I waited, trapped by the sense of impending doom and the compounding of my escalating anxiety, until it was upon me, and I could do nothing but feel it all again.
Twenty-eight days.
Twenty-eight days when the tiny velvet bag in the bottom of my purse made it out into my hand every single day.
Twenty-eight days when I stayed at home as much as possible because the effort to wear my mantle of cheer exhausted me when it didn’t elude me altogether.
Twenty-eight days when I could not escape the phantom smell of cigarette smoke.
Twenty-eight days.
“Hi, Junie.” I walked to my desk and stopped.
