Page 40 of If My Wishes Came True
I wipe my tears and walk to the bathroom, strip off the sweaty pajamas I’ve been sleeping in since Monday, and wash my hair and body.
The fact that I’m doing basic things like eating and showering gives me the slightest bit of hope that this won’t be as bad as last time. It can’t be. I don’t have Christy here to take care of me.
“I’m getting better,” I repeat as many times as it takes for me to believe it.
I step out of the shower feeling a little less sad than when I entered. And clean, at least.
After I’m dressed, I pause in the doorway of my art studio, grateful that I covered Charlie’s painting with a sheet yesterday. I kept bursting into tears every time I laid eyes on it.
I wonder if I can paint today.
Slowly, as if drawn by some magnetic force, I walk to my palette on the other side of the room and start mixing colors.
An hour later, I’m looking at a pair of bright blue eyes.
But I’m not sure if they’re Hunter’s or Grady’s.
On Friday morning, I get a text from Vanessa:Hey lady, I miss you! You’re coming to class this afternoon, right?
Damnit. I forgot all about my painting class. Am I in any shape to go?
I’m certainly feeling better than I was a few days ago. The hours I spent in my little art studio helped ground me, for sure. But the ground I’m standing on is still shaky. I was hoping to spend another couple of days in this bubble, alone, before I ventured out into the world again.
I text Vanessa back:I miss you too! Not feeling well today, so I’m going to stay home. Next week for sure.
She doesn’t reply.
Three hours later, I’m in my art studio when I get a call from the doorman.
“Vanessa’s here to see you,” he practically sings. “She’s on her way upstairs. I hope you don’t mind I let her in—I remember her from last week. Real nice gal.”
“Oh! Um…that’s great!” I say, panic flooding me.
I don’t want her to see me this way.
I don’t have the energy to be bright and bubbly. How the hell will I get through this visit?
The sound of her knocking startles me. I comb my fingers through my hair, then open the door. Here goes nothing.
“Hey! Shouldn’t you be at work?” I ask, a smile blooming on my face the moment I see her. It’s only now that I realize how lonely I’ve been this week. Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them away.
“I’m taking a long lunch break,” she says with a shrug as she bends down to pick up a brown paper bag. “And I brought my Haitian remedies.”
She walks past me to my kitchen island, where she sets down the bag and starts pulling things out of it: fresh herbs, jars of spices, lots of fruits and vegetables, and raw honey.
I tear up again. “What’s all this?”
She grins. “I’m going to make you Tati Marie’s tea recipe. And a smoothie that has enough Vitamin C for an army. You’ll feel better in no time.”
“This is so nice of you, Vanessa. You didn’t have to…” I begin to say before I get choked up. I’ve never had a female friend take care of me like this. Only my sister.
“Oh, hush,” she says, playfully. “Do you like ginger?”
I nod. “I love it.”
“Good, because you’re about to get a heavy dose of it,” she says with a wink.
Vanessa fills a pot with water, adds grated ginger, cinnamon sticks, star anise, and mint, then brings it to a boil. Afterward, she turns down the heat and, while the tea simmers, she makes my smoothie. I sit at the kitchen island watching her slice mangoes as we catch up. I take the lead in asking her questions because I’m so terrified that, the more I talk, the more she’ll seeright through me. She’s a trained therapist—and here I am at what I’m hoping is the tail end of a brief depressive episode.
