Page 92 of Saving Graces
To say that the public aftermath of Savannah and Cole’s break up was brutal would be to drastically undersell it. Cole moved on in a blaze of literal sex, drugs and rock’n’roll while Savannah just tried to hold her head up above water. Rosalie fumed as she watched her friend get hounded by paparazzi on a level beyond anything she’d ever witnessed back when Savannah was riding high. The press alternately painted her as a grievously wounded saint or a controlling harridan who’d gotten what she deserved; there was nothing in between. Either way, they salivated over her pain.
Savannah retreated so far inside herself that even Rosalie couldn’t reach her. She stopped going out altogether since every trip to the store resulted in a magazine cover hyper-focused on the shape of her post-baby body or feigning sympathy for her as a hopelessly tragic figure. She stopped playing music or singing, or even writing. She didn’t want to talk about it.
One day, she was just gone.
“I’m in Vermont,” she said when Rosalie finally managed to get her on the phone.
“You don’t know anyone in Vermont,” Rosalie said.
“I know,” she said. “That’s the whole point.”
Rosalie tried not to be hurt by that. In Vermont, Savannah said, no one cared about celebrities. She’d finally found somewhere she could hide.
“Where are you staying?” Rosalie fretted, thinking of her best friend, facing down a nasty divorce battle, alone, while parenting a new baby all on her own.
“Oh, I bought a place,” said Savannah, with about as much enthusiasm as if she was mentioning a new pair of boots she’d picked up.
And that, was that.
Rosalie kept going. She didn’t know why she also felt like she was fighting to keep her head above water. No one was hounding her, her own latest break-up was months ago, work was stressful, but it was just work. She woke up each morning with a jolt of panic, her body already tense, ready to fight or flee and she wasn’t sure why. Her days seemed to go by like she was dragging herself through wet concrete. She fought off irrational irritation with her coworkers and people in coffee shops. At the end of the day she found herself listless, staring at the wall, fighting off a gnawing sense of dread and loss she couldn’t quite explain.
“You,” said Coral, arriving at her house one Saturday afternoon out of nowhere, “are depressed.”
“What?” Rosalie scoffed from her place on the couch, still in her pajamas, her usually neat home strewn with dirty plates and clothes she didn’t quite have the energy to pick up. “I’m fine. I’m not sad, I’m just…”
Coral raised her eyebrows as Rosalie couldn’t find a way to finish the sentence and her eyes suddenly filled with confused tears.
“Honey,” Coral said gently, “it happens to everybody eventually. Life on this planet is traumatic as hell if you have eyes and ears and a functioning heart.”
Rosalie wept.
Coral gently ruffled her hair, then proceeded to stack her dishwasher, put on the washing machine and wipe down her bench tops.
“Stop,” said Rosalie weakly. “I can do all that.”
“I have a great therapist,” Coral volunteered, ignoring her and Rosalie flinched.
“It’s okay.” Rosalie stood, gathering her dirty plates even as her fingers trembled. “I just need to like, exercise more, maybe? Get some sleep.”
“I know it seems scary and a bit woo woo but it helps-”
“I’m good,” Rosalie scrunched her knees to her chest.
Coral paused. It looked weirdly incongruous to see her excessively glamorous willowy friend with a damp tea towel in her hands. She watched Rosalie for a full minute and Rosalie tried not to squirm.
“Well,” Coral said eventually, “there’s always drugs.”
Rosalie crawled through her days for another two weeks before she finally saw a doctor. She came away with a prescription for lexapro and a recommendation for a counselor. One she took, the other she didn’t.
A couple more weeks went by where all she felt was an increasing sense of agitation. Sleep was impossible. Food tasted weird. She plastered on a professional smile and went about her days like the water was up to her chin.
And then, one day, as she arrived home - desperate to burst through the door of her little sanctuary to fall in a heap and hide - she found her mother on her front door step.
“Mom?” she asked, warily. She hadn’t seen her since last Christmas when she’d begrudgingly stopped by for family dinner with her parents after hosting community lunch for the kids at the center.
“Rosalie.” Her mother stood up, her skin wan and eyes teary. “I have cancer.”
The bottom dropped out of Rosalie’s stomach. Her heart began to race. She hated her mom. She loved her mom. She had always thought that there would be more time.
