This Close to Okay

by Leesa Cross-Smith

  “Are you happy at this moment?” he asked.

  “Pretty much.”

  She smirked and turned the TV back on, flicked through the channels until she found the World Series. “Here we go. I hope the Giants win,” she said as the rain snapped to a stop. Emmett looked like he was going to say something when it started up again, harder.

  The electricity popped out with a swoosh.

  EMMETT

  His mom’s maiden name was in slim blanched capital letters over the doorway of the restaurant. Previously owned by his great-grandparents, it’d been there since 1950 as part of the lake resort. A prime spot right on the water. Emmett had grown up happy inside those walls, learned to cook from his grandparents, his mom, and her brothers. High-end southern food, a hot tourist spot in the summers.

  Christine’s uncle had been mayor of that lake town for years and before him, her grandfather. Her great-grandfather before that. Her mom was a debutante; both of her older brothers were high school football stars. Christine—with her heart-shaped face, big brown eyes, and honey-brown hair—was the town princess. Her beauty: spectacularly normal, timeless. Practical and clean, like a girl on a bar of soap.

  Emmett’s mom, Lisa, and Christine’s dad, Mike, had grown up near each other, and Lisa had never liked him or his crew. “A bunch of spoiled bullies,” she’d say. Everyone knew Christine and her family, but she went to the private high school on the other side of town, and Emmett hadn’t spent much time with her, although he’d grown up hearing stories about the brawls their dads had with each other when they were in high school together. The first time Emmett had ever heard the word nemesis, his dad, Robert, had said it about Mike. Emmett was raised with the details of how much his parents didn’t like Christine’s family, but neither of them had anything bad to say about Christine. Occasionally, Emmett saw her at a summer party or ran into her and her brothers at the ice cream shop, the movies, or football games.

  * * *

  Emmett’s best friend, Hunter, worked at the restaurant alongside him. Emmett and Hunter lived together in a small apartment by the lake. Emmett was twenty-two, anchored by the restaurant; Christine was twenty-one and wandering. She would come to the restaurant to hang out with her friend Savannah, one of the waitresses, who was also friends with Emmett. Once Savannah began dating Hunter, they made a sunshine-on-the-lake-happy foursome.

  There were long stretches of seemingly last-forever summer days when Christine and Savannah would show up smelling like coconuts and beer after hanging out on a pontoon all morning and afternoon. Bathing suits blooming wet patterns beneath their sundresses, plastic flip-flops slapping. The humid summer nights wrapped them up in the same strange magic: nightswimming in the navy coolness, smoking sticky bud, sharing cigarettes. The boys would reopen the restaurant in the wee small hours and cook for the girls, the four of them sharing salty fries and suds in a corner booth.

  Some nights, Emmett, in his clogs and kitchen whites, knocked back a strong IPA underneath the lake lamplight, listening to Christine talk about her life. The dopey, rich ex-boyfriend she was glad to be rid of. Her ignorant, racist family. The ones who had never left that town, didn’t want to leave that town, would never leave that town.

  Christine flirted and complimented Emmett’s food, asking for more. Emmett happily obliged. Wood-fired pizzas with basil and shrimp. Coconut fried chicken. Fish and chips. Pan-fried rainbow trout. Pasta bianco with extra pepper. Steak au poivre. Christine loved pepper on everything. Emmett couldn’t see or think about pepper without conjuring Christine, the pepper pinprick beauty mark on her left eyelid, her scrunched nose when her food was too spicy. They’d fallen in love at the lake restaurant.

  * * *

  His mom reassured him that she had nothing against Christine and her brothers; their family wasn’t their fault. And for as long as Emmett could remember, Robert had always told his son—as part of his routine Dad Speeches—that if you didn’t want the bad shit in life to win every time, you had to keep your eye out for a bright thing. “Sounds like Christine is your bright thing,” his dad had said to him after Emmett gushed about her. “You and your mom have always been my bright things,” his dad frequently reminded him.

  * * *

  “How did you learn to cook like this?” Christine asked, laughing on their first date alone. Before summer blurred gold into autumn, Emmett had asked Christine if she wanted to do something, just the two of them. They’d smoked a bowl and, like always, ended up in the kitchen.

  “What? Girl, you know this is my family’s restaurant,” he said. He’d made her a full plate of mac and white cheese with freshly ground pepper clicked over it. She sat there, lake-tan and pretty, her hair tied back with yellow velvet.

  “Duh. I know. But how’d you learn to cook like this?” she said, taking a big drink of water, pointing her fork at him. The restaurant was empty, the lights low. It was nearly 1:00 a.m., and they had walk-and-talk plans to get coffee at the twenty-four-hour diner afterward.

  “Because I like you. A lot. That’s why it tastes so good,” he said, in a purposely sexy, deep voice. And as soon as the words left his mouth, the power went out. Christine squealed and giggled wildly, her shiny sounds echoing off the hanging army of copper and stainless steel.

  “It tastes even better with the lights out,” she said. He heard her fork tip-tap the plate. His adrenaline flashed, being alone, together like that. Terrified of the strong feelings he had for her. She moved toward him through the black, kissed his mouth for the first time. He could hear the sirens of his heart on high alert, blinded by this bright thing, even in the dark.

  * * *

  Tallie gasped.

  “You’re okay?” Emmett asked her, sitting up.

  “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. It just scared me. Candles! I’ll get my new candles,” she said. Emmett saw the shadow of Tallie drift past him on the couch, into the kitchen.

  He’d loved cooking in her kitchen. He’d missed being in a kitchen. He was thinking about being with Christine in the kitchen, being with Brenna in the kitchen. Kitchen, kitchen, kitchen, kitchen. An obsessive, dizzying carousel of memories. He needed fresh air. He got up and opened Tallie’s front door, closed it behind him. Leaned over the side of the porch, and the rain wrapped around him, wetting him quickly. Had it really been raining for this many days? What day was it?

  Paranoia. He knew what was happening, although there wasn’t anything he could do to stop it. The intense awareness made it worse. Like always, he felt both numb and as if he had hypersensitive antennae out, touching everything. Every negative emotion powered up inside him until he was fully charged. Sadness and anger fighting for room and the persistence of Emily Dickinson’s “I felt a Funeral, in my Brain” beating, beating inside of him. He was wet from rain? Sweat? Tears? His imagination? He got cold and hot at the same time, his body unable to properly regulate its temperature. It’d started after Christine and Brenna were gone. He’d read it was perfectly normal, but that didn’t stop it from sending him into a panic when it happened. The suffocating feeling of doom, the vision of his body going from bloody and hot to stone, cold as tombs.

  Emmett had left his backpack inside with Tallie, next to the couch, but he couldn’t bring himself to go in there. He was paralyzed on that edge in the rain, like that edge was the bridge. He’d jump. It was time to jump. He’d fought and fought and fought to no avail. A couple of signs weren’t enough to fix him. Maybe they were just coincidences anyway. Remember, nothing matters. Fuck it—

  “Joel?”

  Tallie called him by the wrong name. He couldn’t move. He was only cold now. Shaking. It was brighter outside than he’d imagined it would be.

  (The slurred orange light of the streetlamps still glowing, reflecting off the leaves stuck like stickers to the sidewalk, the street—the wet glass windows of the cars lining it. Four cars: two four-doors, two sports cars. A yellow fire hydrant with blue caps. Rainwater running over the gutters. Rainwater sweeping to the sewers
. One sharp bark from a dog.)

  “The streetlamps are on,” he said to himself, wondering if he’d hallucinated the power going out. Had he heard the letters PTSD with a question mark on the end? Had he hallucinated that, too? Had any of it happened? Hadn’t he faked taking his meds, stopped going to the support groups?

  “Emmett?” Tallie said. He could hear her moving around in the house.

  “The streetlamps are on,” he said a little louder. He couldn’t get warm.

  Tallie snatched the door open, saying his name again.

  “The streetlamps are on,” he said to her, still leaning over the side of the porch. “And…and you called me Joel.”

  “I’m sorry. I meant Emmett. You’re wet. Come out of the rain?”

  TALLIE

  “Have the streetlamps ever stayed on before when your lights have gone out?” he asked her, still leaning into the rain. “I needed some air.”

  Tallie had visions of him darting into traffic, harming himself, being gobbled up by the night. There’d be no way to find him, no way to tell anyone who he was. She’d blame herself forever for losing him.

  Coping mechanisms: cigarettes, fresh air.

  She often asked her clients how much fresh air they got, especially when they felt panicky or claustrophobic. Opening a window or stepping outside for a few minutes could change a client’s mood, as well as her own, when exposed nerves scintillated.

  She felt as if she’d escaped her own darkest period of divorce-depression, but there were cracks that let the shadows creep in. Like if she spent too long looking at photos of Joel’s new life, new wife, new baby. Or if she heard a song that reminded her of Joel or one of their dates or their wedding or any of the weddings they went to together. Any Celine Dion. Any Luther Vandross. Any Faith Hill. Any drippy duets. They were together for practically thirteen years. Thirteen years of a life so easily triggered it might as well have been a loaded gun. She understood the anxiety of mental land mines, and that understanding helped her connect to her clients.

  Tallie had trained herself to get out under the open sky as often as she could when she was feeling restless or downright miserable, and it always helped. She’d allowed herself a few weeks of skipping her normal runs after her divorce, but she found that the days she felt like staying in bed the most were also the days she benefited the most from getting out and moving her body for perspective. It wasn’t a cure-all, because nothing was, but it helped. And she never brought up getting out for fresh air to her overwhelmed agoraphobic clients until they were ready. She was glad to see that Emmett took himself outside when he felt the walls closing in.

  “I’ll give you some space. But when you feel ready, come back inside.” She left the door open a smidge for him. Her notifications lit up with flash flood warnings for the other side of town. She played solitaire on her phone in the dark until Emmett stepped inside after exactly eight minutes. Tallie had been eyeing the time. “I thought you’d left,” she said, putting her phone down and standing. She was more upset than she expected. “And yes, sometimes. Sometimes the streetlamps stay on.”

  “I’ve thought about leaving. I really don’t want to burden you. But I wouldn’t go without saying goodbye,” he said.

  “You’re not burdening me. I’ve asked you to stay. Do you promise you won’t up and disappear?”

  “Promise. I promise,” he said into the candle-dark. She’d lit the ones they bought together at the outlet mall. One was pumpkin, the other, sugary cinnamon.

  “I was scared,” she admitted. Relieved. She’d enjoyed his company so much; she felt exposed by how hurt she’d be if he left without warning. Like her heart would turn to gray ash and blow away.

  “I was, too, in my head. The fresh air helps. I’m going to step outside again and smoke.” He moved through the darkness toward the wall plug, retrieved his phone. Went inside his backpack for his cigarettes.

  “Smoke for fresh air?”

  “Exactly,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay,” she said, sitting on the couch, narrowly missing planting her butt on top of Jim. “You don’t need the Wi-Fi password? For later? When power’s restored? Are you calling someone?”

  “No, but thanks. And I’m not calling anyone.”

  “I’m being nosy.”

  “It’s your house. You have a right to ask,” he said. “I was going to listen to the World Series outside. Join me. I may stand under the open sky.”

  He shrugged his jacket on, zipped it, put his hand in the outside pocket. Paper crush. One of the letters. He kept the look on his face plain, took his hand out. Tallie had a duckish-yellow rain slicker in the closet by the front door, a pair of tall black wellies. Once she put them on, she felt like Paddington Bear.

  Before she could get out on the porch, Jim ran through the door crack in an orange blur, disappearing into the bushes.

  “Shit. He used to do this all the time, but not anymore,” she said.

  “He ran to the neighbor’s. Where’s the flashlight? I’ll go get him.”

  Tallie found the flashlight for him and handed it over.

  “Jim would be a no-good, terrible outside cat. He’s too lazy. I don’t know why he does this,” she said, squishing through her wet front yard. She made a clicking noise with her mouth. Puckered her lips and kissed the air, said the cat’s name in a high, baby voice.

  “I’ve disturbed their routine. Plus, this rain. And then the power goes out. It made us all a little crazy for a second,” Emmett said.

  They walked next door, saw an orange flick behind the burning bush in front of her neighbor’s windows.

  “There he is,” Tallie said, pointing and bending over. Emmett stepped ahead of her and went to the other side of the bush, shining light into the darkness. “Come here, baby,” she said to the cat she could now see was sitting behind the hedging, shaking rainwater off his head. Jim took a step back and licked his paws. “He’s very stubborn.” She reached for him.

  Emmett handed her the flashlight and got on his hands and knees. With his longer arms, he stretched and gently took Jim by the scruff. Lifted him, cradled him. Tallie heard her neighbor’s front door open.

  “Tallie, is that you?” her neighbor asked from the porch.

  “Yes. Sorry. Jim…my cat…he ran over here, but we have him now,” Tallie said. She looked at her neighbor, touched the top of the cat’s head. She glanced up at Emmett, wondering if he was feeling okay. Having something specific and distracting to focus on—like hunting a cat in the rain—could help put the brakes on anxiety attacks and anchor a person who was disconnecting. It was dark, but Tallie could still tell he’d lost the spaciness he’d held in his eyes when the power had gone out; now his eyes were warm with color. He stood there, petting the cat, whispering to it.

  “Oh, you’re fine,” her neighbor said. She wasn’t her nosiest neighbor, but Tallie knew she’d wonder who Emmett was since Tallie didn’t have many new visitors. “Power’s supposed to be restored soonish, but you know how they are. I just reported it.”

  “I’ll report it, too,” Tallie said.

  “Hi there,” her neighbor said to Emmett.

  “Hi.”

  “This is my friend Emmett. And now we have the cat. Sorry for rummaging around in your bushes,” Tallie said. She smiled and pushed the dripping branches back where they belonged.

  With the streetlamps glowing, she could make out her neighbor staring at Emmett for a little too long before turning to Tallie smiling, waving. “Good for you, Tallie…on everything,” she said.

  * * *

  Once they were on her porch, Emmett gave the soppy cat to her. She cradled Jim’s head and fussed at him before taking him in the house. The cat sauntered into the kitchen and stopped to clean himself some more. Pam was unbothered, still sleeping on the couch next to Tallie’s phone. She grabbed it, opened the electricity company app, found her neighborhood and house on the little cartoon map, reported her power outage.

  She an
d Emmett went outside and sat on the steps. He lit a cigarette. After loading the live radio feed of the game on his phone, he told her the Giants were winning, three to nothing. He said it like the score was good luck. She checked the electricity app again and told him the power should be back in an hour or so, but he didn’t seem concerned about her lights being out anymore. People with anxiety and mood disorders, people who were struggling, fighting hard against suicidal ideation and depression, often had wide mood swings. She had loads of experience with clients who went from fine to unwell in a matter of seconds.

  Coping mechanisms: cigarettes, fresh air, finding cats in the rain, listening to the baseball game.

  The baseball commentary made her feel better about the world, too, all those numbers and the neat way they rattled them off at the end of the games, shrinking the big business of the innings into small, organized boxes. He adjusted the volume of the play-by-play as he stepped down, leaned against her house, looking up.

  “If you have a ladder, I’ll clean your gutters out for you. They’re full of leaves,” Emmett said.

  “Yes, I have a ladder. But I don’t know if you should be climbing up on things.” She thought of babysitting her nephew when he was a toddler, how all-consuming it was to keep a little boy from climbing too high, choking, running into the street, or poking his eye out somehow. She didn’t want to treat Emmett like a child, but any diversion from potential danger felt like a proper move.

  “Worried I’ll jump off?”

  “No, I—”

  “Well…it’s not so high up there. Wouldn’t do me any good, really,” he said, turning to look at her.

  “Stop it. It’s not that. You just don’t have to do so much. You cook and do dishes…you’re a cat rescuer. I mean, wow.”

  “Joel used to clean them out?” he asked, giving his attention back to the gutters.

  “I guess. I never really paid attention to stuff like that. I hadn’t noticed they needed cleaning out,” she said, stepping over to look up with him.