Well, now that that dream has died, I guess I have time to change my hair.
I look down at my right hand and flip it over repeatedly, flexing the nerve. Biting my lip, I look back up at myself in the mirror and continue to get ready. I don’t want to think about that right now.
“She’s doing fine.” Leah is in our room talking to someone. I turn the sink water on low and prop my ear to the door to listen in on her conversation. “Yes, Mom, she’s out of bed and in the shower . . . yes . . . yes . . . I’m making sure she’s eating.”
Being thousands of miles away from my family doesn’t seem to change anything.
“She thought I didn’t notice, but she didn’t want to be out last night. She was a trooper. She’s trying.” Leah’s voice is so hushed; I have to strain against the door to hear her muffled words. “I have her meds just in case.”
My stomach rolls at the thought of those damn pills, which I spent three months on. I didn’t know I was depressed. I just thought I was sad.
And tired. So very, very tired.
I didn’t know it had been three weeks since I had gotten out of bed. I didn’t know I wasn’t eating. Who needs a shower when you have nowhere to go?
My behavior led to a meeting with a Dr. Schueler, who had a lovely parting gift in the form of antidepressants. I fought against taking them. I’m strong. I’m an accomplished musician with a world-renowned orchestra. I have a boyfriend, a happy family and the world at my fingertips.
At least, I did.
Not anymore.
So I took the damn pills and spent the next three months numb – so numb I was void of myself. I hated every minute. I only did it so I didn’t have to see the look in my family’s eyes. The one that said they couldn’t move on until I did.
Two months ago, I told Dr. Schueler I wanted to do this on my own. She didn’t think it was a good idea. I stopped them anyway. I’ve been doing really well for the last eight weeks. It drives me insane that Leah felt the need to bring them with her.
She probably did it for Mom.
When I hear Leah hang up, I grab the sun block and walk it into the bedroom, motioning for Leah to apply some. She doesn’t even mention she was on the phone with our mom, and I don’t bring it up.
Turning to the wardrobe, I pick out a pair of white shorts and a green tank top, opting for comfort over style. I slide on my Sperry Top-Siders and head out the door.
“You are not wearing a fanny pack!” Leah chides as soon as I step outside.
“Don’t knock it. I have our passports, cash, and travelers checks in here. No one is getting away with our stuff.” I pat down the bag holstered around my waist to make sure everything is secure.
“There are so many things wrong with that statement, I don’t know where to start.” Leah’s arms flail about her body in mock exaggeration. Or maybe she’s being serious.
“What’s wrong with my bag?”
“Uh, everything?” She holds up a finger. “Numero uno, you are wearing a fanny pack.” She stretches out the wordsfannyandpackas if I don’t understand English and need to hear her diction perfectly. “Those are for tourists at Disney World and marathon runners. Are you riding the teacups or running twenty-six miles today? No. So take it off.”
“It’s practical and keeps all our stuff secure.” It also happens to be super cute. It’s gray with white chevron stripes. It’s the most adorable fanny pack ever. If it were Gucci Leah probably wouldn’t mind. Maybe if I got a Gucci one—
“Numero dos, that’s what a safe is for. Why are you taking all of our valuables with us?” Her hands are still in front of her body making dramatic gestures. I think talking to the Italians last night rubbed off on her.
“It’sdue, notdos,” I say.
Leah just taps her foot and waits for an answer.
“I am not leaving our money in some chintzy safe where anyone can walk out with it. Been there done that.” Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice . . . you know how it goes. “If you want to get stranded in a foreign country with no way to get home, be my guest.”
She throws her hands up in the air. “Fine. Whatever. Take the stuff. Just leave that horrible pack in the room.”
Not wanting to cause a fight, I back up into the room and grab my shoulder bag, removing all the items from the fanny pack and inserting them into the new purse. It won’t be as comfortable but it will be more stylish. I shouldn’t worry. By midweek, Leah won’t care what I’m carrying her stuff in. She doesn’t carry a pocketbook at all.
Like Leah promised, after some espresso and a croissant, paired with some blood orange juice, my hangover is a dismal headache.
Leah made arrangements for us to take a boat tour of the island, starting with the Blue Grotto and then winding around the island to see the sea caves of Capri. Since the tides don’t always cooperate enough for people to view the Grotto, Leah wanted to do this on our first day, just in case we aren’t able to during the others.
