Page 23 of Counting the Days

She laughed. “Well, I’m good atreceivingcamping, anyway. Maybe someday I’ll learn how to build a fire.”

“I’ll teach you.”

They locked eyes at this proposal of some kind of a future; some whisper of tomorrow now existed between them, and Rhea’s pulse quickened. This casual mention of a forthcoming shared experience unlocked her imagination. At Tiny’s baby shower, Danny would be the candy on her arm. At Chichi’s fifth birthday party, her enormous yet tasteful engagement ring would protect her from prying eyes. And right before her thirty-ninth birthday, her pronounced, expectant belly would be a bottomless source of excited questions.

She saw Danny crouched low in their backyard, teaching their children how to garden. Their family of five would camp all across America. Even Zoe would envy her yoga-bodied husband, earthy children, and perpetual fresh vegetables. She took a deep breath and tried to pace herself.

“So, your parents live in Long Beach? Are you close with them?”

“I’m sorta close with my mom, but my dad’s…pretty much a robot.”

“No human emotions?”

“None. Every interaction with him feels like I’m just entering data into a machine. ‘Yes, I’m healthy. Yes, I’m earning an income. Yes, I’m single.’ It’s like filling out a census. Except the census is always disappointed with what I entered.”

“What does the census want you to enter?”

“Married, like, ten years ago. And children. He’s addicted to grandchildren. He has seven of them, and he doesn’t even enjoy being around them. I think he just likes knowing he has them.”

“Seven?And he wants more?”

“Yeah…but he’s never gonna get them from me…’cause I don’t want kids.” He said this with a slight apology in his tone. “That’s probably awkward to tell you on a first date, but I’m actually glad it came up ’cause I never wanna waste anyone’s time.”

It was as if a rather large wave had rushed in between them, and Danny was suddenly a mile away, speaking to Rhea in a muffled, far-off voice. She blinked at him and tried to make out what he was saying. Surely he wasn’t telling her hedidn’t want children;this could not be the way the best first date in human history petered to an end.

“I’m sorry, did you say you didn’t want kids?” Rhea asked, interrupting whatever he was saying in his muffled, far-off voice.

“Yeah, Idefinitelydon’t. Why? Do you?”

291Days

Sarah and Tarah Darby wereborn five minutes apart. Tarah claimed to remember the event. She was pulled from her mother’s womb and waited five long minutes for her twin to follow. Finally, Sarah emerged blue-faced and malnourished; Tarah was the stronger twin. This dynamic continued for the rest of their lives.

Growing up in Buckle Beach, Tarah was the better athlete, the better student, the “better twin,” according to their mother, who drunkenly confessed the truth one Christmas Eve when they were ten years old.

Tarah went to the University of South Florida. She became an entertainment lawyer. She moved to Los Angeles. Consciously, because it was close to the industry in which she chose to work. Subconsciously, because it was as far away from Florida as she could get.

Sarah dropped out of high school. She got pregnant at seventeen. She stayed in Buckle Beach. Consciously, because she loved the ocean and being close to her mother. Subconsciously, because she wanted to struggle and fail so her mother would realize what a neglectful and cruel childhood she had endured.

When she got the call that Sarah had passed away, Tarah was not surprised. She claimed she’d felt it happen. Earlier that day, she’d sobbed in the bathroom, overcome with the same emotion that had overwhelmed her when she first entered the world:My twin is dying.

Tarah agreed to take in Sarah’s daughter. Consciously, because it was the right thing to do. Subconsciously, so she could punish the girl whose birth turned her twin into a teen mom and high school dropout, thus cementing her demise. She would clothe, feed, and house her twin’s mistake, but she would never love her.

A few days after she moved in with Aunt Tarah, Rhea developed an anxiety disorder. It manifested in various tics and twitches. Aunt Tarah did not notice, but her assistant did and made an appointment for Rhea to go to a psychiatrist.

Rhea had never been to one before, but she had seen them on TV and was surprised to find that, unlike most things in life, her psychiatrist’s office looked exactly like the ones on TV. Rhea sat in an oversized leather chair; her feet did not touch the ground. She wondered what her mother would do if she could see her daughter in that chair. Sarah used to say, “Therapy is for weak-minded people. No one’s gonna understand the way my mind works better than me.”

On the table next to Rhea, a clock audibly ticked next to a heavily used box of Kleenex. The nearby wastebasket nearly overflowed with balled-up tissues. Rhea took in the evidence of all the weak-minded souls who had recently wept in her chair and decided she would not cry. She did not want to be some cliché patient who weeps to their therapist.

“So, hello, Rhea, I was told you just moved here from Florida, is that right?” the sturdy Germanic woman sitting across from her asked, and Rhea burst into tears.

She wept uncontrollably as her story fell out of her mouth. Three weeks ago, she went to Buckle High School, a tenth grader, a cheerleader for the Buckle High Mosquitos. She had friends, a boyfriend, a life. Her mother was manic but manageable. Everything was manageable until she came home from school and found her mother unresponsive on the couch.

Sarah Darby was a waitress and went to a doctor for pain in her wrist. For as long as Rhea could remember, Sarah was always complaining about pain. The doctor prescribed her medication, something strong, which worked too well, and Sarah kept going back for more. She loved the pills until they stopped working. She wore a patch on her back that supplied her with a steady stream of morphine. She loved the patch until it stopped working. The pain and her tolerance to what killed it grew stronger until Rhea came home from school and found her mother, face down, finally free from pain forever.

The psychiatrist explained that Rhea was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, which was creating the tics, twitches, insomnia, abdominal discomfort, and general feeling of doom. And when Rhea was done describing all the ways medication had ruined her life, her psychiatrist offered her some medication.

Rhea declined.