It's late on Friday night, and me and Kristoff have a clear schedule this weeke—oh, wait, I'm supposed to be meeting Belle on Sunday. Good thing I set lots of reminders. Okay, so our weekend is mostly free. Our Friday night is definitely free, Joan's already in bed—well, in her room, but I have my doubts about her actually being asleep yet. Me and Kristoff are still on the couch, cuddling under a light blanket. The rain from earlier has only been getting heavier. There's a blinding flash, and thunder rumbles through the house. I know the Reindeer King's grinning at me as I duck under the blanket.
What?
Oh, well, it's mostly an act these days. Mostly. I remember some of the big thunderstorms you helped me weather, after convincing me to appreciate rain. But right now, in this rain, I'm hiding under a blanket, pressing against my husband in ways I know he deeply appreciates. That's why his hand is going for the waistband of my jeans. I whisper something about Joan interrupting, he counters with everything important being upstairs. Plus, neither of us can even remember the last time we used the couch.
The rain beats a tattoo against the windows, and my racing heart matches my shallow breaths. We try not to make too much noise, and we try to stay under the blanket. It's awkward, but fun, and afterwards we doze on the couch for a while. After midnight, and the rain is still going, thunder rumbling in the distance. It's a good storm, and drowns out all the noise as I sneak into the kitchen and grab a drink. Coming back, I pull my jeans up properly, and then tuck Kristoff into the couch. He'll come up later, I'm fairly sure.
Upstairs, and I'm just lying in bed, listening to the rain—to the storm. I can almost imagine you with me, calming me through it. Then, well, we were rather less calm. Feverish, almost. It wasn't an ultimatum you gave me, but I remember a warning about wearing a certain dress again if I wanted it to survive. Or maybe it was a chemise? It was so long ago, and some of it has faded, while other things feel like they happened just yesterday. I roll onto my side, letting the rain lull me to sleep.
When I wake up Kristoff is there beside me, resting, but not asleep. I look over at the clock. Much earlier than usual, but at least the rain has stopped. I frown, and pout. I really didn't want to be up early. Kristoff gives me a quick kiss before rising. He'll find something to do. Probably some invoicing, or other office work that weekend mornings are good for. Joan is probably going to sleep until noon. That actually sounds like a pretty good plan to me. I roll over and go back to sleep.
It's not quite midday when I wake up, but you wouldn't know it by the sun, dark clouds rolling in once more. I get the feeling we're in for another stormy night. I pass Joan on my way to the bathroom, and a critical question pops into my head.
"Did you and Tina… um, the other night… protection?" yawning did not help. Neither did the lack of a brain-mouth filter due to still being sleepy.
It's at this point I'm fairly sure she wishes she could slap me. I really shouldn't have ambushed her with that. Not first thing in the morning.
"Sorry," I look down, trying to untangle some of my bedhead. "It just occurred to m—"
"Yes, we did." That glow in her cheeks is not embarrassment. "We learned in sex ed. We made sure. We're not that naive."
I facepalm. It's not about lack of trust. It's about her thinking that I thought she wasn't smart enough to things right. Now I really do feel like a complete idiot. I raised a brilliant young woman, who knows what she wants, how to get it, and is prepared to face the consequences. So I just undersold my faith in my own parenting—and Kristoff's.
"Mom," she huffs quietly, walking over to me. "I get it."
"Okay," I pat her on the shoulder, looking down the hall. "If you don't need to use it, I'm going to take a shower and see if I can wash this layer of stupid off."
"It's caked on pretty thick; maybe we should just send you through the car wash instead."
"No fair, my brain's still not on."
"Not my fault, mom. Maybe dad can turn it on for you." She turns and gives me a sly wink. "Or maybe something else."
So after a quick morning shower, and only dripping a little on the floor, I pull on my robe and head back to the master bedroom. Jeans and a t-shirt—no, a fancy blouse. A dark forest green, with a faded monogram on the breast pocket. Then it's time to attack the mess that is my hair—even after showering and washing it. Brushing it is relaxing, and I can still remember all the times we brushed each other's hair. It was a little thing, but it meant so much. Especially when you didn't have any hair left to play with. The wig just wasn't the same, but I'm glad you weren't too proud to wear one. Oh, remember the time it got so tangled?
I have to suppress a laugh at that memory, but we did eventually get it worked out. Now, with my own hair mostly tangle free and a loose ponytail, it's time for a late breakfast. Yes, coco-pops. I am grown ass woman, you, I'll have none of that sass. I also have a mug of hot chocolate, because hey, weekend. I make one for Joan as well, because she's just hanging around in the kitchen, looking nervous—and possibly slightly guilty. I hand her the hot chocolate without a word.
"Is it… is it okay if Tink spends the night?"
"Is it okay with her mother?
"Well, Tink said that she said it depends on what you say."
Thanks Cara, way to put all the responsibility back on me. We'll have a talk about that next time we meet for coffee. Of course, I don't tell my daughter any of that, mostly because it was going to be my response.
"Mom…?"
"She doesn't want to have you over for a change?"
"I think they're still looking for a good place—and you still haven't answered."
Yes, she's sharp, that one. "I'm thinking. I know what you're probably going to do, and you know that I disapprove."
"I…" she holds up a hand, beginning to protest until she realises my point—and that I still haven't given her a concrete answer. "I think you're stalling."
I blush a little. "Well, put yourself in my shoes; wouldn't you want time to think it over?"
"Damn it, mom." She takes a sip of her chocolate. "I hate when you're right."
"Okay, put it this way, right now I'm sitting on a maybe, and I can see reasons for yes and for no. And okay, fine, I saw that, maybe I am leaning towards no, but it's not because of—okay, mostly not because of what I said earlier about disapproving of this stuff. This is new for me. My daughter has a sex life, and it makes me uncomfortable because I think she's not quite old enough."
"You think that's uncomfortable?" She gives me a very pointed look. "Try being a teenager and overhearing your parents."
Kristoff chose that moment to come in from the lounge, took one look at us, and said: "Well, this is awkward." and headed right back out. Me and Joan cracked up as he left. I put one hand against the wall to steady myself, careful not to spill my chocolate anywhere. I had a drink of it, stalling once again. I don't know why I can't answer, but I know I'll have to soon. Sleepovers do take some organising, after all. Joan just looks at me, patiently waiting for me to cave.
I set my chocolate down on the table. "Later."
She drains her mug and sets it on the sink. "Later, then—umm, before 4pm?"
It's reasonable. I, on the other hand, am not. "Another dinner date?" I'm a terrible person.
"Dinner and a show; you're the first act." Okay, ouch. She's good.
"So, before Tina gets here, how about I tell you some more about Elsa?"
We're both sitting at the table now, and I open with the details of the weekend following me bouncing off the walls.
—∞—
Saturday had left me dog tired, just me and Kristoff working around Naveen's plant. We got a lot done, but we still did overtime to finish up the last job. It's always the last one that goes wrong. That meant that when I got home late Saturday evening, I just didn't have the energy to tell Elsa about my flashback. She seemed worried, preoccupied with something. I could tell by the way she was talking, picking her words so carefully. We eventually crashed out in my room.
When I woke up, somebody was using me as a blanket. That somebody was also a most wonderful pillow, her breasts being appreciably larger and softer than mine. She smiled down at me, stroking my hair. It was a nice moment to wake up to.
"Hello, Anniken," she kissed my forehead. "I think you were having bad dreams. I hope I made them better." Her blush was cute.
I meant to say 'morning, Elsa', but it came out mangled by a massive yawn and sounded more like a whale clearing its throat. She giggled and wrapped her arms around me, trying to pull me higher. I resisted. I was still half asleep, and I was also, admittedly, quite enjoying my new pillow…s.
"You are not a morning person, are you, Anniken?" She smiled down at me.
"What gave it away?" Is it that I'm still half asleep, using you as a pillow?
"It is just a feeling," she patted me on the head. "You were like a log."
"I slept like one?"
"No, you are round and heavy." She stuck her tongue out. Pouting for effect, I rolled off her and on to my back. "But it is easier for me to talk in the mornings—you remember?"
I did. I nodded. I wanted to talk too, but didn't know where to start. My hand found hers under the covers, and she pushed her shoulder against mine.
"I will be starting my treatment soon."
"I thought you already were?" I couldn't help blurting it out. All those visits to the hospital—and not just for physio.
"Some minor surgeries. It does not hurt so much anymore. I was also reviewing kinds of treatment; what might work; what might give me more time; what would make me feel worse. It isn't easy."
I gave her hand a tight squeeze. "I hadn't really considered that…" I rested my head against her shoulder. "But I'll be here for you the whole time."
"Even when I am throwing up, and can only eat soup, and won't have any hair?" There was a hint of humour in her voice, but I knew how scared she had to be.
"Even after all that." It was a promise that would hurt both of us. It was still worth it.
"Even knowing the cancer will come back?"
"You're trying to push me away again, Elsa."
"I'm sorry, Anna," she shook her head sadly. "I am scared, and I am afraid of hurting you too."
"Stinker!" I thumped her in the chest with my free hand. "All this time, and you still think I won't stay? You think I don't realise how much this is going to hurt? You think I wo—"
She massaged her chest with her free hand. I probably hit her harder than I thought. Her voice was an icy whisper, and there were tears in her eyes. "Enough."
"No." I pulled her into a tight hug. "I want you to understand. I will be there for you. The whole time. I won't let you do this alone. You won't have to."
"I…" She rested her head on my shoulder, and I felt tears against my cheek. "I'm doing this for you."
I swallowed hard against the sudden lump in my throat. "You… what?"
"You saved me." She kissed me gently before shuffling away. "But you know, and you still want me. How can I not give you that?"
"Stinker…" I wasn't angry. Not this time.
"Every day we have is a gift, yes?"
I nodded.
"And every morning?" That little smirk.
"You. Bitch." Her laughter was the happiest I'd heard in quite some time.
Later in the day, after breakfast, we were on the couch, Elsa resting her head on my lap. I wanted a way to open up into talking about the flashback, but it just didn't seem to be happening. No easy segue from watching TV or anything, or our inane conversation. I just had to get serious—which, yes, I know can still be a problem.
"Elsa?"
"What is it?"
"I… I had a weird flashback on Friday, before you got home."
"You did not seem troubled, despite bouncing off the padded walls."
"I—Hey!" It took me a moment to recognise the dig for what it was. "It was weird, okay? And kinda scary. That's never happened to me before. It was a bad one—I was in the kitchen, just making us lunch, but I kinda maybe ate yours, and anyway It was just like everything went away, and my chest hurt, and I was lying on the floor again, bleeding out, but I couldn't breathe and I fell over and it was just weird and scary and I don't know what to do. I just… don't."
Elsa traced her fingers down my cheek. "I can be here for you, but more than that, I do not know how to help."
"I…" I know I shouldn't have expected more. After all, she wasn't a psych major. "I wish you did. It's hard to talk about."
"Then talk to me, pretend it is practice; that I'm someone else today."
I itched absently at my scar through my shirt. She caught my hand and held it gently in hers. I took a deep breath before beginning.
"I was just standing in the kitchen, making our lunch. Maybe I was holding a knife, I don't know. Then I saw that stain on the wood, and something in me just—broke? snapped? I don't know, something like that—and then my chest was so sore. I felt the knife going in again. I was on the floor, and bleeding out, but not; I was outside my body. I was… fuck, I was terrified, Elsa. I was afraid I'd lose everything. And then it just stops… I'm down on all fours, hyperventilating at the floor. I was so weak I couldn't stand up, not for a couple of minutes. It was… I… I don't know. It scared me, and I don't like it."
"I am not one-hundred percent, but it sounds like PTSD."
"PTSD? From getting stabbed?" I was incredulous—at that time I thought PTSD was something that only happened to soldiers in combat.
Elsa pulled me down next to her, our eyes level. Her voice was soft; concerned and loving. "Anniken, you nearly died. If that is not a traumatic event, I don't know what is."
"I guess it makes sense?" It came out as more of a question than I intended.
"It is okay not to understand. That is the first step to wisdom."
That kind of came out of nowhere. "Um, what?"
"If you do not understand something, what is the first thing you do?"
"I look it—oh, I get it. Thank you." And before she could stop me, I had my phone out, looking up articles on PTSD. Specifically, treatment for it. Medication—most places claimed some benefit; Therapy—considered good by more places, and used with medication in some places. Or I could just leave it be, and figure it out later. I saw Elsa's frown and knew she must have been following my train of thought—or watching me surf on my phone.
"Sooner is better than later, Anna."
"But if I… and then you…"
"What?" she gave me a hard stare. "You think being at therapy will stop you being able to help me?"
"Maybe."
Elsa leaned sideways, her braid falling from her shoulder, her lips set in a firm line. She kissed me quickly, then sat back. "No. Nothing will stop you helping me. Even getting yourself stabbed didn't."
A smart-ass comeback died on my lips. She was right. So right. Who was I to argue?
—∞—
So Joan's sitting across from me at the table, smiling. "So, did you actually get the therapy?"
A little blunt there, I have to admit. Probably my fault. "Eventually. It helped—but the flashbacks only happened a handful of times. I'm still not even sure if I needed that extra help."
"But it didn't hurt."
"Well, no. And I did bring Elsa one time. We actually learned a lot."
"Later in the story, right?"
"Yup."
"And what about later today, with Tink?"
"I'm sorry baby, but no. Not tonight."
"Okay…" at least she's not storming off in a huff, or trying to shout me down. I'm actually surprised she's not trying to press me on this. Her next words explain why. "What about tomorrow night then?"
"Persistent, aren't you?"
"Yeah, I think I get it from my mother." I look up to the ceiling. I hope you're watching. This is your fault.
