by Priya Grey
“I love you too, Mom.” I caress her cheek and lean forward to kiss her on the forehead.
Then I stand up straight and throw my backpack over my shoulder.
“We’ll figure something out,” I assert, trying to stay positive. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay? I can change my flight.”
My dad shakes his head. “You finally got the job you’ve always wanted,” he says. “Don’t put it in jeopardy.” He places his hand on my mom’s shoulder. “Your mother and I will be okay.”
As I stare at my parents, I feel terribly guilty for leaving.
“Your Aunt Vicki says we can stay with her as long as we need,” my father adds.
I slowly nod.
After another long silence, my dad says, “You’re going to miss your flight, Rebecca.”
I don’t want to leave them, but I realize my dad is right. I give him and my mom another quick hug and then walk into the terminal.
On the plane ride back to the city, I’m racked with nerves and a tremendous sense of guilt. I’ve been blessed to have such wonderful parents who sacrificed so much for me. And I can’t help but feel guilty for not being further along in my life. I suddenly wish I were a lawyer or an investment banker who made a ton of money, instead of a struggling chef’s assistant trying to pursue her dreams.
Because right now, dreams can’t fix my parent’s house or buy them a new one. Dreams are just figments of your imagination. As I reflect on the devastation left behind by the hurricane, I realize what my mom and dad need more than anything is money. Money to rebuild their lives. And unfortunately, money is just something I don’t have much of.
Chapter Eleven
Jackson
“Has anything happened since we last spoke?” asks my therapist, Michael, with a friendly smile.
I’m sitting across from him, in his office. I’ve been coming to Michael since Ashley died. But lately, I’ve been wondering why I bother. These therapy sessions do nothing to improve my mood. And the pills Michael has me on don’t seem to have any effect. I’m just as miserable as I was nine months ago.
“I went on a date,” I mutter, picking at the armrest of my chair with a nail.
“How was it?” Michael asks as he writes something down in his notepad.
“Terrible,” I mutter.
“What made it so terrible?”
I look at him, really not in the mood to talk. “Everything about it was terrible. Can we just leave it at that?”
My blind date with Tiffany did nothing to better my mood. In fact, it had the opposite effect. I’m now in the dark grips of despair. That blind date only reinforced how truly special my relationship with Ashley was. It reinforced how much I love and desperately miss her.
When Michael notices my reluctance to communicate, he says, “Jackson, talking helps. It helps break the feedback loop in your mind.”
I stare at him, blankly.
“Jackson, you’ve been isolating yourself for months. Was there any part of this date you found enjoyable?”
I take a moment to respond.
“Not really,” I finally tell him.
Michael looks at me and slowly nods his head. I can hear him sigh quietly. He then places his notepad down. He eyes me through his glasses and then strokes his beard. “I’m going to put you on a different prescription,” he eventually says. “This new medication has shown to have better results than the pills you’re currently taking.”
I simply shrug my shoulders. I have a hunch the new pills he’s prescribing will be just as ineffective. Nothing can lift me out of this black hole.
After another unproductive session with my therapist, I return to my studio and take a seat in front of the blank canvass. The window of time I have to produce the necessary work for the gallery exhibit is shortening with each passing day.
Whenever I used to suffer a bout of depression, I would paint to get myself out of my funk. But the state I’m currently in is far different from any of my other battles with melancholy. This time, I can’t even muster the energy to lift my paintbrush and just play on the blank canvas in front of me.
It’s like I’m paralyzed, unable to see the point in moving forward in any direction.
My cell phone rings, shattering the endless feedback loop of negative thoughts running through my mind. I reach for my phone and see that it is Harry. I don’t feel like answering. I know Harry is probably upset with me for leaving Tiffany at the restaurant. I know it wasn’t a very nice thing to do. But in my current state of mind, other people’s feelings don’t really matter to me anymore.
I let Harry’s call go straight to voice mail.
But a few moments later, he’s calling me again.
I realize if I don’t answer my phone, Harry will just keep calling and calling and calling. He’s really annoying like that. I guess I can’t be mad at him, though. He’s just worried about me. He’s probably the only person left on this planet – now that Ashley is gone – that still genuinely cares about my well-being. My mom passed away when I was a teenager. And I don’t talk to my father anymore. After everything he did to me growing up, you wouldn’t talk him either.
“What?” I grumble as I answer Harry’s call.
“It’s about time,” he says with a sense of relief. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“We’ll, you sure as hell don’t sound like it, Jackson.”
“Tell Tiffany I’m sorry I skipped out on dinner.”
“Who cares about her,” he replies. “She’s as interesting as plywood.”
“If you didn’t think she was anything special, then why did you set me up with her?” I ask.
“Because I’m fucking worried about you, bro. You’re in your head too much. I know that’s where creative people spend most of their time. But you can get lost in there. I thought going out on a date, and hopefully getting your dick wet, might snap you out of your funk. By the sound of your voice, I guess I was wrong.”
“Guess so,” I mumble.
There’s a long pause. I don’t really have anything else to say. Harry is the one who breaks the silence.
“Ashley’s gone, Jackson. But you’re still trying to hold onto her. It’s not doing you any good. You have to move on.”
Hearing the sincerity and concern in Harry’s voice throws me over the edge. I suddenly start crying and am overwhelmed with sobs. Knowing Harry is on the other line and listening to this emotional breakdown, fills me with embarrassment.
“I’m coming over,” he says. “You shouldn’t be alone.”
“No,” I finally manage to say. “I’m fine.” I dry my eyes with the back of my hand.
“Bro, you are so not fine,” he replies. “I’m coming over.”
“Dude, just let me be,” I insist. “I need to go through this.” I then add, “I just can’t believe how much I miss her.”
There’s another long pause.
“I know she meant a lot to you,” Harry eventually says. “But Jackson, believe me when I say that you’ll find someone else. It’s a big world.”
“She was special,” I reply. “Women like her don’t just come around every day.” I take a deep breath. “Thanks for checking on me, Harry. I’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”
I hang up the phone. Then drop it to the floor.
I go back to staring at the blank canvas in front of me. It’s begging to be covered in paint – in bright reds and blues and oranges – all the colors of the world. The canvas is begging for an artist’s touch. For human expression.
Unfortunately, I’m not the artist to take on such a task anymore. That part of me has died.
I reach over to the small table near my easel. I snatch up the new bottle of pills that Michael, my therapist, prescribed. I uncap the bottle and remove one of the pills. I’m about to swallow it but then stop myself. As I stare at the small white tablet, I realize there’s no point to any of this anymore. Why try to get better when you have no reason to. I dro
p the pill to the floor and then pour out the rest of the bottle, as well.
I’m suddenly overwhelmed with anger. I reach for my paintbrush and flip it around, so the wooden handle is pointing outward. I plunge the wooden handle into the blank canvass in front of me and tear it. Then I jump up from my chair and look around my painting studio, at all the paintings surrounding me – the ones adorning the walls and stacked in corners. I grab the nearest one, a painting I did two years ago of two children playing in a park. I tear that one up, too.
I find another painting and destroy it as well.
After destroying five more of my paintings, I take a step back and catch my breath. My rage begins to subside, overshadowed by something else. As I stare at the ruined paintings on the floor, I feel a numb feeling overtake me. It’s like I’m not in my body anymore. I’m a stranger to myself.
My eyes survey the abundance of paintings still adorning my studio. I study all the different modes of expression they convey. It doesn’t feel like I painted them. They belong to a stranger.
I slowly realize that my painting days are officially over. I have nothing else to say. When Ashley died, my desire to paint – and any inspiration I found in the world – died as well.
I guess I shouldn’t complain. I’ve had a good run. Most artists don’t get recognized in their own lifetime. I’ve been incredibly lucky. I’m only forty years old, but some of my paintings are already hanging in museums, and many of them sell for millions of dollars on the open market.
I have Harry to thank for that. He’s been instrumental in my success. If it wasn’t for him, and our chance meeting when I was hawking my paintings on a street corner, I probably would have never achieved any of this.
I decide to leave all my paintings to Harry.
I leave the instructions in a note next to my easel. Everything I created will go to him.
Then I head out the door, into the night.
It’s when I’m a block away from the river, that it slowly dawns on me – what I’m planning to do. I left a suicide note for Harry, but the entire time, I felt like I was in a daze. Not really in my own body.
But now, as a cool night breeze caresses my cheek, I become more present, in the moment.
I’m going to kill myself.
I’m going to walk toward the bridge, a few blocks away, and jump into the river.
As I make my way toward the bridge, I convince myself that it’s the right thing to do. The only thing to do. I don’t see a future for myself anymore. I’ve accomplished more in my life than I ever expected to. And I’ve loved a woman more passionately and completely than I ever thought possible.
Many times, laying naked with Ashley in our bed, I considered myself fortunate and blessed to have experienced such a strong and powerful connection with another human being. The fact that she became my wife made it only more profound and beautiful. Perhaps, if Ashley and I had conceived the child we always wanted, I would have a reason to continue living.
But I’m alone. Sure, I have Harry, but if I stick around, I will only become a nuisance to him. A petulant artist he constantly needs to babysit. Harry loves money, and when I’m gone, my paintings will only become more valuable.
As I cross the bridge, I hear the car traffic zoom by. I keep my eyes lowered so I don’t have to stare at any of the other pedestrians crossing the bridge. I don’t want to be reminded of humanity right now. I just need to stay focused on what I’m sure is the right course of action. As an artist, I have nothing left to say. And as a human being, I have nothing left to live for.
When I arrive at the center of the bridge, I finally stop and turn. I lean over the concrete railing and stare into the choppy water rushing below. I gaze at the black cold nothingness for what seems like an eternity.
I decide to wait for two teenage girls to pass me, before I leap over the railing and plunge into the river. When I feel that they are finally a safe distance away, I quickly swing one leg over the railing. I then lift myself and raise my other leg. Sitting on the railing, I take a deep breath as I’m about to push myself off.
But then suddenly, someone grabs me from behind and yanks me back.
Falling backward, I crash onto the pavement, and roll into the street. I hear a car blast its horn as it screeches to a stop. I look up, shielding my eyes from the car lights. I then turn toward the railing and see a young black man on a messenger bike staring at me. He’s the one who pulled me back. The one who stopped me from killing myself. He’s reaching for his phone, I suspect calling the police.
“I’m going to get you some help, okay?”
“Don’t bother,” I tell him as I get back onto my feet and quickly dart across the street, almost getting hit by another car. I hurry away, weaving in and out among the people on the sidewalk.
My body is trembling, my mind racing. If that stranger hadn’t pulled me back, I’d be in the river right now, waiting to join Ashley.
But now that my suicide attempt has been thwarted, I realize just how close I came to killing myself. It shocks me. A few moments earlier, I was in my painting studio, staring at a blank canvas, talking to Harry. How could I go from that place to almost killing myself so quickly?
The mind is a dangerous trap.
I need time to clear my head. I decide to spend the rest of the evening wandering the city. I have no destination in mind. I’m just trying to get away from myself.
Chapter Twelve
Rebecca
I’ve never heard my dad so sad and despondent. What he feared came true. The insurance company won’t cover most of the damage. And since my parents don’t have much money saved up, they’re going to have a hard time paying for a place to live.
“Dad, are you going to be okay?” I ask, cradling the phone to my ear.
“Don’t worry about us,” he says, but the tone in his voice begs otherwise.
“Do you want me to fly back?” I ask. “Maybe I can help. Maybe I can find a job in the area.”
I know what I’m saying doesn’t make much sense. There aren’t going to be any jobs in that part of the state for a while. But I’m just trying to say anything that might improve my dad’s mood. I’ve never heard him like this. He’s always been such a fighter, but it sounds like he’s lost all hope.
“Don’t be silly, Rebecca. Just stay focused on your job. I’ll figure something out. I got to go. Love you, sweetie.”
“Love you, too.”
He hangs up.
I lower my phone and sigh. I’m filled with worry. What’s going to happen to my parents? They can’t live with my Aunt Vicki forever.
Then the alarm on my phone goes off. I have to get going or else I’ll be late for work.
When I arrive at The Blue Rose, my head is elsewhere. I’m still worried about my parents. I prepare most of the desserts in a daze, finding it hard to concentrate.
“Where is the apple tart for table nineteen?”
I look up from the flourless chocolate cake I am preparing. Rodrigo is staring at me with a look of annoyance on his face.
“Apple tart for table nineteen?” I repeat, confused.
Rodrigo rolls his eyes in frustration. “Yes! Apple tart! Table nineteen!”
“It’s right here, chef,” says Todd as he comes to my side. He slides an apple tart over to Rodrigo. Rodrigo glances at the dessert. He looks at Todd, then at me.
“Good,” he says with a curt nod and some suspicion. “Now, let’s just hope it’s good.”
He walks away with the dessert.
I turn to Todd, who is still standing by my side. “Thanks for covering for me,” I tell him. “I totally forgot about the apple tart.”
“No worries,” Todd says with a sympathetic smile. “You’ve got a lot on your mind right now.”
“That’s still no excuse,” I mutter. “I’m just finding it really hard to concentrate.”
“Worried about your parents?” he asks as he adds the finishing touches to a strawberry shortcake.
�
�Yeah,” I admit, stirring the bowl of ingredients for the flourless chocolate cake. “My dad called me earlier today, and as he suspected, the insurance won’t cover most of the damage from the hurricane.”
“That really sucks,” laments Todd.
“Yeah,” I reply. “I just wish there was some way I could help them. My folks don’t deserve any of this. They’re good people. Unfortunately, they’re good people that don’t have much money.”
I spend the rest of the evening preparing desserts, but it’s hard to keep my mind from wandering back to my parents. I really wish there was a way I could help them.
When we finally close the restaurant, Todd and I leave together and walk down the block.
“Thanks again for letting me take time off to visit my parents. Was Rodrigo annoyed?” I ask him.
“No more than usual,” he says with a slight grin. He then shoots me a concerned look. “Where are your folks staying now?”
“My aunt says they can stay as long as they need to with her,” I tell him. I then sigh, frustrated, as we continue walking. “I just wish I could help them. They’ve done so much for me. I got my love of cooking from my mom. Every Sunday we’d spend in the kitchen, trying all these new recipes. That is until she suffered her stroke.” I feel a lump in my throat. I try to suppress the emotion overtaking me. “She’s given me so much. Both of them have. I just wish I could help them out – now that they need it the most.”
Todd looks at me with sympathy. “I know things look really dark right now, Rebecca. But don’t give up hope.” He pauses. “I know you’re worried about your parents, but I just want you to know that you’re doing a great job at the restaurant. You have a lot of talent. And If you ever need someone to talk to, don’t hesitate, okay?”
I look at him and nod.
“Well, I guess this is where we part ways,” Todd says with a soft smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I know it was tough, but you did a great job tonight.”