“You met her? How could you meet her? You didn’t even talk to me about this.”
“Because I knew you would be like this.”
“That’s exactly why you should have said something. Or did you just think I wouldn’t find out?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Really? So is this just part of your general pattern of hiding things from me then? What else are you hiding, Derek? Have you met with our father too? Are you guys buddies? Do you toss the football around on Sunday afternoons and have a good laugh about how everyone but Portia knows what’s going on?”
“Okay, now you’re just being ridiculous.”
“So now I’m ridiculous? What I feel is ridiculous?”
Khai took the steps to Portia’s level two at a time. The door was open and with every step up, the yelling got louder.
“Hey, hey, everything okay in here?”
It was obviously not but what else was a guy to say when he was clearly stepping into the middle of a family dispute?
Derek practically growled at him from the living room where he was standing. “Get lost, Khai.”
“No.” Portia slammed her hand on the kitchen counter causing a small white cloud of what looked like flour to rise into the air. “You don’t tell people to leave my house. This is my space and I decide who can be here. And right now, Derek, you can leave.”
“Portia, we need to talk about this.”
“Derek, get out!”
She was screaming now, her face red. Khai’s concern grew into significant worry. He stepped closer to Derek.
“Hey, maybe you should leave.”
“Who do you think you are telling me what to do with my sister?”
“Someone who can tell that right now, this isn’t good for her,” Khai hissed. “Or you, for that matter. Isn’t this whole thing about you not communicating with her? Well, she’s talking now. How about you listen and do what she asked?”
Derek growled. “I could punch you right now.”
“Because you ending up in the hospital would make this situation better, right?”
Derek glared at Khai a moment longer, then shoved past him and went down the stairs. Khai waited till he heard the door to Derek’s unit downstairs close before he turned to Portia. She was breathing hard as she rolled out dough on the counter. She picked it up, slammed it down, kneaded through it, then picked it up and slammed it down again. He stayed where he was and watched her, giving her a minute to calm down. When her pace slowed and she stopped making dents in her kitchen counter, he walked over slowly.
“So, you and Derek had a disagreement?”
“Don’t make jokes, Khai.” She didn’t look up from kneading. “I can’t take jokes right now.”
He nodded. “Do you want me to leave too?”
She smacked the dough and kept kneading. “No.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
More smacking, more kneading. “No.”
“Is there anything I can—?”
“I just need you to sit there and shut up.” She was still breathing heavily and her eyes flashed with fire as she looked at him. “Can you do that? Can you just shut up and sit there while I...while I...”
Her voice faltered as she ran out of words and gasped for breath. Khai reached out and held her wrist.
“Yes, I can do that.”
She pulled out of his grasp and walked over to the kitchen sink, resting her hands against the edge, her back to him. He sank onto the stool by the counter and watched her. He could hear her ragged breaths, see her body heave as she tried to get herself under control. She was not okay. Whatever happened between her and Derek had unraveled her.
He glanced around the room. He noticed the afghan crumpled on the arm of the couch and cushions lying in a pile on the floor. There were cookbooks pulled out from the shelves sitting in a stack in front of the bookcase. Colored sticks lay on a side table beside a jar.
“What’s that?”
She breathed in deeply, and then released it. She pivoted slightly. “What’s what?”
He walked over to the side table and picked up one of the sticks, realizing as he did that it was a painted Popsicle stick. It had one sentence written on it in pen.
Give yourself a manicure.
“It’s my alternative jar.”
He could hear the tiredness in her voice, but resisted the urge to look at her. She had made it clear she didn’t need him trying to fix her right then. Instead, he chose another stick and then another.
Go to Central Park.
Dance it out.
“It’s supposed to help me with my urges,” she continued, her voice a little less tense. “When I feel like...purging or the thoughts are too much, I pick one out and do it until the urge goes away.”
Scream into a pillow.
Pray.
“What do you do if the urge is still there after you finish the one you picked?”
She shrugged. “Pick another. Just keep picking until the urge is gone.”
He wanted to ask her what she would do if she picked until the jar was empty. He looked down and realized that there were more sticks sitting on the table around the jar than there were in the jar. Maybe he would wait for another day to ask that question.
“I’m guessing you’re working on this one?”
He held up a stick with the word ‘bake’ on it.
“I was trying to make cinnamon rolls, but now I have to wait two hours for the dough to rise.” She sighed. “I probably ruined it by over kneading anyway.”
“Then I have another alternative for you.”
He turned over a stick and wrote on it with a pen.
She folded her arms. “Khai, you can’t write two alternatives on one stick.”
He held up the stick, admiring his handiwork. “Just did.”
“You are ruining my jar system.”
He shook his head. “I should have known you had a system. You can yell at me later. Go put away that dough and come complete your alternative.”
She put the dough into a bowl and covered it before washing her hands. “How do you know that I need an alternative now?”
He snorted. “Was that a trick question?”
She rolled her eyes and walked over to where he was sitting on the couch, taking the stick from his hand. She read it and looked at him.
“You are not—”
“Uh-uh-uh, no arguing,” he shook his finger at her. “My guess is you have a rule saying you have to complete the alternative you picked out.”
She held up the stick. “But I didn’t pick this out.”
“Either way, it’s out of the jar. It has to be done.”
She bit her lip.
“Relax, PJ. I don’t bite.”
With another sigh, she sank down at the other end of the couch. He held open his hands and she slowly lifted her feet, placing them in his palms. He looked down and grinned.
“Cookie monster?”
“He was my favorite Sesame Street character,” she said as he removed the fuzzy slipper shaped like the popular puppet.
He could see the hesitation in her eyes as he took her bare foot into his hands. He made a pledge to himself to make the act as neutral as possible. He really just wanted to ease her stress and he figured a foot massage might help with that.
He started at the pads of her feet, alternating pressure and release. It took only a moment before she let out a deep sigh and slid down into the couch. He felt the moment when she relaxed as she let her leg rest in his lap and closed her eyes.
“We’re on a break, remember?” She murmured, eyes still closed.
“I know.”
“So what...” Another sigh. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugged. That was a good question. One he had no good answer to. He had been driving home from dropping his brother off at the airport and his car had somehow found its way into Brooklyn. What could he say? He was a sucker. He couldn’t stay away.
“Came to see if you had reconsidered.”
“No.”
“Okay. Guess I have my answer.”
He kept massaging, moving down to her instep and then to her heel. She didn’t talk anymore. Just lay on the couch, allowing him to rub her feet. He almost thought she had fallen asleep until he saw the tears roll down her cheeks. She didn’t make a sound, just covered her eyes with her forearm. His hands paused on her feet, but before he could say a word she shook her head slightly and eased her foot a little further into his hands.
Okay, so she didn’t want to talk.
That didn’t make him any less worried. By the time he switched to the other foot, the tears had stopped and her breathing had fallen into a steady rhythm. This time he knew for sure she was asleep. He finished the foot rub then sat with her feet in his lap, watching her.
God, usually I am pretty good at solving problems, but I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t even know what’s wrong.
It took a moment for Khai to realize he was talking to God. And the fact startled him. He had never independently prayed like that before. But then, he had never felt this kind of helplessness before either. He knew Portia was spiraling and he needed her to be okay. But he didn’t know the first thing about how to make it happen. It was clear that the people close to her didn’t know either. But he couldn’t just not do anything. So he turned to a higher power. Her higher power. The One she believed could take her through anything. And if she believed that strongly, there had to be something to it.
He didn’t know how long he sat there watching her sleep. Eventually, he knew he had to go. She didn’t stir as he got up, nor did she stir as he covered her with the afghan from her couch. He remembered her late night outings and erratic sleep patterns. She was probably exhausted.
He placed a kiss on her forehead before letting himself out. And as he did, he found himself praying again. Praying that this woman that he had come to care about deeply would somehow be okay. He needed her to be okay. Because break or no break, life without Portia was no longer acceptable.