"Banana, the stove, cutting board, blender, toaster..." I walk to the dining room table, scattered with papers and my tablet from scheduling.
I place my hand on the cool, dark wood. I had found the table at a thrift store—real, sturdy wood, vintage and banged up, but with good bones. I sanded and stained it myself after watching no less than twenty hours of YouTube videos to get the process down perfectly. Our downstairs neighbor had a bunch of tools and graciously let me borrow his sander after I promised to take extra care of it. I returned it cleaned and with banana bread, and he had told me I could borrow any tool, any time, as long as I paid in baked goods.
The memory makes me smile, a small comfort.
"Four things you can touch."
"Cold bananas... kitchen tile. My sweater. Dining table."
"Three you can hear."
"Fridge. A car outside. You."
"Two you can smell."
I take a deep breath through my nose and close my eyes. "Marshmallow candle. Laundry detergent."
"Okay. One thing you can taste."
I lick my lips, "Salt."
"Good. How do you feel?"
Taking stock, I answer honestly, "Better."
And I do. I always do after talking to Tess, my built-in protector since I was born, more of a mom to me than our own mother was.
Tess was born Teresa, named after a great-aunt we've never met. I couldn't pronounce Teresa when I started talking. I could only say Tess, which honestly sounded a lot more like "Teth." So, she started going by Tess after that, and I always feel a little special that I gave her the name she prefers.
Tess is ten years older than I am, with no siblings in between us. I was what they called asurprise,which was a nice way of saying 'unplanned and unwanted,’but Tess always wanted me.
She always took me places, even when I was an annoying kid and she was a cool teenager with a license, a car, and friends. If she was going to the mall, she asked if I wanted to come and would buy me ice cream. If she wanted to see a movie, she asked me if I wanted to go with her first before her friends.
When she joined the military when I was nine, I felt lost. It was my first time being home alone with our parents, but I understand it was the best option for her.
While our parents mainly ignored me, they focusedtoo muchon her. They demanded perfection, and as any teenager does with strict parents, Tess rebelled.
I can still hear the screaming matches about her wastedpotential when I was eight, and she would come home from a friend's house after curfew.
Tess made her own future, joining the military, and graduating from college on the U.S. Army's dime. She built a career, travelled around the world, and is retiring very soon, which I’m happy about.
No matter where she is, though, we remain best friends.
In High School, during holiday breaks, I would take the train down from New York to the base in New Jersey. I even lived rent-free with her while she was stationed at Fort Bragg, allowing me to save money while finishing my bachelor's degree at the University of North Carolina.
Tess is my protector and my safe harbor.
My heart has slowed to a less concerning rhythm. I feel weirdly light—weightless, almost—and I'm not desperately dragging air into my lungs anymore.
My head hurts, but it usually does after a panic attack. I should drink some water.
Grabbing a glass from the cabinet, I ignore Paul's New England Patriots mug, barely resisting the urge to throw it against the wall… or maybe I’ll take a hammer to it. I sip the water slowly, knowing if I chug it, I’ll just throw it up.
"Good," Tess doesn't miss a beat. "I'm gonna put his head through the nearest drywall next time I see him. Then I'm gonna do it again. And maybe a third time, just so he really understands what he did."
"Nurse Ruth told me some men leave when their partners get sick. I just thought—"
"That he would be a decent partner?" My sister's tone is knife-clean—no nonsense, no coddling—but still soft and full of her tough love. "He wasn't, and that's on him, and that's somethinghe'll have to deal with. Not you, Sophie. He—you know what, his head's going through the wall a fourth time."
