“About that.” She sits down in her chair and hands me a note. “There was a message on the phone this morning. Your client cancelled.”
“Really? Did she say why?” I ask in confusion, taking the piece of paper and glancing down at it.
I have spent weeks working out the details of a very intricate flora and fauna hip and thigh piece. The client is a seasonal resident that I’ve done work on before. We were both excited to get started this morning.
“No, just that she would be in touch soon.” She glances at her computer screen and grimaces. “You have nothing else scheduled for the rest of the day. I’m sorry; that really sucks.”
Sighing, I take April’s clean shirt with me as I slip into the restroom to change. There’s nothing else scheduled; that’s on me. With a design that big, I wasn’t sure how long it was going to take, so I didn’t book anything else. Great, just great.
Carefully pulling my wet shirt over my head, so nothing gets in my hair, I drop it into the sink. My bra is next to go because I’m soaked to the skin. At least my pants are dry. Bracing my hands on the counter, I dip my head and take a large breath.
To make this situation even worse, I didn’t take a deposit. I had been so caught up in the design, I never even thought to ask her. Banks, the owner of the tattoo studio, has a rule that clients must give a nonrefundable 50 percent deposit to secure the appointment for this exact reason. He won’t be angry with me, but I feel stupid.
Some people live pay cheque to pay cheque. Well, I’m currently living tattoo to tattoo, and I really need that money right now.
Pulling paper towels from the wall dispenser, I wet them with warm water and wash the sticky coffee from my skin. A shiver runs through me as I continue to clean up the mess. April’s shirt is way too big because she’s far more blessed in the chest than I am, but with a quick knot to cinch the waist, it’s passable and appreciated. As for a bra—I’ll have to go without.
Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I will myself not to cry. It’s just coffee and a wet shirt. It’s just a bad day.
I momentarily debate going home and back to bed to rot, but I decide to stick out the rest of the day to see if there are any walk-ins. There aren’t as many this time of year, but income is better than no income. Plus, I have a therapy appointment this afternoon. If I go home, there is no way I’ll want to leave again, and if I cancel once, then I’ll find an excuse to quit going altogether.
My anxiety has been through the roof lately, and I made a promise to myself that I would commit to seeing a therapist regularly—again.
I’m self-aware enough to know I use therapy for validation.
Yes, Beck, your parents have been unsupportive. You deserve so much better.
Yes, Beck, you did the right thing leaving Braden. He’s a dick, and you shouldn’t take him back—ever.
Yes, Beck, everyone has a different timeline for achieving their goals. Your time will come.
I’m paraphrasing, of course. I mostly talk, and my lovely therapist, Jenna, listens and asks for clarification. Once I get verification that my big feelings are justified, I quit therapy—and sometimes my meds—only to repeat the cycle again in six months. I’m pretty sure I have exhausted 95 percent of the mental health resources in this small town.
My friends are wonderfully supportive, but even Hannah, my closest friend, doesn’t know how chaotic my mind has been lately. How hard it has become to quiet my intrusive thoughts. How much Braden continues to harass me.
Don’t get me wrong. She would absolutely drop everything to support me, but after years of carrying the weight of her mother’s mental illness, I don’t want to burden her with mine. She’s busy with the art gallery she owns, plus she recently reconnected with her ex-boyfriend, Logan, after spending years apart. They have problems of their own to work through right now.
So, on days like today, therapy is necessary.
I spend my morning working on small designs for a charity flash sale we are having next month. The proceeds go towards the elementary school nutrition program, so that will be fun.
Shortly after lunch, I accept a walk-in appointment with two women wanting matching celestial symbols on the inside of their wrists. Their laughter and friendly banter are contagious. They have been the highlight of my day so far. And my only commission. It isn’t much, but every little bit helps.
When I pull into the parking lot of the Emerley Family Health Centre, I’m pleased that there is a spot under an enormous maple tree. I’m hoping the large canopy of orange leaves will help block out the heat from the sun and prevent the car from becoming unbearable. The last few days have been unseasonably warm for mid-October, and my air conditioner died weeks ago. I bought the secondhand Honda Civic about five months ago, and it’s a total lemon. Leaving Braden has been costly, so I didn’t have any extra money saved for something better.
As I climb out of my car and push my long black braids over my shoulders, my heart races when I notice an ambulance pulling away from the side entrance of the building. Since I am a worst-case scenario girl, it always freaks me out. In a town this size, you probably know who’s inside.It’s fine, I tell myself, taking a calming breath.Everything is fine. It’s all I can do not to take out my phone and text our group chat to make sure everyone is safe.
Pulling open the heavy door that leads to reception, I expect the waiting room to be full, but it’s completely empty. That’s never happened to me before. There are usually at least a couple of people I know to visit with while we wait.
Stopping by the front desk to check in, I wait patiently for the receptionist to acknowledge my presence. I’ve never seen her before; she must be new to town. Shifting my feet back and forth,I adjust my bag on my shoulder and move my sunglasses to the top of my head.
After a few minutes of fidgeting, I clear my throat. “Excuse me, I’m here to see Jenna. I’m a little early.”
The young brunette woman startles, looking up from her keyboard with wide hazel eyes. She appears frazzled. I feel for her.
“Oh, Jenna?” Her eyes flick down to her computer screen and back at me before asking, “Beck?”
“That’s me.”
