The handles ease out when I hit unlock, allowing me to lean into the backseat and grab her bag off the floor. This thing probably cost more than my rent for a year, and I left it in the car. Good thing she lives in a nice neighborhood.
Once I’m back inside, she calls for me. “Is everything okay?” I’m sure she can hear me going in and out like a psycho.
“Yeah, I had to run outside,” I explain without telling her why. I don’t bother drying my hands as I search through her bag for the little bottle. My movements are rushed as I open the top as quietly as I can and snap a picture with my phone.
A pit of shame forms in my stomach, but I don’t delete the picture. I want to be able to identify them later. I shove the bottle deeper into the bag after drying it off a little with a hand towel.
“I found it.” I slip my shoes and socks off, leaving them by the small rug near the door. After I give it to her, I’ll clean up my mess and make us lunch.
She reaches for the bag the moment I get close, but her eyes are avoiding mine like the plague.
With a tremor in her fingers, she unzips the bag and jerks it open to find the pills. My head is telling me this is so wrong, that I shouldn’t be allowing her to take whatever is in the bag, but I keep my mouth shut so I don’t fuck things up like last time.
Knowing I have the picture helps. I’ll figure out what they are, and if she does need help, we’ll get her into a treatment center. They never worked for my parents, but I’ll make sure they work for her.
She lifts her palm to her mouth, and I watch her swallow with her head still tilted back. When she replaces the cap on the pill bottle, she tries to look at me, but her eyes keep darting away like she’s ashamed. Damn it, I knew I should have stopped her.
“It’s for an anxiety disorder,” she confesses. “I take Xanax twice a day to help me manage…things.”
Waylynn
At first, Memphis seems stunned. I don’t know if it’s because I told him what the medication is without him asking, or because I admitted I have a mental health disorder, or if he doesn’t believe me. I’m having a hard time looking at him.
Either way, a huge weight is lifted off my shoulders. I haven’t told him everything, but it’s a start. Within seconds, the feeling of relief gets eclipsed with shame. When I try to glance at Memphis, he’s not looking at me. His eyes are on the floor between us.
There’s a sour taste in my mouth, and my throat tightens. My first instinct is to hide or ask him to leave, but I don’t because I told him I wouldn’t run anymore.
The doubt comes next, myself and every other variant making me feel inadequate, not good enough, not normal enough.
The doorbell rings, and I actually jump at the sound. Memphis glances around like he’s expecting someone else to materialize in the room. “It’s probably my crutches.” Good timing. At least I’ll be able to get around on my own.
I push myself off the couch and hop down the hall. He doesn’t try to stop me. When I open the door, there’s a man on the other side. He’s probably in his forties and soft around the middle. Not that I’m judging, it’s just so noticeable because his shirt is sticking to him from standing in the rain. He’s holding an umbrella over his head, but the rain is coming down sideways, so it barely matters.
I feel guilty that I didn’t think to leave better instructions about parking around back, but he pushes the silver crutches at me and says, “Your walkway is nuts.”
“Sorry about that.” I contemplate giving him a larger tip, but I don’t think I can amend my already generous tip after the fact, and I can’t race back to my purse, so this time, he’s just going to have to think I’m a jerk.
“You should have said that in the notes.” He turns and stomps down the walkway in a strange angry jog.
“Thank you,” I call out, then close the door. A scream flies from my mouth when I turn. Memphis is standing right behind me, and I had no idea he was even there. The crutches crash to the ground when I raise my hands to cover my mouth so I can stifle the shout.
“Oh my gosh.” I bend down, using only one leg while swinging my casted foot out behind me to pick up the crutches. They are wrapped in loose plastic, and it looks like I might need tools or something to get them set up, since they are way too short right now. Hopefully, there are instructions. If not, I’m sure the internet will tell me how to do it.
“I thought they would be ready to go.” I chuckle nervously. The awkwardness is killing me. I should have kept my mouth shut and not said anything about the pills, but I could feel how badly he wanted to know and I thought it might be okay if I told him.
“You have to adjust them to your height,” he says, but his voice is devoid of any emotion.
“Cool. Well, I’m just going to get these set up. You can get back to school or whatever.”
Memphis pulls the crutches out of my hand and leans them against the wall before stalking over to me. I start to back up, but there’s nowhere to go, so my back hits the closed door. He bends at the waist and scoops me up into his arms bridal style.
He did this yesterday, but I was hurting too badly to be concerned with much else. Now, all I can think about is him putting me down. “I can make it,” I argue lamely, because I know he will do whatever the heck he wants, and truthfully, there’s some comfort in that.
He doesn’t speak on the way to the living room, but he places me carefully back in the same spot, even fluffing the pillow under my foot again.
“I’m going to get the crutches. Don’t move.” He even points at me for emphasis.
It takes a long time for him to return, but when he does, the crutches are out of the bag, and he’s gripping them sideways under his arm with two jar candles held in the fingertips of his other hand. He has to angle himself oddly to get into the room.
