Salix was going to compare. This worry is worse than that worry. But then she didn’t.
“Which is not a big deal to her. But it would be for you, am I right?”
I nodded.
“I get it. At least I think I do. It’s worse for you.”
“I’m not pretending.”
“Why would you?”
I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. I took out my sketchbook and began to draw the girl sitting against the newspaper box. She had dreads, and a big backpack with a cat sleeping on top of it. She had a sign that said BE A DEER AND SPARE SOME CHANGE. She wore a pair of fuzzy antlers, the kind you’d see in a dollar store before Christmas.
There was worry, and then there was worry. Ninety-seven percent of people worried just fine. They felt the range of related emotions, but they could still do life, even simultaneously. The remaining 3 percent? We were incapacitated.
“Let me see?”
I shook my head.
“Why not?”
“Would you ask to see someone’s diary?”
“No.”
I closed the book. “Same thing.”
“But it isn’t, is it? It’s a sketchbook. Pictures. Drawings. A collection of your talent, right? Like listening to me play.”
My palm was warm on the worn cover, each corner so battered it was almost rounded, the spine reinforced with rainbow duct tape. Could I show her? I had never shown anyone my sketchbook. Not even Ruthie or Dan.
I slid it across the table. Salix opened it to the first page and smiled. A sketch of the fox with the limp.
“It’s not in any particular order,” I said. “S-s-sometimes I add things after. Glue on bits. Or color stuff. Things.” I could hear my words get thick and clunky as she turned the pages. A portrait of Jessica.
“That’s her?”
I nodded, unable to speak.
“Your first girlfriend.” She studied the portrait and then glanced up. “Did you hear me call you my girlfriend?”
I nodded again. I wished I could say something, but I felt like I was sitting there naked at a table outside a coffee shop. Absolutely naked.
“Is that okay with you?”
Say something, Maeve. Don’t just nod again.
“It’s perfect,” I squeaked as my heart started to pound. Oh no. The panic. The fucking panic. Salix turned the page, and then again, and then there were the dissected hearts.
“Sorry.” I snatched the book back and stood, clutching it to my chest. “I can’t.”
“Are you going to run away again?”
“No.” But I backed away from the table, as if I was.
The girl with the cat grinned up at me, antlers swaying.
“Spare change?”
“No!”
Salix dropped a dollar into the yogurt tub by the sign and took my hand and led me back to the table. She pushed my sketchbook away from her. “You’re right. It is like a diary. Playing the violin is different. I won’t ask to see it again.”
“Okay. Th-th-thank you.”
Everybody worries.
Which is why it’s so hard to be someone who worries more. More often. About more things. More intensely, and with my whole body. My heart pounded, and my arms grew stiff. My fingertips prickled, which always happened just before they went numb. I stared at the street.
“Maeve?”
What’s there to worry about? Don’t make such a big deal about things. It’ll blow over. Don’t dwell on it. Shake it off. Choose to not worry.
As if it were a choice!
“Maeve.” Salix packed up our things and took me by the hand. She walked me home, like I was some kind of invalid, silent and incapable beside her. When we got to my door, she said goodbye. And then: “I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“That I pushed you to let me look at it,” she said. “And I’m sorry that sometimes you panic and get so anxious.”
“Me?” I managed a small smile. “Never.”
She pulled me into a tight hug. “It doesn’t have to be so hard.”
“It just is what it is. Until my parents let me take something for it.”
“But right now, it doesn’t have to be so hard.”
She was being so sweet, but she didn’t understand. It just wasn’t that easy.
“If you start freaking out, call me and we’ll go for a walk. Or we’ll ride the night buses. We’ll smoke some pot and get the giggles and eat a whole bag of chips. We’ll walk up and down the alleys looking for treasure and avoiding skunks. Any of those things. All of those things. None of those things. Whatever you can think of.” She pushed me away just enough that she could look into my eyes. “In fact, you don’t even have to think about all the silly things.” She kissed me. “I can do that too. Your girlfriend will be in charge of distractions.”
“My girlfriend.” I smiled. “That’s a pretty good distraction right there.”
Just after midnight, I heard the front door open and close. It was Dad, creeping home yet again. He probably was out of clean underwear, or wanted some food, or needed a shower. This was my chance. Confront him. Face it head-on. Don’t let it get the best of me. A worry will cease to exist once it has been confronted, Nancy said. You kill it by facing it.
I sat in the dark for a moment, Salix’s words loud in my head.
You are brave, Maeve.
What are you afraid of?
What’s the worst that can happen? He gets better? He gets worse? So then it will either make a difference or it won’t. You can’t lose, Maeve. If you call him on his shit, he has to answer. He has to. He owes you that much. He loves you.
I could hear him moving up there, the floor creaking quietly. Maybe he wasn’t fall-down drunk; maybe this would go a lot better than I hoped. Or maybe I should call Salix and tell her to meet me at the park with a big bag of chips. No. No. I needed to stop running the other way. If there was anything I could do to get Dad back on track, it was my responsibility to do it, fear or no fear. I still had to do it. For Claire. For the boys. For me.
I stopped at the top of the stairs, out of sight.
He was sitting on the edge of the couch. He’d pulled the coffee table to his knees and was leaning over it. The light from the one lamp on cast him in a warm, orange glow.
What’s the worst that can happen?
Never mind anything that came before, because then he tucked his head down and snorted a line of cocaine through a rolled-up dollar bill.
And this wasn’t even the worst thing. I could see it all unfold from here. The family, undone. My dad, unemployed and drunk and high and living on the street. Maybe we’d never see him again. Maybe this was the end of everything.
“Dad,” I whispered.
“Maeve. Shit! I didn’t see you….” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “It’s not what you think—”
“What are you doing?”
I should’ve stayed downstairs. There was no point in confronting it head-on. This was worse than not knowing. This was worse than worrying. I wanted to take it back. I wanted to take the trip downstairs in reverse, undoing it along the way, and then I wanted to run in the opposite direction. Running away was better than this.