Page 106 of Rebound
By the time Patrick returns, I have all the ingredients and implements we need to make dinner. As a kid, Velliamma often served idiyappam at breakfast. Made with rice flour and moulded into noodles, it’s steamed and eaten with a variety of things. She’d sometimes make chicken or mutton stew. Tessammai is the one who introduced me to coconut milk and spoonfuls of sugar. It became my comfort food. When I was sad or happy, when I felt out of place and lost—idiyappam was what I wanted. I never learned how to make it, but often found places that could. Now with Patrick in my life, I know he’ll make it for me without complaint every time. Even if it might take us all evening.
“Since when do you have an idiyappam press?”
“Tessammai gave me one when she thought I might finally learn how to do it for myself.”
He shakes his head and checks the rest of the things I’ve laid out on the counter. “You ready to cook?”
I pretend to roll up my sleeves and he notices my pants are missing, but chooses not to say anything. I’m not doing it as a distraction method, just needed to give my tummy a little relief. And I’m wearing my not-so-sexy pair of underwear anyway.
“Mariammachechi gave me some grated coconut, which might be easier than trying to do it yourself. It’s in the blue tub in the freezer. Put the whole thing into the blender and run it until you see some liquid. Strain the coconut and run it again.”
Nodding, I follow his instructions and get to work. I try to keep an eye on what he’s doing, but it’s impossible with the responsibility on my shoulders. Especially if I want thenga paal with my idiyappam. It takes a while, but once I’m done with the blender, Patrick starts to speak.
“The biggest sign of an impending crash is when all my senses stop working. Sounds go first, it’s muffled and unclear, sometimes it like static. Then my breathing ceases and I struggle to get any air. I start to breathe through my mouth. Then my vision goes blurry. I…I uh usually need to strip out of my clothes and curl up in a dark space until it passes. Sometimes I fall asleep, only to wake up hours later and be totally exhausted. Other times it’s a few minutes before I can think clearly again.”
He pauses to give me more instructions and I focus on my hands, so he doesn’t see the tears welling in my eyes. I glance over as he kneads the dough. Even with his words and the frustration in his voice, he handles the dough so gently.
“We talked about how hockey might be a trigger for me, right?” When I nod, he continues. “Often it’s unrelated and comes without warning. I can work through it, ignoring the tension in my head or the way my heart races. I’ve played important matches through a spiral and got really good at pushing it away. The more I push, the harder it fights back. Obviously it’s different for everyone. Mine starts small and ends with a panic attack, but it feels so much more than that. You know? The first time it happened, I felt like a failure. There was a moment when I thought everything would be better if I could end it.”
The dish in my hand clatters on the counter and he reaches for me. I blink away the tears and nod, not wanting to make eye contact. I don’t think I’d survive if I had to look at him right now.
“Tamara.”
“Please keep talking,” I say, hearing the shakiness in my voice. “Please, Patrick.”
He sighs and starts filling the press with dough. “Dominic tells me I need to let go more often, I should let the depression envelop me and go through the motions. But that means putting everything else on hold and I can’t do it. I…” he trails off and I finally look at him, his focus entirely on spinning the lever on the press. The noodles come out perfectly into the idli holder. “When I crash, it’s only for a few hours. But if I don’t wait, it might take me days. And I don’t have the luxury.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a professional athlete. The schedule doesn’t work around my depression. I have you and our baby and my family and I’m responsible for so many things and I can’t quit it because I’m struggling.”
“Patrick.”
“Don’t,” he whispers and I stop what I’m doing to wrap my arms around him. He continues to spin the lever, filling each idli holder with a perfect layer of noodles.
“Trick,” I say softly and he shudders. “I love how much you care about everyone else. We’re so lucky to have you love us and put us first. But honey, you have to put you first too.”
“I can’t, Lo. I…what if something happens to you?”
“I’ll call for help. We’ve got our friends and family here; they’ll be at our door in seconds. But if you don’t look after yourself, what if…” my voice breaks. “What if I don’t have you any more?”
He sets everything to the side and turns to gather me into his arms. His lips brush over my forehead and down to my cheek. I hold him tight, my fingers curling into the material of his T-shirt. There are no more words I can say to make him understand how much I need him, but I know he understands by how he clings to me.
“I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
“I know. I know,” I whisper and we stand there a long time, hands wandering over each other to make sure this is real. That we’re real and when he finally releases me, it’s to stare into my eyes.
“I won’t leave, okay? Back then, I didn’t think I had anything to live for. I do now. I would never do that to you.”
“Promise me when things start to get really hard and dark, you come to me first.”
“Lotus.”
I grab his chin as he starts to shake his head. “Dominic too, but me first. I’ll make sure you’re safe and you’re okay. You want to look after me, but I want to look after you. We’re a team, right? So, we do this together.”
“It won’t be pretty.”
“Oh, Trick. Everything you do is fucking beautiful.” He snorts, but his eyes are still far away. “I don’t need pretty or easy or comfortable. I need you and if it means we’re going to have to fight about taking care of you, then we’ll fucking do it. Promise me.”
