"Sorry, Nyala. I don't want to interrupt you." Ny had only been home for a couple months, and I'd only visited her here once in that time. She would check herself into the hospital when she felt as if she were unraveling. She'd been there a handful of times over the year I'd been treated, and we'd become fast friends despite not having a whole lot in common—on the surface at least. She was in her fifties, wore her hair in long dreadlocks that fell down her back, and usually dressed in bright African-print dresses. She was warm and wonderful, and I thought of her as a mother figure, albeit one who was unpredictable and given to flights of fancy. At least, that's how I put it. The doctors would describe it differently I was certain.
"No, no, I can put the writing aside for now. I can just as easily talk while I sculpt. Let me just close this file, and I'll get my hands busy doing that." Nyala was in one of her manic-creative moods. It was either create or die, or at least that's the way she described it. Sometimes she'd stay up three or four days straight, moving between writing, sculpting, and painting. Then she'd sleep for a week. She never minded me visiting when she was in one of these moods, though. In fact, the more things she was doing at once, the better, or so it seemed, even when she was in the hospital and art supplies were limited. She hit some keys on her computer and then stood up, gesturing for me to follow her. She opened the door to the room at the back of her apartment, the one that overlooked the garden and had windows on three walls letting in lots of natural light. She had several easels set up and a table where it looked like she was creating the bust of a woman. She sat down in front of the clay and started working it with her hands.
"Sit down," she gestured to a berry-pink, overstuffed antique settee on the wall opposite her. I took a seat, leaning against the back and sighing loudly.
"Uh oh. What's that?" Nyala asked.
"Ryan. I ran into Ryan at a party and then he . . . found me." Nyala's hands paused only momentarily before she started working again, but her eyes remained on me.
"He did, did he?"
"You don't sound surprised."
"I'm not."
I tilted my head. "Why aren't you surprised?"
"Fate."
I groaned. "That's the second time today I've heard that word."
Nyala glanced up at me. "Fate is the language God uses to speak to us, baby. It's up to us to listen, though. What happened?"
I tilted my head, taking in her words. I was surprised Nyala believed in God, that anyone with an illness of any kind could believe in a loving God. Why couldn't he heal us then? Were we not worthy? But that was for another day, I supposed. I moved that aside and told her about running into Ryan at the charity event and then about him showing up at the aquarium that morning. "Damn," she said, the word filled with surprise. It was difficult to surprise Nyala when she was in one of her creative moods.
"Yeah," I said. "I know."
Nyala was quiet for a moment, focusing on what her hands were doing to the clay in front of her. "You never let go of him," she said.
I let out a long breath. "No. I still love him. And it still doesn't matter." And to grieve for him the way I had for months and months . . . I couldn't do it. Not again.
"Oh, it matters. I'd say it matters a great deal."
I shook my head. "I won't do that to him, Ny."
"What? Strap him with the burden of you?"
I let out a small laugh lacking in humor. "Basically, yes." I paused. "He looks so good, Nyala." I couldn't help the small smile that tugged at my lips. "He looks healthy and . . . happy."
"And you're not? Healthy, I mean?"
I shook my head. "No. And I probably never will be, not entirely. You know my past, Ny. What do I have to offer him other than the promise of a chaotic life? Of always wondering if I was just going to . . . go into one of my episodes at a moment's notice?"
She raised a brow, but her eyes remained on her work. "Episodes? Is that what the specialists are calling them these days?" No, that's what my grandmother called them, and I'd taken up the term.
"You get my point, though, Ny. After everything Ryan's fought through, does he deserve dealing with that? Dealing with me? Does he deserve that fate?" I bit at my lip, pondering the question as misery settled over me.
Nyala shrugged. "Deserve it? Do any of us deserve what we get in this life? Is that how it works?" She shrugged, answering her own question. "Sometimes I suppose. Mostly, no."
I sighed. "I just . . . why do I have to be this way? I just want to be free of it all. God, I just want to cast it all off."