“?‘What depression means to me,’?” she read. She looked up, her eyes glued to mine. “No, you certainly didn’t.”
“I couldn’t define crazy, because there’s too many interpretations. And I couldn’t define lonely, because it’s too big an emptiness. I don’t understand all the things I am, and I sure as hell don’t know how to explain them to you.” I leaned forward, mentally rebuking myself for stealing her spotlight. “But depression. Depression is only as complex as the person who’s defining it. It’s whatever I choose to make it.”
She rubbed her fingers along the words. “And what have you chosen to make it?”
“Simple. I think the more you try to convince yourself that you don’t need something, the more you need it. And I’ve only recently realized that needing is something I can survive. Like pain. It’s surprisingly bearable.”
She stared at the page, a familiar hope in her eyes. “So, where’s the line?” she asked. “Between what’s bearable and what isn’t?”
I shrugged, staring back at her. Unafraid. “I guess the line is wherever you draw it.”
She almost looked teary, which made me uncomfortable, because despite the fact I’d grown used to dealing with criers (see: Carla), other people’s emotions still weren’t my strong suit. I watched her mark something on the clipboard, and I had a pretty good feeling it wasn’t “emotionally unavailable.”
Before I left that day, I made her promise to read the entry when I wasn’t still around. I wasn’t big on hearing my feelings repeated back to me once I’d already felt them. And I was afraid she’d tell me how proud she was of my progress, which could have gone south (see: hugging).
I stopped in the doorway on my way out, suddenly remembering that needs weren’t specific to me. “By the way, I have an answer for you,” I said.
She spun her chair around, still grasping my book tightly. “Answer for what?”
“What to do when you’re alone on a street corner.” I smiled and pulled my bag onto my shoulder. “Look up.”
Later, I visited the pharmacy to pick up my prescription. This time sans my mother, who after much coaxing had reapplied for a position at the daycare. Initially, she tried to use my dad as a cop-out, saying that someone needed to keep an eye on him in case his condition took a bad turn. But I knew she wasn’t worried about my dad so much as she was doing what she’d always secretly done—?taking care of me. After promising her that I would be okay as long as she was happy, or at least some version of it, she begrudgingly agreed to follow her passion right to the kiddie kennel (see: daycare).
I stood in the back of the store, rocking on my heels while I waited for my name to be called over the intercom. The pharmacists scurried around from shelf to shelf, checking labels and dealing with ornery customers shouting demands from the drive-thru window. As an old man yelled about how long he’d been waiting in line, I heard another loud voice behind me. A voice I knew. A voice like home. I turned around, letting life in its pitiful and never-ending cycle bring me full circle.
The first thing I noticed was his hair, not hanging scruffily in his face, but clean-cut, to the top of his brows. His blue eyes were unconcealed, sparkling as they stared at me, not afraid of being seen. Of course, the weirdness of his haircut was in competition with his blue T-shirt that bore the phrase ALLERGIC TO STUPIDITY. In his hand was a basket filled with diapers, baby wipes, and a stick of deodorant.
He took a step closer, smirking with all the Snake-ish presumptuousness he could possibly attain in one grin. “Well, whaddya know? I see you’re still popping pills.”
“I could say the same about you.” I motioned to his basket. “You know, lavender-scented Dove is for women.”
“It’s for Carla. I’m heading over there later.”
I laughed. “She’s got you buying her toiletries now? Your back must be sore from that whip.”
He hung his head with a smile, but his hair didn’t cover his eyes like it used to. There was something about him that seemed so different. Not necessarily his haircut or his clothes or his basket full of diapers, but a vague change. It was like he’d aged five years in just a matter of weeks, growing out of Snake the rebellious, charming boy into Snake the man. I wondered if he saw the same when he looked at me.
“How’s your dad?” he asked, looking up again.
“Got released two weeks ago. The doctors said he’ll be fine.”
“That’s good. And you?” He moved closer, switching his basket to the other hand. I spotted a new tattoo blazed into his wrist that said PHB. “Are you doing fine?”
No one but Snake could have eyes as dull as they were bright, as numb as they were vibrant and inconceivable. He was the emotion between two slim spaces, the line drawn between contentment and devastation. I wasn’t sure which one he was in the expanse of time he waited for my answer. I only knew that I was both, and neither one was worth fearing anymore.
I pointed at his wrist to avoid the subject. “Another crappy tattoo, huh?”
A smile spread across his lips, and he rubbed the mark with his index finger. “Yep. Preston’s initials. Got it a few days after he was born.”
“Did your moms never teach you that tattoos are irreversible?”
“Well, my love for him is irreversible, so it’s fitting.”
I slapped my hand across my face. “Oh my God, you’re becoming one of those dads.”
“What?” He laughed, half self-consciously.
“Please tell me you don’t carry a three-by-two photo of him in your wallet.”
His reached into his pocket and grabbed his wallet, flipping it open to a professionally shot photograph of Preston lying naked on a fur rug. “You caught me.”
“If I ever see you wearing socks with sandals, we’re never speaking again.”
He tucked the wallet away and watched me with a pretty, weirdly mature expression. “So that means we’re speaking again?”
My name echoed across the intercom, cutting me off before I could say something I would regret. Before I could tell Snake that I was more miserable without him than with him. That I wasn’t scared of getting hurt anymore. That being close to him at all, whether as a girlfriend or friend or just some girl, was enough for me. The medicine aisle wasn’t the ideal place to finally admit what I’d always known he wanted to hear:
We were worth it.
I nabbed my prescription from the counter and told him goodbye. And just as I was about to leave, he called, “Reggie!”
I spun around, and his eyes were dripping with every existing feeling. One look, and I knew I’d been wrong when I said we only had a scrap of useful passion. He felt it all, and found ways to keep feeling more.
“Can I come over sometime?” he asked.
I didn’t answer.