One Carefree Day

by Whitney Amazeen

  I blink several times. “Why are you defending her?”

  “I'm not,” she assures me. “You know I’m always on your side. I’m literally just telling you what I think. And even though you might not want to admit it, you’re strong enough to fight your compulsions, with or without medication. If you really want to.”

  “I guess.”

  “You are.” Ash squeezes my hand.

  There are no coherent thoughts left in my brain. I can’t grasp how I feel about what she’s saying. If Ash really thinks my mom was justified in her actions, then I don’t know what to do. I thought for sure she of all people would convince me that my mom deserved to be cut out of my life forever.

  What she did hurts so badly, in ways I didn’t even know I could be hurt. Closing myself off from people is my tried and true defense mechanism against the what-if, against the possibility of getting hurt, against traumatic situations happening—just like this one. But I never thought I was supposed to protect myself from my own mother. I wasn’t supposed to get hurt by her, to get so utterly betrayed. And yet, my heart feels like it was dropped on the ground, taped back together, and placed carelessly back inside me.

  “So, what?” I ask her. “You think I should just forgive her? Go on like it never happened?”

  She laughs mirthlessly. “Fuck no. Make her pay.” She smiles. “But maybe, if you feel like it, consider forgiving her eventually.”

  “Ash,” I say. “If I never found out my mom was medicating me...do you think the compulsions would have gone away?

  She stares at me for a long moment. “I mean, I don’t know what it’s like to be you. To have OCD. But in my opinion, I doubt the compulsions would ever go away.”

  A knot forms in the back of my throat. I nod at her, trying not to let my face convey my hopelessness.

  “But that’s not to say,” she continues, “that you could never succeed in fighting them.”

  I swallow. “What do you mean?”

  She shakes her head. “I know it’s probably really difficult. But you could definitely not perform rituals, if you really, really worked at it. You just have to find other ways to help your anxiety.”

  I sigh. “Easier said than done.”

  She nods. “Oh yeah, definitely. But that doesn’t mean it can’t be done, right?”

  And then the realization hits me. Not hard and fast, but slow and creeping, like a shadow being cast on the ground. “I’ve never actually, truly wanted to give all my rituals up,” I admit. “Because I’m afraid of what could happen if I do. I’m terrified of all the things that could go wrong without me controlling them.”

  “Babe,” Ash says. “People live every day without controlling things, and they’re fine.”

  “A lot of them aren’t,” I point out. “Things go wrong for people constantly. And most of them have no idea why. It’s like they’re magnets for bad luck and tragedies.”

  Ash pauses. “So you’re saying that nothing ever goes wrong for you? Because you can control everything that happens to you with your thoughts and rituals?”

  “I know it sounds ridiculous.” I wrap a strand of hair around my index finger, not wanting to see Ash’s expression. “But I can’t help but believe it.”

  “Willow, let me ask you something.” Ash sounds so thoughtful, it’s almost enough to make me glance up at her. “Have you given up your rituals? Cured your OCD, or whatever?”

  Though I’ve managed to refrain from reacting to a few compulsions for a while, I’m nowhere near where I would need to be to consider myself free. Every time I stop myself from performing a tried and true ritual, I’m filled with such anxiety and dread that I make up for it in other ways. Like going to my happy place.

  Lying on a spring meadow, under a tree, with a book in my hands. My little black dog sleeping on the grass beside me.

  It’s getting harder and harder to imagine. Sometimes, the image escapes me completely. It’s those days I rely more heavily on my rituals.

  “No,” I tell her. “I’ve improved, but I still definitely use rituals.”

  “Then why,” she asks me, “are things going so wrong for you right now?”

  I blink at her. My heart races, and I’m afraid. Afraid that she’s right. Afraid that she’s wrong. Just so completely afraid.

  “Because I’m not doing things right,” I breathe. “I’ve given up too many rituals.”

  “Or maybe,” she says, placing her hands on my shoulders. “That’s bullshit and you know it. What I don’t get is why you even care. Who gives a fuck if everything goes to shit? At least you know you’ll be dead someday and you won’t have to deal with it anymore.”

  “Ash,” I say, appalled. “Do you really feel that way? I thought you were braver than that.”

  “And I thought you were braver than this.” She shakes her head at me. “You’re afraid of any little thing in your life going wrong. You’re terrified of people dying when death is a part of life. You already lost Daniel. And guess what? You survived. You need to be happy, Willow,” she says. “But you also need to be sad. You need to feel loss. Anger. Hurt. Pain. Fear, even. All of those emotions are important because they let you grow and get stronger. There are so many more valid, relevant, important emotions than happiness. And you’re depriving yourself by running from them constantly.”

  I don’t even realize I’m crying until I feel air hitting the wetness on my cheeks. “When did you get so wise?” I whisper, a small laugh in my voice.

  She smiles at me, but it’s a melancholy smile. “Wouldn’t it be so much easier,” she says, “to embrace fate, rather than fight it?”

  And though I’ve been fighting fate all my life, with my thoughts, with my rituals, with my compulsions, her words help me realize something.

  I’m exhausted.

  I’m so tired. Tired of worrying constantly, of trying to protect everyone I care about, myself included, from anything ever going wrong. Ash is right. Emotions are important. Emotions are the keys to doors with locks made just for them. They help us get to a place we could never be without them. They help us grow. They make us wise. And perhaps that’s why I constantly feel so naive, because I live in a state of constant worry that my bubble of security will explode. And Ash’s point about embracing fate rather than fighting it brings me something I don’t expect.

  Comfort.

  Comfort I’m not prepared to feel.

  The exact same type of comfort that performing rituals brings me.

  Continuing to live with my mom isn’t something I care about anymore, isn’t something I could even endure, which means nothing is keeping me from falling back into my compulsions. Yet, there’s a new incentive tempting me to resist them. One I wasn’t sure I wanted until now. One I was partly afraid of, and still am, though not nearly as much as before. One I’m finally, finally ready to experience.

  Freedom.

  Ash chuckles. “Your boyfriend keeps texting me.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Why?” I don’t bother correcting her. It will only make her suspicious, and I honestly don’t know if it’s not true at this point.

  “To make sure you’re okay.” She holds out her phone so I can read their conversation.

  Theo: How is she? I can’t sleep and her phone is turned off. I’ve already tried calling.

  Ash: She’s fine, Prince Harry. Go to bed.

  Theo: Thought I was William.

  Ash: Yeah, but she’s really more of a Meghan Markle than a Kate Middleton. So you’re Harry now.

  I laugh despite everything, and then remember what he proposed before I left. “Theo thinks I should move out,” I blurt. “And live with him.”

  Ash actually laughs. “That’s ridiculous. You’re only eighteen. And you hardly know him.”

  “Actually,” I point out, “I’ve known him since we were kids. But you’re right. It is ridiculous.”

  Ash studies me, her eyes narrowing with each passing second. “You want to,” she accuses. “Don’t you?”
<
br />   I shrink. “No.”

  “Don't lie to me. I know you.”

  I sigh. “Well, I don’t really want to be near my mom at the moment. I feel like she practically tried to poison me. And I have to admit, I’m a little nervous his ex-girlfriend knows exactly where I live now. What if she tells Theo’s dad where he is, and he comes after Theo?”

  Ash interrupts me. “First of all, if that Eliza bitch opens her mouth, I’ll shave her hair off myself. Second, you won’t make enough money anywhere at part-time minimum wage to support yourself if you move out. We live in California, babe. Not Texas. You should just wait until you finish school to make rash decisions.”

  “Or finish it in London, like Theo suggested,” I say. “It’s better than letting him pay for everything like he wants to.”

  Ash’s eyes widen into saucers. “Are you serious? Let him!”

  “No way.” I frown. “That’s not happening. I need to figure this out on my own. This isn’t Theo’s problem to solve just because he has money.”

  Ash shrugs. “I would let him, because there’s no way you’re moving to another freaking country without me.”

  I laugh. “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I know.”

  She shakes her head. “And would you really feel comfortable moving all that way with Theo Tate?”

  I think about all the moments Theo and I have shared that she hasn’t been there for. All the times he’s caused heat to spread through my body like wildfire with a simple glance. The way he held me in the graveyard while I cried into his shirt. It must seem like I hardly know him—to her.

  “Actually,” I say hesitantly, “we have gotten a lot closer lately.”

  Ash pauses for a moment, and then her mouth falls open. “Tell me everything.”

  Sixteen

  I wake up the next morning at Ash’s house. It’s Sunday, and her mom makes us pancakes. I try not to focus on the uncanny resemblance between Aunt Christie and my mom—or between pancakes and French toast—and instead try to focus on Ash’s brothers, fighting at the table.

  “That’s it!” Aunt Christie yells. “Go to your rooms, both of you!”

  Chris and Dean frown at each other in accusation, but otherwise obey, marching to their rooms like it’s a competition.

  Aunt Christie sighs. “I’m going to go talk to them. Enjoy your breakfast.”

  When Aunt Christie is out of earshot, I turn to Ash. “When are you going to tell your mom you’re pregnant?”

  The sun is shining through the drapes, illuminating the room and casting a bright glow on Ash’s hair, like a halo. Pregnancy definitely suits her. In fact, the light only adds to the glow she’s been sporting these days. She’s probably around thirteen or fourteen weeks but she’s hardly showing. The small bump her stomach has become is easily hidden by her clothes.

  She scrunches her nose with distaste. “I have no fucking clue,” she says. “I was hoping to have some sort of commitment from Joseph by now, but apparently that’s not happening. It would make telling her so much easier.”

  “Commitment,” I repeat. “Like an engagement ring?” I can’t hide the surprise on my face. I’m sure it’s audible in my voice, too. Ash and Joseph are on and off so often, it shocks me she might be willing to agree to something so permanent with him.

  “Yeah, well,” she says, “we are having a baby. We might as well.”

  I give her a knowing smile. Ash likes to pretend her reasons for doing things are purely practical, when in reality, she’s almost always driven by her heart. “Oh, shut up,” I tell her. “You love him, and you know it.”

  She glares at me. “I love him as much as you love Theo Tate.”

  I roll my eyes, but her words cause my heart to race.

  After my talk with Ash last night, I feel confident about my mental health. I’m ready to give up my rituals for good this time. Not for my mom, but for myself. I know it’s going to be hard, but I don’t care. I’m finally ready to be free of my thoughts, of my compulsions. I couldn’t be more sure of myself.

  But when it comes to Theo, I’m afraid.

  He’s going to have to go home eventually. And when that happens, I don’t know what I’ll do. It would be stupid to get attached to him.

  I swallow my last bite of pancake. “Ash?”

  “What?”

  “Thank you for talking to me last night.” I purse my lips. “You really helped me.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “I thought you didn’t need help.”

  “I didn’t,” I say. “But I appreciate it anyway.”

  When I get home, my mom’s car is in the driveway. I consider driving right back to Ash’s, but I know I’ll have to face her eventually. I can’t keep hiding.

  I take a deep breath, wanting so badly to think a comforting sequence of odd numbers. But I don’t. I can do this without rituals.

  The brightness of the day begs me to be in a good mood, yet my nerves are anything but uplifting. The front porch is neatly kept, adorned with clay pots housing forget-me-nots and hydrangeas. My mom must have swept under the welcome mat recently, because there are no more stray twigs scattered around the entryway.

  Inside, I don’t see her anywhere. She must be in her room, asleep. I could easily postpone talking to her if I want to. I could go to my room and take out a book, and I could read. All day long.

  And once the book runs out, I could clean.

  But that’s something the old Willow would do. The one driven by her anxiety and compulsions.

  I stand outside my mom’s bedroom door, staring at it, like it’s going to open by itself if I wait long enough.

  I knock.

  Not three times, not five, but twice. It’s awful, but I do it.

  “Come in,” my mom says, and I open the door. She’s not trying to sleep like I expect, but folding laundry on her bed, which is made neatly, the sheets and brown duvet pulled tight and tucked underneath the mattress. Her essential oil diffuser is going, filling the space with the scent of lavender. When she sees me, she looks like she has a million things to say but is trying hard to restrain herself. “Hi, my love,” is all she utters.

  I sit down on the bed, careful not to jostle the piles of folded clothes. “Mom,” I say. “I want to start by telling you that you really hurt me.” She presses her lips together, allowing me to speak, so I continue. “I can’t believe you would go behind my back like that. First, filling my prescription without me knowing, and then sneaking it into my food. You need to stop trying to cure my OCD. Mom,” I say, a little breathless. “It’s not your problem. It’s mine.”

  She walks over to me, reaching out and smoothing my hair down. When I was little, she used to straighten my hair to make styling it easier for herself. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I learned how to handle and style my natural curls on my own.

  “Sweetheart,” she whispers. “Of course it’s my problem. Everything about you, from your physical well-being, to what’s going on inside that head of yours matters to me.” Her eyes glisten. “I just want you to be happy.”

  Happy.

  I remember what Ash said about happiness not being the most relevant or important emotion, and again I’m filled with a strange sense of calm. “Mom,” I say. “I’ve decided to give up my rituals. For good.” Her eyes widen, hope threatening to show itself in them, but I continue. “But not because of anything you said or did. Because I want to.”

  She swallows, and her lips quiver, like she can’t decide whether to laugh or cry. “Then, you are welcome to continue living here, Willow.”

  I pause. “To be honest, I’m not sure if I want to, Mom. But I’ll keep you posted.”

  My mom offers me a half smile. Her eyes are far away. “I understand.”

  “And if you ever give anyone medication without their consent again, I will make sure you lose your nursing license.”

  I look her hard in the eye and walk out of her room, before she can say anything else. Behind me, I hear her sharp intake of breath,
but I don’t turn around to see her expression. I close her bedroom door behind me.

  Even though I’ve said everything I need to, I can’t help but still feel unsatisfied. And then I realize my mom never apologized to me. In fact, I bet she wouldn’t even take it back if she could. And that hurts almost more than the fact that she did it in the first place.

  I need to see Theo. I’m heading straight for the guest house when I’m brought up short by something shiny parked in the driveway.

  It’s a motorcycle.

  I stare at it, unsure if I’m hallucinating, when Theo comes outside. When he sees me, his eyes flood with relief. “Willow.”

  “What is this?” I ask him, unable to help it. I feel like I’ve walked into a brick wall.

  “How are you?” he murmurs, pulling me into his strong arms. “I was worried about you. You didn’t respond to any of my messages.”

  “I’m fine. I turned off my phone last night so my mom couldn’t call.” I close my eyes, embracing his warmth and the feeling of being tucked into him like this. And then I remember the shiny piece of machinery eavesdropping on our conversation. I pull away from him reluctantly, gesturing to the bike. “Is this yours?”

  He tilts his head at me, momentarily confused.

  “That’s a motorcycle,” I clarify. "Where did it come from?”

  “Ah.” Theo glares at the bike like it’s offended him. “This ruddy thing. It showed up this morning as an anonymous gift. No return address either, so it looks like I’m stuck with it.”

  I gape. “Someone dropped off a motorcycle for you as a gift?”

  He nods, shrugging a little. “It appears so.” He grabs a tag on one of the handlebars and shows it to me. To Theo, it reads in a typed font. From, Anonymous.

  I laugh uneasily, my mind running through a list of possible admirers who could have given him such an expensive gift without taking credit. “Do you know how to ride one?"

  “Of course.” He grins. “I used to ride my dad’s all the time. Though I rode the tube far more often.” When I don’t respond, completely shocked and slightly awed, he asks, “Would you like a go?”