no longer seem able to—up to my chin, I try to pretend none of it happened.
But the nightmares won’t let me forget, not even while I sleep.
Anna has her hands on her tiny hips in a way that looks more cutesy than angry, despite her best efforts. Her nearly black, almond-shaped eyes narrow. “I’m not taking no for an answer,” she says. I pull the duvet over my head, and weakly fight her as she pulls it down again. “You have to eat,” she continues. “Lunch. I promise.” She makes an air cross over her chest, eyes earnest. “Only for lunch and then you can come right back here to bed.”
“Anna, stop,” I say, finally allowing her to strip me of the covers. The flannel pajamas I’m wearing are rumpled and smell like they need a wash. “I don’t want to go out.”
She sits on the bed beside me, her lithe body barely making a dent in the mattress, and crosses her arms. “Listen, I promised your mom I’d get you to eat today so don’t make me look bad, okay?” When I say nothing, keeping my eyes on the ceiling, she bends toward me and kisses me on the cheek. “Besides, Gabe would be pissed if I let you stay in bed all day. Best-friend duties and all that.”
“Well, it doesn’t really matter what Gabe wants, does it?” My voice is sharp, but frustratingly weak. Anna sighs, looking ready to argue some more, but then waves her hands about like she’s trying to shoo a fly away.
“Scootch over then,” she says. I don’t move. “Come on, Teg. Scootch.”
I shift my body over the foot or so she needs to lay her petite frame beside me. It forces me onto Gabe’s side of the bed, which is cold. Anna’s thick, silky black hair tickles the side of my face, but I don’t move away. Head to head, her feet only reach the middle of my calves.
“Look,” she begins, “I know the last thing you want to do is go out there. To see people all happy and shit. I get it. And I’d be exactly the same way.” She rolls toward me, but not without difficulty. I’ve spent so much time on this mattress, wishing I’d disappear if I lay still enough, that I’ve left a hollow the length and shape of my body. A depression to match my depression.
She sinks her elbow into the mattress’s pillow top, above the hollow, and rests her head in her palm. “But it’s been three months, Teg. You’ve not even left the apartment. You’ve lost so much weight you look like a freakin’ supermodel, and, no, that is not a compliment. There’s a hole in this mattress so big we’ll have to call the firemen to rescue you...by the way, let me make that call if we have to, okay?” Anna winks and I smile despite myself. “As your best friend, it’s my job to make you do the things you don’t want to do because they’re good for you. I would expect nothing less from you.”
It’s essentially the same speech she’s been giving me for the past month. She’s made it her mission to get me out of my apartment for something other than a doctor’s appointment—because no one else has been able to, including Gabe, my brothers or our parents—and I have a feeling she isn’t going to relent anytime soon. I stare up at the ceiling again, at the small crack running from the light fixture over our bed to the corner where a cobweb dangles, swaying in the current of warm, forced air coming from the vent. If I could only shrink and suspend myself from that cobweb, out of sight...
“And as my zu mu always says, talk does not cook rice. So please, get out of this freaking bed, okay?” Anna is endlessly quoting her Chinese grandmother, who seems to have a proverb for any situation one could think up.
“Tegan, I love you.”
“I know.”
“Then let me help you. Please.”
I sit up, without looking her way. “Fine.”
A second later Anna and her tackle-hug slam me back into the mattress. For such a small person she really knows how to throw her size around.
* * *
There’s nothing like strolling down Michigan Avenue on a sunny day. Even if it’s cold enough to freeze nose hairs within seconds. People hold tight to bursting shopping bags full of treasures sure to at least temporarily make their lives better. They laugh often, debating over whether to go into another shop or stop for lunch. Their lives are full of small problems.
I used to love people watching on the Miracle Mile, but now all I want to do is escape. It’s too vibrant. Damn Anna and her fucking best-friend speech. I long for the dullness of my pewter-colored apartment walls. For Gabe and my mom’s acceptance—however hard-fought—that I’ll leave the bed when I’m good and ready.
“Anna...” I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, like a tourist with no appreciation for the flow of foot traffic all around. “I need to go home.” This must be how agoraphobics feel. The open spaces around me seem dangerous, unpredictable, and I have the sudden urge to lie down and let the gently falling snow cover me until no one can see me anymore.
Anna tries to escape the chill by snuggling farther down into her chunky mauve wool scarf. She shivers a little then turns her attention back my way, giving me a critical look. Like she’s trying to sort out how to react to what I’ve said. We’ve been friends forever. Well, for three years actually, but Anna has a way of making you feel like she’s known you since the first moment you can remember.
She takes the few steps back to where I am and tugs me gently out of the way of the shoppers, who barely break stride. “Screw lunch. Food is overrated anyway,” she says with a most unladylike snort—a classic Anna-ism, which helps to remind me that at least some things don’t change. “Let’s just get a coffee, okay?” I allow her to pull me into the Starbucks in front of us.
It’s warm inside, and familiar. Both things that make me feel instantly better.
While Anna orders us coffee I grab a table near the back. I take off my gloves and lay my snow-damp wool hat on the chair across from me, knowing Anna will take the seat beside me. She has this thing about sitting side by side. She thinks it’s easier to talk naturally if you aren’t forced to stare into each other’s eyes. She says it’s a Chinese thing, even though she was born and raised in Chicago.
“Here,” she says, pushing a venti cup across the table and into my idle hands. Without thought, my fingers close around the cardboard sleeve, the heat coming through just enough to make me never want to let go. “I got you a vanilla latte...with whole milk and whip on top.” My regular order is a skinny vanilla latte, hold the whip. “If I can’t get you to eat the least I can do is make your coffee more caloric.”
She sits beside me and takes a sip from her own venti cup, which I know holds a soy chai tea latte, extra whip, then rests her other hand on my thigh. I jump from her touch, and she rubs my thigh harder. “Talk to me, Tegan.” I’m grateful she can’t see my eyes. “How can I help?”
“Tell me something funny.”
“Funny...okay. Hmm.” Anna sips at her coffee again. I wait. “Did I tell you about Caroline?” I shake my head. “No? Holy crap. You’re going to die...” Anna’s voice trails and she whispers, “Sorry.” Sometimes I think I’ll put together a spreadsheet of words people should avoid when in conversation with me. Words like death. And baby. Perhaps that’s how to prevent these uncomfortable, cringe-worthy moments. But it wouldn’t be for my benefit, because the truth is no words can make this worse—or better, for
