August 6, 2020
Rebecca's first thought when she rouses from sleep on what should be an unremarkable Thursday morning is that today is going to be a bad day. A very bad day. Specifically, a very bad brain day. Tyler – the metaphorical darkness himself – has smothered her in a suffocating bear hug from which there's no easy escape. He's staked his claim on her mental and emotional state before she even has a chance to open her eyes and swipe at her phone to silence the insistent, deafening alarm.
She aggressively tugs the blankets over her head with a groan and the motion sends her phone tumbling off the edge of the bed, hitting the floor with a clatter.
She briefly contemplates staying home from work. Back in her Whitefeather days, she wouldn't have thought twice about it. Even when she was a senior partner, she allowed herself mental health days. Nathaniel and Darryl (to a lesser degree) held down the fort in her absence, and she never worried about the work getting done. Now, however, she's the sole proprietor. The business lives and dies with her. She wanted to take control of her own destiny – create her own happiness – by opening Rebetzel's and she has to live with the realities of that choice.
Psychological pain never feels quite as valid and excusable as physical pain to her. At her New York firm, her fellow lawyers would have scoffed at the idea of missing work due to mental distress. At least with physical pain, there is always something concrete to pinpoint. I have cramps. I have a migraine. I tripped over the sidewalk curb while texting and sprained my ankle. But generalized anxiety and dread? That's a head-brain-chest-stomach combo she's not confident neurotypical people can fully grasp.
Dr. Akopian assures her that once she fully transitions to the new medication, these days will occur much less frequently. Even though Rebecca knows rationally that this is true, in the midst of it, it's hard to keep that perspective. Weaning off the old drug while simultaneously slowly introducing the new one creates two opportunities for imbalance every day.
She's a damn liar, Rebecca thinks bitterly as she peels back the blankets and throws her legs over the side of the bed. Or rather, her mind song Dr. Akopian is a liar. Medication sure feels like a pretty big fucking deal. Rebecca has been grappling with the same let-down as when she received her diagnosis and expected her life to improve with the flick of a switch. Just like everything else when it comes to mental illness, it's not an instant fix. It's a process. Trial-and-error. And today she feels like one big fat error.
California natives are always talking about "the big one." The earthquake to end all earthquakes. Whenever there is a cluster of smaller quakes in a short time period, the water cooler buzzes with speculation about how a big one is imminent. Rebecca knows with an unshakeable surety that her own "big one" is coming. Not an earthquake. An anxiety attack. Meltdown. Panic attack. Call it whatever you want. All the small ones she's had over the past few weeks were only a precursor to the one she knows is looming. She feels it deep in her bones. She's a ticking timebomb and the slightest provocation is going to trigger it and push her over the edge. And the worst part is that she won't be able to control when or where it happens.
Making a decision of any magnitude feels insurmountable, so she dresses herself in the first floral-print silk blouse she sees in her closet and a pair of worn jeans that sits atop a pile of dirty laundry. She sprays the roots of her hair with dry shampoo and throws it up into a messy ponytail. Mascara and a little eyebrow filling is as far as she gets with her makeup before she loses motivation and forces herself out the door. What a great way to cut down on getting ready time, she thinks ruefully. Put in no effort whatsoever.
When she takes her place behind the counter at Rebetzel's, AJ takes one look at her and mutters, "Oh lord, it's gonna be one of those days."
On any other day she would zing him back with equal fervor, but she's way too tired to come up with a snarky witticism on the fly.
"Can you get the plain and cinnamon out of the back? Thanks," she says softly, adjusting the strap around her neck.
"Are you OK?" AJ asks hesitantly.
She braces both hands on the counter's edge and closes her eyes. "No, I'm not. But I just need to get through this day, so can you please do what I say for once without talking back?"
AJ raises his eyebrows and says, "You got it, boss," before disappearing into the back room.
Rebecca lets out a long, slow exhale. "Get yourself together," she whispers to herself, eyes still tightly closed, knuckles turning white. "Everything is fine. Nothing has happened. It's all in your head. Just Tyler trying to ruin your day. Act normal. S-a-s-s-y."
"Hey," Nathaniel says.
Her eyes snap open and Nathaniel is suddenly in front of her, a concerned look in his eyes.
"Hi," she replies, modulating her voice into what she thinks is a normal tone.
"What's wrong?"
"Damn it," she curses under her breath. Hiding existential pain is harder than she thought. She sighs and begins to explain, "Bad brain day. Really bad br –"
Nathaniel's phone chirps in his pocket. He searches for it in his suit jacket and holds up a pointer finger. "Hold that thought," he says, "Sorry, big meeting at nine. One second."
He turns his back to her and taps on the screen. "Nathaniel Plimpton," he states with authority into the phone.
AJ returns to the counter with a large tray of warm pretzels and starts stocking the display case. Observing Nathaniel pacing a few feet away, he says, "Oh good, the Rebecca whisperer is here. Maybe there's hope."
Defensive, Rebecca folds her arms across her chest and says, "I'm having a bad day. I'm allowed to have bad days, aren't I?"
"You've had a lot of them lately," he quips. Not for the first time, Rebecca worries that maybe their dual roles as employee/employer and roommates is not the best arrangement.
Nathaniel ends his call and returns to the counter. Noticing her displeased frown, he offers as explanation, "The owners of Sugar Face are selling the property and retiring to Arizona, so we're helping them with the legalities of the sale."
Rebecca face wilts and she whines, "Sugar Face is closing? Could this day get any worse?"
"Sorry, what were you saying before? Bad brain day?"
"Yeah, I woke up and –"
His phone chimes once again from his inner breast pocket, interrupting her. "Hold that thought again," he says. His mind clearly elsewhere, he quickly checks the caller ID and apologizes while backing away from the counter, "Sorry again. I have to take this. It's going to be a long meeting, but I'll come down during the break and we'll talk. I promise."
Rebecca nods and waves him away. Though he's not listening, she says with annoyance, "Go. Go to your big, dumb meeting that's more important than me." As he's stepping into the elevator with his phone pressed tightly to his ear, she gives his back an exaggerated eye roll.
Some supposed best friend he is.
All morning she tries to shake off the nervous, panicky energy that's been following her around like an ominous dark cloud. She's even having slight physical tremors – that's a new one – which exponentially exacerbates her dread that something terrible is right around the corner. AJ keeps his distance and his walking on eggshells just agitates her even more.
Around eleven o'clock, the mail gets delivered and a manila envelope catches her attention. The return address is her accountant who she pays by-the-hour to create her monthly financial statements. The last three emails from him remain unread in her inbox, so he must have resorted to mailing the statements.
She tears open the envelope. With the first half of the year in the books, she has to face the music.
Her monthly file includes a detailed income statement and balance sheet. It all looks like gibberish to her, but she's learned that the number at the bottom of the income statement – where it says Operating Margin – that's the number she needs to know. That's the number that tells her if she's making or losing money. All she prays for is that that number is positive, even if it's by one dollar.
(It has never been positive.)
-$983.13
She sighs with relief. That's not too bad. She can deal with a thousand dollar loss. That's just a fancy pair of shoes or two in her former life. Only a fraction of the money she wasted trying to get Josh to notice her.
Then she realizes she's looking at the June results. Her year-to-date losses are one column to the right.
-$34,575.06
"Oh god," she exhales, the second syllable disappearing into a squeak.
Rebecca's breathing becomes labored, causing AJ to stop wiping down the counter and stare at her.
"It's nothing," she says, shoving the papers back in the envelope, "Um, results from my doctor saying I have a normal pap."
"Doctors still mail pap smear results?"
Rebecca sets the papers down behind the counter and backs slowly away, "I'm going to take a little, um, bathroom break. Bye."
She rushes the rest of the way to the women's lobby bathroom, which is only ten steps around the corner from Rebetzel's. The bathroom has become her own private three-stall oasis when she needs a minute to herself. Since each office in the building has its own dedicated bathroom, other visitors are rare.
She tucks herself into the stall farthest from the door and jiggles the lock into place.
"Oh god," she whispers and leans her head back against the panel of the stall, "Why? Why did I think I could do this? I'm so stupid. How could I be this stupid?"
Her heartbeat quickens, hammering hard in her chest. She frantically digs in her apron pocket for her phone and swipes up to unlock it. The shaking in her hands intensifies as she tries to open up her messages. She doesn't even know who she's going to text or what she's going to text, but it feels like an emergency and she doesn't trust herself to be alone. But her hands are too unsteady and she fumbles the phone, dropping it straight into the toilet bowl. The water from the toilet splashes up onto the hem of her apron and she recoils.
"Oh my god," she cries, her breathing speeding up impossibly fast. It could be a heart attack or a panic attack or maybe somehow she's drowning in an invisible sea of water. All she knows is it feels like someone is grinding the heel of their shoe into her windpipe, cutting off all her air, and she can't for the life of her get her heartbeat to slow the fuck down.
She doesn't know how long she stands there hyperventilating, desperate for anything to anchor her to reality. Minutes? Hours? Both seem equally plausible in her blurred consciousness.
"Where is she?" Nathaniel's muffled voice echoes from the lobby, cutting through the noises in her head.
Oh, thank god. She wants to scream out to him – "help me" – but she's paralyzed and her voice won't cooperate with her brain.
AJ replies nonchalantly, desensitized to her emotional distress, "She's freaking out in the bathroom about something. I don't know. Wait . . . you can't go in there!"
The door creaks open and Nathaniel tentatively says, "Rebecca?"
She can't speak but there's no way he can't hear her with how loudly she's wheezing and how deafening her heartbeat must be. She would put The Tell-Tale Heart to shame.
Nathaniel ventures inside the bathroom and stands outside her stall.
He knocks and gently says, "Open the door."
She fumbles with the flimsy lock and slides it out from its latch. Nathaniel squeezes his way inside the stall and closes the door behind him, slipping the lock back into place. If she weren't in such a dire state, she would laugh at how he thinks closing the door will conceal his presence when his head is so indiscreetly peeking over the top of the stall.
Once inside, his eyes journey over her body from her damp forehead to the terrified look in her eyes to her hands which won't stop trembling.
"Rebecca," he whispers like an apology. He takes both her wrists and tugs them around his waist, drawing her near. "Come here," he says, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and palming her neck with the other to bring her head to his chest.
"What happened?" he asks, though he'll get no answer, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was so distracted."
His chest expands and contracts under her cheek at a steady pace, and she puts all of her dwindling energy into matching her breath to his.
"You're shaking," he murmurs into her hair.
That's when the tears come. It's like a fever breaking when they come. She sucks a big breath of air into her lungs and finds her voice.
"I'm broke," she rasps.
He ducks his head down to hear her better. "What?"
"Rebetzel's. I'm broke. I can barely pay my rent," she cries, "I'm going to lose everything. I'm such a failure."
He presses a kiss to the top of her head and tightens his arms around her. "No, you're not. You're not a failure."
She nods her head against his chest, her tears staining his shirt. "Yes, I am. I am thirty-one and I have nothing to show for it. My business is losing money. I'll never be able to pay back my business loan. My songs are mediocre, at best. I have a garbage singing voice and barely existent piano skills. I don't have a boyfriend. I haven't had sex in god knows how long. And I'm going to be homeless, living in a cardboard box, because I am a failure at everything in my life."
"You are not going to be homeless," he whispers, "I would never, ever let that happen." He leans away to look into her eyes. "You know you can come back to the firm anytime. There will always be a job for you. And I can lend you money. As much as you need. If you need a place to live, you could move in with me for awhile –"
"What? No, no, no," she protests, shaking her head, "It's not . . . you don't get it."
"What don't I get?"
"I don't want you to swoop in and fix everything with your money. It's not about the money," she says, frustrated, "It's about me. I am Rebetzel's. I want to succeed. On my own terms."
He picks a sweaty tendril of hair off her forehead while she lets out a shaky exhale, relieved she can breathe normally again.
"Sorry. I get it. I do. I just . . . when I see you upset, all I want is to make it better," he says, wiping away the moisture under her eyes with the pad of his thumb. "Sometimes I wish I didn't have my father, so I could have chosen my own path like you did. You're brave. Braver than me."
And in that moment, as he's looking into her eyes with a breathtaking tenderness, she realizes how deeply he supports her. Believes in her. Cares about her. With sudden clarity, she sees how freely he gives all of himself to her.
He shows up for her at every single one of her open mic nights, listening with rapt attention to every single note. He pushes her when she needs a push. He backs off when she needs space. He stands up for her, defends her, sometimes without even saying a word. He holds her when she needs holding. He carries her when she needs carrying. He sings and dances and makes a fool out of himself just to make her smile. He picks the olives out of her salad before she takes her first bite. He rubs her feet at the end of a hard day. He –
"Did you drop your phone?" he asks, glancing down into the toilet.
"Yeah."
He rolls up the sleeve of his jacket and plunges his hand into the toilet, scooping up the phone from the bottom of the bowl.
Speechless, she opens her mouth but no words come out. "Uh –"
And that's it. The moment. (There's always a moment.) She knows.
She loves him.
A warm sensation washes over her from head-to-toe, a soft glow illuminating every cell in her body.
She loves him. Of course she does.
Nathaniel lets himself out of the stall and sets her phone down next to the sink. He washes his hands, then pulls several paper towels from the dispenser to dry off both his hands and her phone. All the while, Rebecca watches him adoringly from the frame of the bathroom stall, her brain still catching up to her heart.
"There," he says, swiping the screen, "still works. And don't worry, they clean these bathrooms practically on the hour. Believe it or not, I've had to rescue my phone from much worse places when I was in Guatemala."
He offers her the phone and she takes it, her fingers brushing against his palm.
"Thanks," she says softly.
He flicks his wrist to check his watch.
"I have to get back to this meeting. Are you going to be OK?"
She clears her throat. "Yeah. I'm . . . I'm more than OK. Thank you for finding me."
He bends down and lightly grasps her elbow. Knowing what's coming, she leans into him as he presses a kiss to her cheek and whispers, "Chin up, beautiful," next to her ear.
Her stomach clenches at his words and she squeezes his forearm, not wanting to let him go. But she does, holding on to him as long as possible before he slips out of her grasp as he walks away.
As he's pushing open the bathroom door, a woman dressed in a sharply tailored black suit tries to enter at the exact same time and he accidentally bumps her shoulder.
"Sorry, uh, excuse me," he mutters as the woman gives him dubious look.
Rebecca chuckles but quickly tamps it down when the woman gives her a disapproving side eye.
After splashing some cool water on her face, Rebecca takes a moment to stare at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes are red and puffy, and her wet eyelashes clump together in an unflattering way. Her cheeks and chest are flushed, though it's not from crying. But despite her disheveled appearance, on the inside she's at peace. Though she can't prove it, she believes she's made it through the worst of the transition and it will be only downhill from this moment on.
Minutes later, she assumes her place behind the Rebetzel's counter with a secretive smile on her lips.
"Afternoon quickie?" AJ quips, noticing her shift in mood.
"Ha," she barks, "Not exactly."
His tone slightly more serious, he asks, "Are you OK? Really."
"Yes. Much better now."
"The Rebecca whisperer strikes again," he jokes. In response, she grabs a dish towel and playfully smacks his arm with it.
Later that afternoon, feeling more calm than she has in weeks, Rebecca takes off her apron and ventures up the elevator to the third floor. Visiting her former office is always strange. It's strange in the way visiting a high school years after graduation is strange. It's familiar yet foreign. Every corner holds a memory, but new people are inhabiting that same space, making memories of their own.
She gives a timid wave to Tim and Jim as she passes by their desks to get to Nathaniel's office.
When she reaches the threshold, he's sitting at his desk in front of his open laptop, pointing at the bluish screen. Though there's no one in sight, he's speaking softly, "We're going to depose the Division President, then the CFO. That means Chief Financial Officer. She manages all the money for the business. Really the most important role in the C-suite, if you ask me."
Rebecca knocks gently on the doorframe to catch his attention.
Nathaniel swivels in his chair to reveal Hebby, who was previously obscured by his laptop screen, sitting in his lap. Hebby babbles a string of syllables that vaguely resembles the last few words he said. Inflection and everything.
"Hi," Rebecca says, suddenly nervous. She takes a few steps into the office and wrings her fingers together.
"Hey," he replies warmly, "You never come up here."
"Yeah well, um, I wanted to see you."
"You wanted to see me?"
Hebby wriggles in his arms and grabs at his tie.
"No, no, no," he mutters, flawlessly shifting his hold on her and righting her back into a sitting position atop his leg.
"Sorry, are you babysitting? What's happening?"
"Oh, sometimes Darryl's daycare falls through. He had a meeting, so he dropped her quite literally into my lap," he says with a chuckle. "I was giving her a little lesson on depositions. I figure at least half of her brain is a brilliant legal mind. So, you know. Start 'em early."
"You like babies now?" she asks, incredulous.
"Not really, but I'm the only one Darryl trusts to keep her contained. Apparently she's nearing the 'terrible twos' and I'm the only one who can handle this squirmy little monkey. And anyway, she's," he pauses and glances down at Hebby's mop of unruly curls, "she's kinda you, so I guess I can make an exception in this case."
"Oh," she says, breathless, the sentiment hitting her right in the heart, "Well, I just wanted to say thank you for earlier."
Feigning indifference, he says, "We don't have to talk about it. It's fine."
"I want to. I want to talk about it."
"Oh," he utters, as if the thought had never occurred to him.
Hebby grabs a pen from his desktop and stabs it alarmingly close to a place between his legs that could do serious damage.
"Whoa!" Nathaniel yelps and steadies Hebby's arm. "Man, you two are dangerous with a pen, huh?" he jokes and confiscates the object from her. "Sorry, what were you saying?"
"Um –"
His eyes dart to the corner of his laptop and he says, "Actually, can we rain check this conversation?"
"Oh. Sure."
"You need to get out of my office."
"Excuse me?"
"Get out," he asserts again, a playful grin at his lips.
"Sorry, do you have yet another super important meeting today?" she asks, irritated.
"No, you have your appointment. Right? If you don't leave now, you're going to be late."
She pulls her phone out of her back pocket to check the time. Indeed, it's fifteen minutes before her weekly appointment with Dr. Akopian.
"We talk all the time. Go. I'm not speaking another word to you. Get out of my office, Bunch."
"Nathaniel –"
He pulls his forefinger and thumb across his mouth in a zipper motion.
Twenty minutes later, Rebecca plops down on Dr. Akopian's office couch in a daze. She drove there on autopilot, her mind racing the entire way as she tried to process the maelstrom of emotions flowing through her.
"Rebecca, you've been sitting there for a full three minutes without saying a word. What's wrong? Are you still experiencing symptoms from the med changes?"
"I am. I was. But that's not it," she replies softly.
Rebecca closes her eyes and lets out a prolonged exhale.
"What is it?" Dr. Akopian asks.
"I'm going to do an emotional scan," Rebecca says, sitting up straighter. She runs both her hands in front of her body, from the tip of her head to her lap. "I'm tired. But happy. Also, anxious. A little scared. But also warm and glowy?"
When she opens her eyes, Dr. Akopian is pursing her lips and her brow is furrowed in complete confusion.
"It's Nathaniel," Rebecca says.
"Oh," Dr. Akopian replies, leaning forward, intrigued, "Go on."
"I think . . . no, I know I have feelings for him."
Dr. Akopian grins and leans back in her chair. "Finally," she mutters to herself, playing with the ends of her long, bulky necklace.
"What?"
"Nothing. Keep going."
Rebecca huffs out a tiny breath and says, "I think I love him."
"Oh. Wow." Dr. Akopian raises both her eyebrows, in shock at her frank admission.
"Not best-friend love. Like real love. Boy-girl love. Which I realize is heteronormative, but you know what I mean."
"I do. I would say that's great news, but you don't seem entirely happy about it."
"I am happy. I am. But I'm also afraid."
"What are you afraid of?"
Rebecca sighs. "What if he doesn't feel the same way? What if I tell him how I feel and it ruins everything? And what if he does feel the same way? What if we date and I screw it up like I always do? Then what?" In a small voice, she adds, "All I keep thinking is that I don't want to lose him."
"Those are all very understandable fears," Dr. Akopian reassures her, "This friendship has been a very positive, stable part of your life these past six months."
Rebecca bites her lip and nods. "The man he's become . . ." she trails off, her smile returning, "He's been so thoughtful and caring and sweet with me. All those hard edges have softened."
"Sometimes when we go through big, life-changing experiences, we can gain a whole new perspective."
"OK. Great. But we need to circle back to the fact that," Rebecca pauses to cup her hands around her mouth to loudly project, "relationships do not work for me."
"This friendship has been working for you, hasn't it?"
"You know it has."
"And has he given you any indication that he feels the same way?"
Rebecca buries her face in both her hands. "Ugh, I don't know," she groans, her voice muffled by her hands.
"He had very strong romantic feelings for you in the past," she offers.
Rebecca drags her hands down her face and then drops them into her lap. "I know. Some days he looks at me and I swear I see this glimmer," she says, pinching together her thumb and pointer finger, "of something more than friendship."
"But . . ."
"But then he'll say something the next moment that makes me think I imagined it. Or that I was projecting or reading into things or something. I truly don't know. So please, please tell me what to do," she pleads, threading her fingers together in a prayer-like gesture.
"I can't tell you what to do. You know what your patterns are. If you're worried about repeating past mistakes, the place to start is being conscious of those mistakes and making different choices."
"So you're saying I shouldn't go straight to his apartment and flying squirrel into his arms?"
"Maybe not this time."
Rebecca smiles weakly, her eyes downcast. "I really don't want to mess this up," she says softly, "I want to do better this time."
Dr. Akopian crosses to sit next to her on the couch and takes one of Rebecca's hands between her own. "You can do better. You're still coming to terms with your own feelings. You don't need to rush into anything. Let things develop naturally. I think you'll find that, in time, you'll get the clarity you need."
After giving Dr. Akopian a fierce goodbye hug, Rebecca leaves the office with a renewed sense of empowerment. It's all in her control. She can make different choices. Choose a different path.
Though the temptation to immediately find him and gush out all her feelings is strong – overwhelming isn't an exaggeration – she resists. She drives directly back home with no intermediate stops.
Her homework is to write out all her feelings in her journal. Between her anxieties about the future of Rebetzel's, her rollercoaster of emotions from changing medications, and now her burgeoning feelings for Nathaniel, there's plenty to vomit out into the notebook. An hour flies by like it's mere seconds as she fills up page after page of stream-of-consciousness ramblings.
Afterward, she does feel somewhat better. But the compulsion to seek him out is still powerful and settles like a lead weight in her stomach.
She picks up her phone and begins to type.
Are you home? Alone?
Delete. Delete. Delete.
Want to come over? We could watch TV. Or make out. No pressure. Also I love you.
Nope. Delete.
All I want to do is kiss your hot, dumb face.
Definitely not. Delete.
She sighs. Just when she's about to bury her phone under her pillow, her phone vibrates with an incoming message.
How are you feeling?
She stares at the phone for a long time, Dr. Akopian's words ringing in her ear. He texted her first, she reasons. There's no harm in responding. She's not rushing in to anything. She's merely responding to a friend in a timely fashion.
Better.
Thank you for being there for me today.
And putting your hand in a toilet.
I'd stick my hand in the toilet for you anytime.
She smiles fondly down at her phone. Why does he have to make it so hard for her to resist?
Her fingers start typing a response before her brain can tell them to stop.
Can I come over?
Send.
Wait, no send! She lets out a tiny shriek and drops her phone onto the bed like it's a hot potato.
Recover. She has to recover, she thinks frantically. Scooping her phone back up, she types furiously.
Later, I mean.
Next week?
We could finally play Scrabble. Study up on bingos, Stanford.
She holds her breath and bites on the tip of her thumb nail while she waits in anticipation for his response.
You're on, Harvard. Don't need to study. Name the time and place.