After
She leaned in. “It's okay to talk about her."
Francesca's third therapist since her brief hospital stay sat in a two-piece Easter-egg pink business suit. An uncomfortable looking armchair framed her, making her appear small and insignificant, which wasn't too far off. Francesca chose her at random in search of a less talkative head who wouldn't start each session with, "It's okay to talk about her".
Was that the reason she'd come? Or had she come to stare at another stranger and wonder, 'Why her'?
Francesca stayed silent. Her potential new therapist, Jessica, readjusted her ankles.
Out of place for her outfit and the environment, shiny onyx stilettos squeaked as they brushed each other. Francesca pictured Jessica in a corset and not much else, standing on some man's chest, shouting at him, whip in hand.
"Why don't we start with something smaller?" What could that be? Perhaps the day's events? "How was your day?"
Sighing, Francesca muttered, "Well, my boss finally gave up on me." Not that she blamed him. She shouldn't have hit the fuck-you button when he'd called to ask her when she'd finally show up to work.
He'd given her months off, but the one day she'd made it into work, she'd fallen apart. The smell of the burnt coffee had reminded her of griping to Sloane when she'd come home every night. Francesca had tried work since; she'd even driven to the office once and sat in the parking lot. She'd chosen a grey day–a mistake. Pounding rain had felt like an invitation to sob. Her tears, her shaking body, were hidden by the thick drops smearing grey across her windshield. When she could breathe again, Francesca had driven away knowing she'd never work there again. Still, she hadn't had the energy to tell him she quit.
Useless Jessica nodded. Making odd noises, she scribbled furiously as though Francesca had said something terribly interesting and insightful.
She stuck her pink glossed lips out. "So, how does that make you feel?"
"You're kidding right?"
With a questioning look, Jessica said, "No." That ended Jessica's short-lived life as her therapist.
She sputtered and waved her hands helplessly as Francesca abruptly stood and left her boxy room filled with decoupaged tissues boxes and calming posters made for dentists' offices.
"We could–" she began. An overly heavy door slammed on her sentiment.
As if her mother had psychic abilities, Francesca's phone rang before she reached her car.
"Hold on," she answered, annoyed. She almost hadn't picked up, but she'd ignored two of her calls in the last week due to her inability to speak through hiccuping sobs, so she owed her at least one conversation.
With her mother on speaker in her lap, Francesca felt it safe to start talking. "Hi Mama, what's up?"
"How was your appointment?"
"Well, technically I should still be in it, so you tell me."
A string of syllables crackled through Francesca's cell phone. Full sentences were lost, but her mother's concern about her adding another mark on her psychiatric belt came through crystal clear. Francesca's phone hung up on Mama, saying what she wouldn't.
When she'd made it out of the parking garage and onto the highway, heading towards home, she called Mama back.
"Parking garages, am I right? I could barely hear you, but I get it."
"Do you?" Italian flew over the line. "We've gone over this, Essie. How many is that now? Four? Five?"
Three, actually. If Francesca hadn't felt like a week old balloon, she would have corrected her. Three wasn't terrible. They were not dissimilar to shoes; she couldn't just go with the first one she tried on. There were hundreds of pairs at hundreds of stores within a few miles drive.
"I just want to go home."
"Oh, Essie! I'm so glad to hear it. I'll make a bed for you now. When do you want to leave? I'll pay for the ticket, but it should be one way, no need to plan when you go back. Maybe you don't? Pack light. We'll shop when you arrive; it'll be like a whole new start!" her mother exclaimed so rapidly, the entire conversation might as well have been on an episode of the Italian Gilmore Girls.
Mama hung up the phone before she could respond, or think, or breathe. What just happened?
A horn honked somewhere close, and her heart stopped. Francesca slammed on her brakes so quickly the seatbelt bit into her chest. Screeching tires, yells, and slamming doors followed more horns. Francesca looked up to realize nothing horrible had happened; another angry driver had gone berserk about who-knew-what. She had almost created a pile-up on the Southern Embarcadero Highway.
Maybe Mama had been right, she needed another break–not forever, but for a little while.
The gas pedal seemed to press itself to carry her away from the angry mob.
Worried someone would have called the police on the crazy woman who brakes for ghosts, Francesca took back roads from then on. Luckily, she hadn't been far from home. She only had seven anxiety-laden turns, four heart-pounding stop signs–one of which had a police officer who had looked at her little blue bug sideways with its half scraped away sign–and six irritating pedestrians in her way.
When The Dick had called her earlier in the day, she'd had a feeling her car would need a new paint job.
"Um, Francesca," he'd stuttered. "I've tried to be patient, you know? But I call, and you don't pick up. Don't say anything…" She had no intentions. "I've just got to say this. You're… you're fired. We can't have unreliab–"
"Okay. I'll come pick up my stuff later." As Francesca hung up, she'd known she wouldn't. She'd strolled outside with an ice scraper–something Sloane made fun of her for having–and started scratching. Some of the letters peeled away smoothly, while others took the royal blue car paint with them. They'd left only the silver metal frame with jagged scrape marks. After an hour, she'd given up; what remained read, ' rli 's v Pl n g . t us h w k fo you. Call us now at (8 0) 5 3- 0 89'. Charlie would love it.
Street parking had always been horrible. On any no-good-very-bad day, it became especially awful. She had to park at least three blocks away from their shoebox above a bead store. It had been a mistake to wear Sloane's favorite flats; they were one size too small. Blisters formed by the time she arrived at a front door they'd painted so many times rainbow chunks peeled off when it moved. Their landlord never minded what they did, because they were going to stay there until they were old and wrinkled. Never grey, Sloane had always said.
"They make hair dye for that. Silver or purple, maybe, but never grey."