“Why’s everyone expecting you to wear black?”
I shrug, smiling at my light dress. “Because black absorbs everything around it, making it what it is, unlike white, which reflects everything and doesn’t let anything past. I want everyone to know I’m not defined by what happened—it doesn’t make me what I am today. I am who I am, not what’s happened to me.”
Mom lifts a brow at me and smiles. “And here I thought you picked the dress because it fit you like a dream and was on the sale rack.”
I lift a shoulder. “And maybe that too.”
I’ve gotten a job at the public pool, teaching swimming lessons to adults who can’t swim, while I work on knocking out a few college prereqs at the community college in town. I love the job, but it doesn’t pay much. So I shop sale racks and yard sales because I insist on paying my own way. It’s important for me to be able to take care of myself.
“Are you as nervous as I am? You don’t look it,” Mom asks, placing her hand across her stomach.
“I’m so nervous I’m one frayed nerve away from peeing my pants, which, by the way, you did not mention in your list of what not to do when wearing white.”
Someone knocks on my door. They’re ready.
She bites her lips and glances at the door. “You’ll do great. And we’ll all be right there for you.”
I give her a side hug, which turns into her pulling me into a full-body one. She squeezes me so tightly it’s like she’s just been told this is the last time she’ll be able to see me.
“I’m so proud of you, Jade.”
I wind my other arm around her and squeeze her back. “I’m proud of me too.”
When she sniffs, I lean back and find her crying. Well, she’s trying not to cry, but it doesn’t change that she would be if she weren’t putting on The Brave Face for me.
“Wow. Even you’re looking at me like it’s a funeral.”
She shakes her head and pulls a tissue from her purse. “I’m just worried. This is a big day. A lot’s happened. It’s only been a year.” She dabs at her nose and eyes and glances at the door where another knock’s sounding. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait? Make sure this is really what you want?”
I lower myself so I’m at her eye-level. “Exactly. It’s been a year. I’m ready.”
“She’s ready.” Dr. Argent rises from the rocking chair and sends me a wink. “And she already knows she doesn’t have to say anything she’s not prepared to say.”
“See? I won’t say anything I’m not ready to say.” I give Mom a little shake. “I’m good.”
“We should get going. They’re waiting.” Dr. Argent moves for the door and puts her hand on the handle. She’s waiting for me to give the nod that I’m ready. We’ve spent a lot of time talking about doors and windows, past and present, dark and light.
Since I’d pitched her card in the garbage at the hospital, I had to call them to get in touch with her. I guess she’d been waiting for my call because they forwarded me automatically to her cell. She’s helped me a lot—well, she’s helped me help myself. I guess that’s what two-hour sessions twice a week will do, but she’s right—I am ready. For whatever’s coming. For whatever came. I’m ready.
Ready, however, is different than feeling whole again. That is still a work in progress.
When I nod, she opens the door and waves me through it. When I start to leave, Mom falls in right behind me, hanging so close she’ll crash into my back if I slow down.
I hear a bunch of noise coming from my living room, but I also hear Dad’s and Sam’s voices. That makes it easier to keep going when I want to turn around and tuck back into that closet I’ve spent more than my first night in. I focus on the good and let it propel me forward instead of letting the fear pull me back into its cave.
I glance in the kitchen as I come to the end of the hall. I can’t help but smile at the coffeepot propped on the counter. Maybe one day I’ll get a chance to use it. I’ve figured out how finally.
When I turn into the living room, I roll to a stop. All of my stuff’s still here: the couch, tables, old chair, pictures, and throw pillows, but it looks entirely different. Not only are there at least a dozen unfamiliar faces squeezing around each other in the small space, there are twice as many foreign objects. Lights, cameras, other tech-looking things I can’t name . . . all of it’s overflowing in my little room.