“You’re ready for this, you know?” We make eye contact. It’s the kind of eye contact that means something. She makes me believe her.
And maybe that’s all I need, because before I know it, I’ve pushed myself through the door. But the physical reaction to what I’ve done is instantaneous. I’m standing on the welcome mat, but it feels more like I’m standing on the edge of an airplane wing in flight. I wobble, out of control. My senses ramp up times one thousand. The sun is so bright that it makes my eyes water. The air is so fresh that it stings my nostrils. The birds tweet so loud that it hurts my ears. But Brenda still stands there, looking at me, knowing I can do it. So I stay put, feet planted on the ground.
“How are you feeling right now?” she asks.
“Overwhelmed.” I’m sugarcoating. The more accurate word is terrified.
“You should be proud of yourself. I’m proud of you.”
I look at her, and it’s obvious she means what she says. I fall to my knees, right on top of our welcome mat, and sob. I rock back and forth, clutching my stomach because I want to be able to shove the feelings back inside. But I can’t. I cry, loud and long. Brenda squats down next to me. She puts her hand on my shoulder. I feel it. There’s just enough force to let me know she has me and that I won’t float away.
“It’s okay,” she says. “You’re okay. It’s a big step. You’re going to be emotional. But you got outside. I might’ve overestimated with the mailbox. We’ll go slower. Baby steps. Just know that I hear you.”
Her voice is soothing. Her words still me. My crying calms. I can catch a breath. It’s decided that I won’t go farther than this today. But this far is still good.
We finish up our hour on the welcome mat. She asks me if it feels good to be outside.
“I like the smell of the air,” I admit. And then we talk about it.
She asks me what I notice. What I hear. What I see. “Does it seem different?”
I try to explain what it feels like to be here. Outside. It’s more than visceral. It’s emotional, too. I try to put that into words. Brenda says she understands.
She doesn’t even write anything down. When I ask her why, she says it’s because she doesn’t need notes to remember this. She tells me that today was a breakthrough. She says it’s literally the first step out the door.
“How did you know I was ready?” I ask when we stand up again.
“I didn’t. It was only an idea I had. Something I wanted to try. When I showed up and you were wearing jeans, which is different for you, I was hopeful but still not sure. I was prepared for you to change your mind. But then you turned around to go back inside earlier, and I noticed you had a letter sticking out of your back pocket. And then I knew I was right. Without a doubt.”
I stand and stare at Brenda.
“Writing is a powerful thing, Morgan. I don’t know who that letter is for, but my guess is that writing it made you feel better. You should keep writing. Putting things down in words might help you to process them.”
She sounds really sure. She makes me believe it was a good idea.
After Brenda leaves I go to my room. I put the letter back in my top dresser drawer, saving it for another day.
chapter ten
Brenda was right. It feels good to write things down. I spend the rest of the afternoon on my bed, writing stuff in an old notebook. I write about things I want to remember. Short paragraphs that read like photographs.
I write about the first time I urged Ben underwater for half a second in a swimming pool when he was a year old. I write about the way his eyes bugged out when I pulled him back to the surface. He clung to me and I felt bad for scaring him. The summer after my freshman year, when I began teaching swim lessons at the community pool, I realized I went too fast. There are steps I should’ve taken to prepare him. Thankfully, by then, Ben swam like a fish. I was relieved I hadn’t made him afraid of the water.
I write about the way my mom and I used to drive around to garage sales when her belly was fat and full of Ben and my dad was in Afghanistan. Piece by piece, weekend by weekend, we found everything we needed for a new baby. My dad was excited for Ben to come, even though he wouldn’t be there for his birth. When we talked on the phone, he would tell me I was going to be the best big sister in the world.
“The key is to hold the baby so they can hear your heartbeat,” he told me. “That’s how I used to get you to sleep. And once you fell asleep, it was so peaceful and you were so sweet, I didn’t want to put you in your crib. So I’d hold you until I fell asleep, too.” He sighed. Wistful. “Sometimes all the way until morning.”
I write about what it feels like to tear down the lane of a swimming pool and how all the noise gets blocked out. I write about what it feels like to touch the wall at the end of a race and pop my head up to check my time on the scoreboard. I write about my mom cheering. I write about winning.