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I was going to bake, but that reminded me of Julian.
I was going to go for a walk and lie on the grass in Riverdale Park, but that also reminded me of Julian.
So, instead, I’m sitting on my couch alone, eating ice cream from the tub.
Ha. No. I’m not that much of a stereotype.
I’m actually looking at pictures of terrariums online to give myself ideas. I figure making a terrarium will be a nice little project to distract me. But then a particularly phallic cactus reminds me of Joey, which in turn makes me think of Julian. I can’t help thinking of him, even when I try not to.
Damn.
My phone rings.
“It’s me,” Dad says. “I’m downstairs. Can you buzz me up?”
I do as he asks, and then I start freaking out.
Dad would never visit me without warning on a Sunday morning. What’s going on? Is Mom with him...or did something happen to her? I pace my living room until he knocks on the door, and I immediately pull it open.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He frowns. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“Then why are you here? It’s Sunday morning.”
“I’m aware of what time it is.”
He sits down heavily on my couch, his face a mask of concentration, his gaze on his hands. My father is nearly seventy, and his hair has been gray for a while. He’s also thinner than he used to be, I notice now. I take a seat on the chair across from him.
“I’m sorry,” he says at last.
“For what?” I have no idea what we’re talking about.
“For refusing to accept that you were sick.”
Oh.
“Jeremy came to talk to me.” Dad’s not looking at me—I think that’s too difficult for him. “He said we screwed up. Me, him, and your mother. Though I think it started with me. I guess I thought...maybe if I denied it, it wouldn’t be true. You’d snap out of it. Be yourself again.”
“Don’t you hear how ridiculous that sounds?”
“I know.” He nods. “I know.” He looks down at the floor. “My father...you never knew him because he died when he was forty-eight. He threw himself in front of a train. Before that, he wasn’t well. Depressed, maybe, but we didn’t call it that.”
“Aunt Darlene told me.”
“Oh.” He pauses. “I don’t let myself think about it, but when you were...” He makes a vague gesture with his hands. “I had to think about it again, and I couldn’t deal with it.”
“Maybe if I’d gotten proper help earlier, it would have been easier. But the first time, I was only sixteen. I needed my parents to help me get treatment, and you dismissed it. Honestly, I wasn’t surprised. I hadn’t wanted to tell you in the first place because I knew how you’d react. And when I was in university...” I shake my head. I don’t want to talk about that.
He didn’t even visit me in the hospital. Naomi came every day, and Mom and Jeremy came once, but Dad never did.
I swallow. “Thank you for the apology. It doesn’t make everything okay, though.”
“I know. I will do better in the future if it happens again.”
“It’s starting. I can feel it. Every five years...”
“Come here.”
I sit beside him on the couch. He places his hand on my shoulder, which is the most affection he’s shown me since I was sixteen. When I shed a few tears, I can tell he’s uncomfortable, but he stays, sitting beside me.
It will never be perfect between us, and it’s sad that he wouldn’t change until he heard it from Jeremy.
Still, it’s something.
* * *
“Are you okay?” Bethany asks as we head to the banh mi restaurant together.
Usually we have lunch on Friday, but she had to cancel because her son needed to go to the doctor, so we’re doing Monday instead.
“Julian and I broke up,” I say.
“Oh no! I’m so sorry.”
I don’t tell her that it was my doing, that I feel like I can’t be in any relationship at all. But do I say, “I have some problems with clinical depression.”
I tell her a bit about my history with mental illness. I haven’t told anyone—other than Julian—in a long time. I don’t want everyone in my life to know about it, but I want Bethany, my closest friend at work, to know.
I’m not going to lean on her much, and I’m not going to talk to her about my problems on a regular basis—those conversations usually just makes me feel like shit anyway. But it’s easier now that she knows the truth and is still standing here next to me.
She gives me a quick hug when we’re in line at the banh mi restaurant.
“What are you getting today?” she asks.
It’s a joke we have, since I always get the same thing.
“Hmm.” I pretend to think real hard. “Maybe the chicken. Or the beef. But I hear the grilled pork is really good. Or maybe I’ll do something completely different and order the pork belly...”
I don’t need much from most people, and I’m aware of how difficult it is to be around me when I’m unwell. I just need Bethany to still be my once-a-week lunch friend. I need to know my father isn’t going to deny that I’m sick.
The little things add up.
* * *
Wednesday evening, I’m at Naomi’s apartment, and we’re sharing a bottle of wine as we plan our trip to New York. I’m excited for our trip, but it’s tinged with sadness because I can’t stop thinking of Julian. He’s the reason we’re able to go.
When I saw Naomi last Thursday, I told her what happened, but she didn’t make me talk about it much. Today, however, is a different story.
She puts aside her laptop and fiddles with her wine glass. “I think you’re wrong when you say you can’t have a relationship.”
I stiffen. “It’s not safe for me.”
“You can’t only do things that are safe.”
“Obviously I have to take some risks in life, but this one isn’t worth it. I’ll die if we get too close and then he breaks up with me.”
“You will not die,” she says, taking my hand. “I will look after you, I promise.”
“But there’s no treatment for my depression. It doesn’t respond to anything.”
“You can be kept safe in a crisis situation.” She pauses. “It wouldn’t have been a good idea to start dating soon after Dane, I agree, but it’s been ten years since you had a relationship, not counting the past few weeks. I think you’re punishing yourself. This isn’t only about your fear that it won’t work out and will turn out like last time. I believe you’re also letting your depression tell you that you don’t deserve a relationship.”
I shake my head. “No. It’s not like that.”
“I hate to say this, because I know you don’t like the phrase, but when you tell me you can’t be in a relationship, I think, ‘It’s just your depression talking.’ You’re letting your negative self-talk get the better of you. You deserve to have someone who cares for you like that. You can have a relationship, and maybe you’ll never break up.”
“But—”
“You think he can’t handle your problems? He cares for you very much, and we all have problems.”
“Mine aren’t the normal kind of problems.”
“They’re far from uncommon. It’s not a hardship to be with you, Courtney. You have to stop thinking like that. There will be hard times, yes, but you’ll get through them. Plus, the man is a CEO. I’m sure he’s used to handling problems.”
I sigh and put my face in my hands.
I don’t know, I don’t know.
If this were coming from anyone but Naomi, I wouldn’t even consider it. But my sister is the one person who’s always been there for me, always been supportive. If she thinks I’m punishing myself, maybe she’s right. If she thinks it’s not too much to expect a man to handle me when I’m depressed, maybe it’s true. It’s hard to wrap my mind around that possibility, but for the first time in a long time, it’s a possibility.
“You focus on what you consider the difficult parts of being with you,” Naomi says, “but those aren’t what come to mind when I think of my sister. I don’t consider you a difficult person. You’re unlucky to have the problems you have, but a man who truly loves you isn’t going to desert you because of something beyond your control. It’s not like you’ve refused to get help. You’ve tried lots of treatments, and you put a lot of effort into keeping yourself mentally healthy, always considering whether everything you do is good for you. It’s painful to see you throw something like this away when it’s clear you love Julian and he loves you.”
“Has he talked to you since last Wednesday?”
She shrugs. “He might have.”
“What did he say?”
Naomi pours herself some more wine. “I’m not telling.”
I pull the wine glass out of her hand. “I’m not giving this back until you do.”
“Fine. Be that way.” She grabs my mostly-full wine glass from the table and takes a gulp.
I laugh and have a sip of her wine.
“Just think about it,” she says. “Please.”
“I will,” I say, and I do mean it.