“Okay,” I say, a bit wary. “I think I can do that.”
“I think you can, too, Ivy. Now, why don’t you tell me about the struggles youarecomfortable sharing today, and we’ll go from there.”
I spend the rest of the session touching briefly on everything wrong in my life. I start with Wes but change the subject because it hurts too much to talk about him. I move on to Alexis’s treatment of me and my parents’ apathy when it comes to my life. I describe the issues I’ve had with Public Speaking and my desire to drop the class so late in the semester. After mentioning that Professor Markham recommended the SSC, she confirms that I will be able to drop and not receive a failing grade.
Even though I should feel like a failure, all I am is relieved.
“I’d like to meet with you again on Monday, Ivy,” she says, when our hour’s almost up. “I think it’s easier to ramp up the sessions at the beginning as we formulate a plan and taper off as you get more comfortable. How does that sound?”
“That sounds good, I guess.”
“Great,” she says, setting her notepad to the side. She gets to her feet, and I follow suit, smoothing out my sweatshirt as I stand. “Well, in that case, I’ll see you in a couple days, okay?”
“Okay,” I tell her, surprised to find that I’m relieved I don’t have to wait too long for a second session. “I’ll see you in a couple days.”
When I step outside the building, the rain’s still coming down, but it’s lighter now. Just a drizzle, one step up from a mist.
On the walk back to my car, I wonder if maybe it’s a sign.
I hope more than anything that it’s a sign.
Somehow,I make it through the rest of the week. It’s easier now, with Public Speaking struck from my schedule, though I mourn the loss of my final link to Wes. Without that class, there’s no more overlap between our lives. There’s no reason for me to see him now, unless it’s by accident.
It’s better this way.
No.No, I don’t believe it is. I don’t believe that my life improves in any way without him in it, but I have no choice but to accept what we’ve become—a casualty of my inability to function like a normal fucking human being.
On Saturday morning, I rot in bed until noon. My computer screen mocks me, open to a blank document where I’m meant to write the things I can’t say out loud. Every time I start to type, though, something stops me, and I stare at the blinking cursor until my eyes water.
Seconds, minutes, hours pass, and then I hear a knock on the apartment door. I make no move to get out of bed. I’m not expecting anyone, and I don’t want to see anyone, but after a moment, the knock sounds again, this time louder.
With a groan, I roll over, putting my back to my door, only to see my phone screen light up with a text. The message has me scrambling out of bed.
Mom:Ivy, are you home? I’m outside your door.
A mixture of dread and disbelief curdle my stomach, and I have no time to process why she’s here or what it means as I struggle to find clothes. Bra. T-shirt. Sweatpants. I throw on the first things my hands touch and then dart to the bathroom, where I attempt to run a brush through my hair. My teeth will have to wait.
I rush to the front door and pull it open, shocked to see my mother standing there. Angela Combs looks up from her phone, sliding her sunglasses up on top of her head—to better glare at me, I assume.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt as her eyes roam over my body. I can only imagine what she thinks of my wrinkled, mismatched clothes, unwashed hair, and oily skin. Her mouth tightens, and she meets my eyes.
“You haven’t been answering any of my calls or messages,” she says. “Did you think I wouldn’t care?”
I blink at her, still stunned to find her hovering in my doorway. She’s never once made a trip up to see me, not since move-in day, and even then, her and my dad left as soon as they were able. “I don’t know…”
“Well,” she gestures inside, “are you going to invite me in?”
Reluctantly, I step to the side. Our apartment isn’t a disaster, at least, though I wouldn’t exactly call it tidy. It doesn’t live up to Angela Combs’s standards, that’s for sure, but I can’t stop her from entering at this point.
Moving further into the room, my mom frowns at the dirty dishes someone left in the sink and the liquor bottles lined up across the counter. Her eyes narrow on the overflowing recycling bin and the messy piles of books and shoes which must belong to Ava and Kinsley.
I wait for her to comment on the alcohol at the very least, but she doesn’t say a word about it. Instead, she asks, “Which one is your room, again?”
I point at the only open door and then panic when she starts walking toward it. “It’s not clean, Mom. I didn’t know you were coming…”
She ignores me, stepping inside. She doesn’t say a thing as she takes in the war zone my room’s become. It’s been ages since I last did a load of laundry, and piles of dirty clothes are scattered across the floor. My bed is messy and unmade, the sheets also in dire need of a wash, and used cups and dishes litter every surface. I tense, waiting for her to yell at me. Waiting for her to scold me, shame me, lecture me for letting things get this bad.
She doesn’t. Instead, she asks, her voice too calm, “Have you eaten lunch?”
