Page 99 of False Start
I could do it with her for the rest of my life.
41
NIA
When I was little, I used to get stomach bugs all the time. I’d be sick for an entire week, head in a trashcan and my ass on the toilet. My mom would call me her littlenorovirusaffectionately. By the sixth or seventh day, my brain would wipe all memory of previous life from my mind, as if sickness was all I knew.
I’m not quite there yet.
Still in the trenches, stuck betweenit feels like I’ll never feel good againandI don’t even know what healthy feels like anymore.But I’m not giving in this time. I don’t just need Harvey—Iwanther, and I want to be someone deserving of her. I want her to be proud of me and look at me the way she does when she’s admiring me.
I wanteverythingwith her.
What Idon’t get, though, is sleep. She’s passed out on the couch. I’m only still in her lap because I don’t want to wake her. The nausea has lessened now, and hopefully soon, I’ll be able to get more than an hour of sleep at a time.
I feel like a leather saddle on a clothesline that had its time in the mud and rain.
Rode hard, put up wet.
Not quite the same.
Forever altered.
Still here for a good ride.I make myself laugh, a reminder that there’s a piece of me who wants to be okay again.
The need comes in a violent wave. It’s a rush I can’t explain, a pulling of my own internal compass forcing me to move, act, right the course. I unwind Cat’s arms from my waist, placing a soft kiss on her forehead before getting off the couch. Picking my phone up from the coffee table, dozens of missed calls waiting for me, I head for the door.
“Nia?” Harvey asks, like she’s on watchdog mode and her body won’t afford her the pleasure of relaxing if I’m not beside her.
“I just need a second.” I look back at her, my hand on the doorknob. “I just gotta do something.”
I don’t think she trusts me, not when it comes to making good decisions for myself, but somehow, I think she sees that right now is more than that. She nods and closes her eyes again. I’m not fooled; she isn’t asleep, but that doesn’t matter.
Going outside is pointless; there are plenty of rooms to do this in, but it helps me feel better, less trapped, less boxed in, like I can somehow escape if the blowout is catastrophic. It’s silly because all I need is a red button to feel safe again. To disconnect the call.
Instead, I hit dial, and it’s only when I hear her voice that I’m able to slide my back down along the outside wall until I’m seated on the ground. “Antônia?”
“Oi.” I’m already regretting it, heart rateelevating, sweating out of my pits like I just did my speed test, and the nausea I thought I’d conquered comes rolling back in. “I just have a few things I want to say. You can listen, or you can hang up. I don’t want to have a back and forth, though.” I put the boundary in place and wonder if, for the first time in her life, she’ll adhere to it.
Boundary is not a word our family understands. Boundary is not a word we acknowledge, respect, or accept. It might as well be a knife that severs our blood ties.
She doesn’t speak, but the call doesn’t disconnect.
“I understand now. I understand why you were the way you were, why I was the way I was, and what a messthatwas together.” It’s almost a laugh, but I’m already crying. I don’t make sense. “I know you did your best, and I’m grateful you kept me alive long enough so I could see that. But you have to stop calling me now.”
My mother doesn’t speak, the line staying quiet.
“You’ve hurt me too many times. I can’t keep relying on the people who hurt me to fix me.” I swallow hard, still waiting for the interjection that never comes. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be at a place where I want you in my life again.” I don’t tell her that Ineedher, that I’ll always need my mother. “But I can’t grow up if you don’t let me. Maybe I’ll never be capable of making the best decisions for myself, but I’m starting to realize that the right people will love me regardless.”
I take one more breath. “I’ll call you if I’m ever ready to change that.”
I’m waiting for a barrage of frantic yelling in Portuguese, for the verbal lashing and the condescending that happens anytime my mother opens her mouth to me.
I’m waiting, but it doesn’t come.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
The question is heavy; she knows I’m not.
