“Four years ago,” I reply slowly. “Not since my mom died. Here, in this house.”
Hallie’s eyes widen in horror. “Oh my Lord! I’m so sorry! Nobody told me--”
“It’s fine.” I cut her off, already feeling guilty for putting her on the spot like that.
“What was it…?” Hallie asks, curious. Everyone asks, I’ve found by now. Even when it’s rude, or personal, they still can’t help it. Everyone has to know the reason.
“Cancer.” I tell her. It’s half the truth, at least.
She nods. “I’m so sorry. I keep telling all my friends, go get that mammogram checked!”
I look around at the faded upholstery, and the roses twining around the window. My voice softens. “We got to spend the summer together, at least. She always loved it here.”
That much is true. It’s why I fought so hard against dad’s plan to sell. Mom’s grandparents built it themselves, way back in the Twenties, when they had to barter for the wood and nails. It passed down from generation to generation: prime ocean-front land they kept even when times were tough and they were struggling to put food on the table. Mom loved the history, that sense of connecting to our past. She always talked about us keeping it for our own families, way down the line.
But dad has other plans. He dug the family deep in debt while she was still alive, and once she was gone, it only got worse. I don’t know where it goes—frittered away on fancy dinners with his snobby, old money friends, play-acting at being a sophisticated man about town when really, he’s just a washed-up drunk. He already sold our house in the city; now, the beach house is in his sights.
Carina can’t understand my protests—the will says dad will only get half the proceeds of a sale, the rest split between me and my sister. She’s engaged for the third time, trying her best to keep up with her designer-brand-loving friends, despite the fact she hasn’t worked a real job since college. Who wants a run-down house in the middle of nowhere? she argued. I could use my share to buy a place with Daniel, or get a vacation condo somewhere cooler, like Miami.
Now, I sadly look around at the peeling print wallpaper, and the back porch I used to read on for hours. Cool was never the point.
“So!” Hallie claps her hands together brightly, moving on from all the talk about death and cancer and other non-realty concerns. “Your father said to just throw everything out,” She hands me the keys, and looks around brightly. “You know, you don’t have to do all this yourself. I can just call some guys in to pack it up and cart it away, save you the hassle. There’s a big Goodwill depot a few towns over.”“No!” I protest loudly, then quickly cover my outburst. “I mean, there might be some things worth saving. Old family mementos. I’d rather look through myself.”
“Absolutely!” Hallie coughs, awkward. “Well, you just call if you need anything. Just call. And give my love to your father,” she adds, with a little giggle. “He was telling me about his book. When is it coming out?”
I sigh. “We’re not sure yet,” I say vaguely. My dad picks up fluttering fans wherever he goes. I guess charm is everything when you’re rotten to the core, like him.
“Oh, well tell him to give me a call, if he’s ever down here.”
“He won’t be.” I answer shortly. “Thanks for the keys, I’ll let you know when it’s done.”
Hallie trips away, unsteady on her heels. I watch through the front window as she climbs into the Lexus and drives away with a wave.
I’m left alone.
I pause a moment in the hall, steeling myself. Suddenly, it’s too quiet, too still. Nothing but the sound of the distant waves lapping up against the shore, and occasional birdsong, and a car engine passing in the distance. Just me here, with all the memories.
With Emerson…
I feel a bubble of familiar panic rise in my chest. I rummage through my purse and find the vial of pills there, small and white and reassuring. I count them out again: one, two, three, four, five.
They’re the last of my prescription, the one I swore I wouldn’t fill again. Daniel and the doctor don’t understand why I want to quit them: as far as they’re concerned, my panic attacks are a simple problem with a simple solution. Meds. But they don’t get the downside, how spaced out and distant the pills make me feel, like there’s a thin wall of water separating me from the world, and every thought or feeling I have is smoothed out and calm.
After my mom died, it was bliss, to finally have a way of shutting off my emotions. With the terrible agony of my grief, losing her and leaving Emerson behind, all I wanted was to be numb. But as the months passed, it started to scare me, how much I needed them just to get through the day. I finally phased out the anti-depressants, but my panic attacks keep coming around. I can never tell when one’s going to hit. I’ll just be walking down the hallway to class, and suddenly, my heart will start thumping, and the world starts to spin. It’s like an iron band is wrapped around my chest, crushing me, and I’m so caught up in the panic, I feel like I’m going to die. Every time.
I figured out ways to manage most attacks before they get out of hand: meditation, and breathing exercises, and visualization stuff. And just having the pills in my purse makes a difference—knowing that if one hits, I can make it stop. But I wish they weren’t such a crutch for me, always there, tempting me with that numbness all over again. I wish I could be done with the meds for good.