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After changing my phone number things have calmed down. My mind is more at ease now that there is no chance of hearing small rocks landing on my balcony window. There's no waiting for the late-night “I love you” text messages, either. The biggest stress before changing my number was my answering the snoring man’s wife’s questions, over and over, being honest and straightforward. The questions would not stop. Day and night the old Nokia would beep, and I received a new, very personal and very gut-wrenching question about our exposed secret moments together. After a week of messages back and forth, the panic attacks made a forceful comeback. Heart racing like an express train, I would try to calm myself down by using the Ujjayi breathing technique they taught me at the yoga studio. Ujjayi breathing helped for a while, but then the cursed phone would beep and another text message arrived. The chest pain got so suffocating I told Sigmund about it, asking for his advice.
“What are your options considering these text messages?” Sigmund had asked.
“Options?”
“Yes, you are answering this woman’s questions and giving her truthful answers. What other options do you have?”
“I don’t want to lie to her. And it’s too late for that anyway.”
“I hear you and understand you don’t want to lie to this woman. What other options do you have?”
“I can go on answering her never-ending questions.”
“And how is that making you feel?”
“Like someone is slowly strangling me to death.”
“What other options do you have that would also make this strangling feeling disappear?”
My phone’s SIM card had found its final resting place in Sigmund’s office trash can. I had left his office, walked over to a local kiosk that sells prepaid phone services, and purchased an unlimited month-to-month service for twenty Euros.
This is my new number. Don’t share it with anyone, I had texted Harri from my new number. Good thing he had never changed his phone service. I was able to remember his phone number by heart. The phone had instantly beeped for a new message.
Is this you, Ding Dong? Can I share it with Jan?
The yoga studio seems quieter than usual. I sit on my thick purple yoga mat and hold my feet inside my palms to keep them warm. The studio is drafty, and even though summer is just around the corner, the chilly nights sometimes leave the old buildings freezing cold. Everyone’s feeling optimistic for the summer weather to take over any moment now, and they shut down the heat in their homes, even though some nights the temperature would still drop below freezing.
The yoga teacher walks in, moving softly like a panther who has just enjoyed a bigger dinner than needed, and is now ready to take a nap and relax. The teacher is gorgeous, mostly because of the way she radiates good energy, the kind you read about in inspiring quotes and articles, without ever realizing its meaning. It’s easy to breathe around her, and she gives the room more warmth by just being present. We never chat with one another. There’s no real need to. Some of the students stay and talk to the teacher after the class is over, but I have always found this woman to be too special to be ruined by meaningless words. The teacher’s smile and soft but firm touch (she sometimes comes over and gently fixes my asanas during the class) is enough to charge my batteries for days.
“Vande Gurunam Charanaravinde.” The teacher’s soft voice starts the opening chant. I join in, and the good energies take over.
“How’s it hanging, girl?”
After all this time, it’s still extremely odd for me to see Harri hanging around at the barn without me. Again today, I had no idea I’d find my best friend sitting on the fence line, admiring his boyfriend riding a hot and sweaty warm-blooded gelding. Jan is the greatest rider I have ever seen. His tall, fit body looks like a statue come to life, moving with the horse in perfect sync, and performing every movement with ease. His handsome face is relaxed, and it looks like this gorgeous man is half asleep and smiling while he rides difficult movements, one after another, without failing once. It all looks very different when I’m the one riding. Face red as a tomato, sweat dripping and muscles aching, I would be able to perform the half passes and flying changes Jan practices in the riding arena right now, but I’d never look like a Greek statue while doing so.
The fence line wobbles a little when I lean on it and join Harri’s fan club.
“He’s so fucking sexy,” Harri says, not even trying to lower his loud, deep voice.
“The rider is pretty hot as well,” I say, but Harri barely hears me. His eyes are locked on the man of his dreams, controlling an 800-kilo animal, easily, with basically just his two pinkies and fit buttocks.
“How are you holding up?” Harri asks, staring at the piaffing rider and horse. His sincere and down-to-earth question startles me a little. A joke or a sarcastic comment about the yoga class I just returned from would be much more normal than the worried tone of my best friend’s question. Harri usually asks something about my third eye opening during the “yogi magic class,” or he asks if the holy chakras had gotten me so filled with positivity I was now able to float around the city, repeating “ummm” to everyone I hovered by. All the sarcastic jokes and comments aside, I know Harri’s happy to see how doing yoga has calmed me down, and also made me gain a bit of muscle on top of bone. Exercising and eating better have also made my paper-white skin gain some healthy color, making me look more like a human being than a skinny, pale corpse.
“I’m good. I feel good,” I say slowly, tasting the words like their meaning is just now coming back to me. It’s almost like I am afraid the honesty of these few words would suddenly attack me, bringing back the darkness, desperation and numbness. This overall okay-ness is a new friend of mine, and I’m not willing to let go of it. This feeling is worth fighting for, and I sense the power inside me growing. Normal people probably call it self-respect, some call it confidence, or inner strength. I don’t need a name for it. It’s enough to keep feeding it every day, fully enjoying and appreciating its presence.
“I’m keeping it, Harri. I don’t care who the father is. I won’t take a test. I don’t give a fuck.”
Harri’s sturdy and fit body zaps, and for a second I think someone has turned on the electric tape on the fence, but I can’t see anyone standing by the power box controlling the electric fencing. In a split second, Harri forgets about the guy cooling off his foaming and snorting horse in the arena, and he turns his tightened body and full attention towards me.
“Ho-ly fuckballs.”
“I know I’m insane, but hey, what else is new?” I smile and peek at Harri’s shocked face, chuckling a little when I see his eyes, wide as dinner plates, fixated on me.
“No, no! You... it’s great... it’s... you....”
It’s officially the first time in the history this has happened; Harri stutters.
“I’m telling Sigmund tomorrow and that’s that. He’ll help me make a plan.”
“But you don’t know shit about babies!” Harri laughs, without any trace of judgment or mocking in his words.
“I know less than shit. Never planned to have one. I guess I’ll need to go buy a Babies for Dummies book.”
Sigmund has decided to surprise me by serving some chamomile tea. As odd as his gesture is, it also feels like the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. The chamomile scent takes over the whole room, and suddenly the tacky IKEA furniture doesn’t look as ridiculous as it usually does. Secretly I wish Sigmund would bring in an old colorful rug to brighten up the place a bit. The tall, peaceful man finally sits down with his tea cup and gives me a reassuring smile.
“So, still yoga, horses, and eating well, I hope?” he says, and takes a careful sip of his tea.
“Yes, sir. That’s the formula. I actually cooked a batch of meatballs the other day. They will keep me fed for days.”
“How lovely! Good for you!” The second sip Sigmund takes is too much for his tongue, and he desperately tries to hide the burning pain in his mouth.
“I have decided to keep it.”
Sigmund forgets about his injured tongue the second the words come out of my mouth. He places the tea cup on the table between us and grabs a tissue from the Kleenex box. The tea has steamed his glasses. He takes them off but forgets to use the tissue to wipe them off.
“And how does this decision make you feel?”
“Okay, I guess. I don’t really think much about it. It all feels very unreal. The only thing I know is what I don’t want to do.”
“Which is?”
“To kill the bean.”
“I see.” Sigmund snaps out of his surprise and carefully wipes off his glasses, but the steam has already faded away on its own. He smiles a little and waits for me to continue talking. But there’s not much to say. Now that I’ve made up my mind, I don’t feel the need to talk about it. It’s like months of pressure on my shoulders has vanished, and I can finally take full breaths, enjoying the oxygen caressing my relaxed body.
“Harri and Jan are officially a couple,” I say, changing the subject because I can’t figure out anything else to say, except for the joke about Babies for Dummies book, but I’m not sure if Sigmund is familiar with the “for dummies” concept. The last thing I want is to make him feel stupid or embarrassed. The shrink I hated so deeply in the beginning has become one of my favorite people on this planet.
“Good for them!” Sigmund chuckles a bit. He rarely comments on stories of my dramatic and witty best friend, but I can tell he enjoys hearing Harri’s latest news and whereabouts.
“I wonder what your friend’s radar would say about me.”
Sigmund’s unexpected joke makes me burst into laughter.
Days filled with yoga, riding and hanging out with Harri and Jan have made my life easier to bear. It’s been over a month since my last blackout. The panic attacks keep coming almost daily, but I now have effective tools to make them go away quickly.
The oven clicks and a red light goes off, telling me the temperature is now hot enough to cook the meatballs I prepared from ground beef and a bag of French onion soup. The doorbell rings twice, making me wrinkle my eyebrows in wonder. Harri has his own way of ringing the doorbell. He pushes the ringer repeatedly, sometimes getting the angry neighbors to open their doors before I had the chance to run and open mine, stopping Harri from getting me yet another eviction warning. This peaceful doorbell, only ringing twice, cannot be my jackass friend.
I peek through the peep hole and see a beautiful round face I haven’t seen for nearly half a year. Anna is slightly turned away from the peep hole to see why the neighbor’s door has opened a crack and someone is staring at her suspiciously.
“Hi there,” she says, and watches, amusement on her face, when her stalker quickly closes the door when they realize they’ve been spotted.
What is Anna doing here? Standing behind the door, unable to decide whether to open it or return back to my cooking, I can’t even make up my mind about how I feel about this woman these days. It’s been a long time since I thought about my ex or our former home I left behind, echoing with not enough furniture or paintings. The doorbell rings again. Knowing my next-door neighbor is ready to put together another petition for the building management to evict me, I quickly open the door.
“Oh, hey, you are home. I was just about to leave. What’s up with your inquisitive next-door neighbor?” Anna asks, trying to sound carefree like she’s been visiting me every day for the past six months.
“That’s what happens when you have too much time on your hands,” I reply, failing to come up with anything witty to say. “Come in.”
Anna stands by the doorstep, and for a few seconds she looks like an animal of prey trying to calculate if the pond is safe to enter for some much-needed drinking water, or if the hunters are nearby, ready to attack as soon as she’d put her head down and start hydrating.
“Thanks. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Nah, I was just making some meatballs. I would offer you some but they’re not ready and probably taste like shit anyways.” I snort a bit, making fun of my well-known lack of cooking skills. Anna smiles shyly and follows me into the kitchen. It feels like we are two complete strangers instead of two close friends who have known each other since pre-school. She stands by the kitchen window and crosses her long arms over her chest.
“Your meatballs don’t look half bad. I bet they taste great.”
“You think? Harri said he liked my recipe, but he will eat dog shit as long as it’s served with Heinz ketchup.”
Anna’s jingling laughter fills the kitchen and makes the room seem warmer and cozier. Or maybe the early summer sun has finally started to heat up the place.
“So, how have you been?”
Anna’s question sounds innocent, but her eyes peeking at my stomach area for a nanosecond is enough to tell me that Harri has spread the news. It isn’t a secret anymore, my being pregnant. Sooner or later, people would see me rolling around with a baby carriage and buying diapers and whatever other shit new mothers bought from the supermarket. I really need to start reading about this baby stuff, I think.
“Me? Well, you know. Cooking crappy meatballs. Trying to do yoga and dressage. Knocked up.”
Anna smiles a little and neither of us needs to say Harri’s name out loud to understand our mutual friend has been gossiping.
“I guess congratulations are in order. How far along are you now?” Anna says and her question brings a faint blush to her cheeks. I realize Anna is trying to figure out if it’s a possibility for her online gaming boyfriend to be the father.
“Don’t worry, Anna. It’s not his child.”
Anna sounds like a leaking balloon when she lets out a huge sigh of relief. She smiles apologetically, clearly unsure what to say next.
“Do you want to stay for dinner? I have Heinz!” I say, trying to lighten the pressuring mood that has taken over the room. Only a while back I had hated Anna more than anyone else in the world, but right now it felt comforting to have her there, just like old times.
“Sure. Why not?”
The apartment seems quiet and empty. Anna had stayed for the whole night and we’d watched Friends on DVD. There were too many topics neither of us wanted to talk about, so we focused on enjoying the TV show both of us love, eating meatballs and cottage cheese from soup bowls. I may have started to cook more, but washing dishes was still not one of my priorities in life.
Not sure what to think of Anna’s visit, I try not to analyze it too much. But I can’t stop myself from wondering if the girl had only visited to get some much-needed answers, or if she missed our friendship as well, hoping we could bring it back to life. Maybe Anna just felt like it would be too rude to walk out the door instantly after hearing the answers she had come for.
We have been close friends since childhood, and I miss our friendship terribly. We are like two opposites, Anna and me, and our personalities being like night and day has always balanced things out and made sense for both of us. I push Anna to consider things a bit less, live a little, and Anna gets me thinking more about the reality of life. Once my dad died, it was Anna who suggested I open a savings account and put some money aside so I wouldn’t spend it all while drinking too much and not working. It’s very fortunate I listened to my wise friend and took her advice.
Thinking about my old house, the red sweater and my ex instantly gets my guts going. It feels like I swallowed a dozen little knives that are now stabbing my organs from the inside. There’s so much going on in my life, I haven’t had the time to miss my ex or our life together... or think about Anna now sleeping in our old bed, curled up with someone I was once supposed to marry. My friend’s surprise visit is now bringing all of those memories back, making me feel jealous and anxious.
“What would Sigmund say?” I say out loud, giving up on my latest decision to quit smoking, which has lasted for an impressive forty-eight hours. Digging through the mudroom closet, I bang down a pile of mail I tossed on the hat shelf above the hanging coats and hoodies. I barely ever go through the mail. All of my bills go straight to net banking, and no one sure as hell ever sends me letters or postcards. My communication with the outside world all happens over the phone. Although, ever since I changed my phone number, and only gave the new number to Harri and Jan, I’ve been left alone and not harassed by telemarketers or the old boy toys who want to meet up for a cup of coffee “one more time.”
“Yesss.” Finally, after furiously turning the mudroom closet upside down, a half-full pack of cigarettes falls from my barn coat pocket. Grabbing it enthusiastically, I toss the mail back to the hat shelf. It’s all advertisements, flyers and coupons for one-time offers to save shit tons of money on sportswear and kitchen supplies no one ever really uses. My hand freezes when I’m about to toss the last piece of mail, a white A4-sized envelope, on top of the junk mail. The sender is “Child Protective Services” and their logo is an adult and a young child holding hands. The stamp says it was mailed two weeks ago and it’s addressed to me, mentioning both my first and middle name. Only formal letters, usually sent by the government, state the recipient’s name like that. I have learned the formal way after receiving my father’s will, endless amount of tax papers wanting statement on said will, and the government registry office asking me to clarify what I wanted to do with Dad’s stock holdings, bank accounts and insurance.
I rip the envelope open and pull out a sheet of paper. It’s a formal letter, typed on a typewriter, stating my name, first and middle, at the beginning.
You have been reported to have a questionable state of mental health, which may be of danger to your unborn child.
What the hell is this? Reported? By whom? My brain fills with questions and it makes reading the rest of the letter nearly impossible. I read the first sentence five times, trying to understand what it means. How do they know I’m with child? Who is they?
Please make yourself available for an interview with one of our authorities on the date stated at the end of this letter.
My eyes fly to the bottom of the letter. Tomorrow. 14:00 o’clock. And the authorities mentioned will be coming to my apartment.
“This is fucking bullshit!” Harri scoffs, down on all fours, scrubbing the kitchen floor. The square tiles are covered with ancient sticky beer stains. The stains have never bothered me; I got used to them a long time ago. It’s been easier to go buy a pair of slippers from the local flea market than to scrub and clean the dirty, sticky kitchen floor.
“There’s always the bedroom. I haven’t cleaned in there yet.”
“Fuck that. I don’t want to see what’s hidden under your bed!”
The dishcloth lands on Harri’s forehead and he tosses it back at me, but I’m quick enough to dodge the incoming attack. The coffeemaker beeps three times, letting us know the dark roast coffee is finally brewed, ready to be served. It’s early in the morning, and Harri has called in sick to come over to read the letter of doom, and to help get my filthy apartment ready for the mysterious interview.
“I didn’t mean it’s bullshit that I have to clean the kitchen. The fact that some asshole is coming to our home, uninvited, to ask a bunch of personal questions is beyond me. And who the fuck is this numb-nut who reported you to the Child Security... whatever-they-are-called?”
Harri talking about my apartment as “our home” sends a warm wave through my body. My faithful and caring friend called his boss and lied about being sick, came over to help me clean an apartment that hasn’t seen a mop or any other cleaning supply for over a year, and he ends up being even more upset about my troubles than I am.
“It’s probably just a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding that’s making my head and knees hurt like a motherfucker!”
Harri gets up and digs out his cigarettes, about to light one up in the kitchen. The Zippo freezes in his hand when he remembers why he’s here.
“Better smoke this on the balcony,” he says and gratefully welcomes the big cup of steaming coffee I hand him. The dark roast has a hint of nuts added to it and is our all-time favorite coffee. Harri has his own coffee mug stored in the cupboard. The mug has a yellow cartoon duck with big innocent eyes, and a text printed on the side saying, I’m ducking amazing. He truly is.
The doorbell rings and I take a deep breath, waiting for ten deep breaths until opening the door to my spotless, bleach-smelling apartment. Harri has left only fifteen minutes ago, making me swear I would call the second I got rid of the “nosy government-employed bastard.” The blue silky dress shirt Jan sent for me to wear feels odd on my skin, and my face looks strange with carefully placed make-up, making me appear years older than I really am. My hair is up in a ponytail; it took me a good twenty minutes to brush my hair after taking a shower. I rarely brush my long, tangled hair. It takes way less effort to tie it in a messy bun on the top of my head. Make-up seems like a waste of time as well, but today I carefully hid the dark bags under my eyes, adding some bronze powder to bring more color to my pale face. The young lady staring back at me from the small oval mudroom mirror looks healthy and beautiful.
“Hi there. Please come in!” I say, sounding overly enthusiastic. The older lady in front of me smiles and quickly walks in. The lady is shaped like a pear, and wearing gray clothing, and her eyes are shaded with bright blue eye shadow.
“Thank you so much, miss. And thank you for being available for this interview. Will your husband be joining us?”
“Husband? No, no, it’s just me.”
“Ah, still a fiancé? Don’t worry, he can join us the next time.”
What is this? Why does this lady think I still live with my ex? What does she mean by next time?
“Please, sit down. Would you like some coffee and biscuits?” I say, trying to hide the rising panic attack creating pressure on my chest and already narrowing my eyesight.
“I would love some. Thank you, miss.”
The lady in gray wanting coffee and some of the biscuits Jan sent over with the blue silky shirt, gives me an opportunity to escape the room for a minute or two. I fast walk into the kitchen and silently close the door, leaving it cracked open so the lady wouldn’t hear me shutting it. This is not the right time to act like a lunatic, but the panic attack about to take over is bigger than I’ve experienced in ages.
The Ujjayi breathing calms my pulse, and after a few minutes my heart starts beating more steadily. The room finally stops spinning and I’m able to let go of the kitchen counter without falling down on my knees. The lady, sitting on my old futon in the living room, has answered her phone and now talks calmly with someone about a teenager who has run away from home. It sounds like the parents are worried their child may try to leave the country and never come back.
“Sounds tempting,” I whisper, and take another deep breath.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. Apparently I forgot to turn the coffeemaker on before your arrival.” My white lie seems to assure the lady and she places her phone on the coffee table next to the futon.
“That’s perfectly fine, miss. Let’s get started.”
I sit down opposite the pleasant lady with gray clothes. Her hair is up in a perfect bun, finishing the conservative look, which makes the lady look as if she should be working as a teacher in an elementary school.
The old armchair I sit on, opposite the futon, is covered with a blanket my mother once knitted and gave me as a birthday present. The yellow-and-red blanket is big enough to cover all the stains and most of the scratches that expose some of the stuffing that bursts from inside the old and slightly stinky chair. Harri sprayed a bottle of Febreze on it earlier, and the perfume makes my nose tickle.
“The lady who reported you wishes to remain anonymous. But she is worried you may have some mental health issues that may put your child in danger. We are sure this all can be sorted and taken care of, but we need to take every report seriously.”
Of course it was the snoring man’s wife who reported me. She must have gotten really pissed off once my phone suddenly died, and not knowing where I lived, she reported me to the Child Protective Services. Stoning to death started to sound more and more tempting to me.
“I could go on about the protocol all day but basically there’s only two things I need from you. We need to set up two meetings. One for me to meet your fiancé, and another one to talk with your psychotherapist. If the two have nothing to report, and are not worried about your state of mind, I don’t see any reason why I wouldn’t toss this report into my trash can.”
All I can do is force a smile and nod. How am I going to pull this off? Sigmund would vouch for me, I’m almost certain of it. But my ex coming to meet with a government operative and lie to her? That part of the plan needs some serious brainwashing and blackmailing.
