Page 92 of 32 Days in May

“Let’s end with a visualization,” she offers. Usually, this is the type of thing I may fight her on.

Instead, I cross my arms over my chest and lean back against the freezing-cold windowpane. Behind me, snow falls for the first time in years over Philadelphia, blanketing everything in a gray-white silence. If cars drive by, we can’t hear them all the way up here.

I’ve moved over to my favorite place in her office—my perch on top of the radiator underneath Audrey’s window.

I love the freezing-cold air that rattles the window and the way it feels like I am dangling over the edge of the building. I love looking out past the Delaware River, past Camden, and directly at the tree-lined horizon. It all goes on and on for miles: roads, houses, trees, cars. Up here, I am above the fray. From my perch, it’s easier to detach—to observe.

“Close your eyes. Imagine yourself submerged in calm. Let your shoulders melt down your back. Imagine you’re someplace that brings you joy. Nadia, where are you?”

The beach. At our Shore house. It’s August and the sun is high and hot. I’m lying face down on a towel that smells like suntan lotion and the dried pages of a paperback book. I can hear my brother and sister playing in the tide, shouting over the crash of the ocean. There’s a breeze, unobtrusive and kind, caressing my back. Someone lights charcoal in the distance, firing up a grill for lunch. I can feel my heartbeat in my neck.

“Evergreen.”

When the exercise is over, my cheeks are wet and my chest feels lighter than it has since November. Maybe sooner.

I don’t know anything,

I don’t know what any of this means, how healthy I am—if I’m even healthy at all. All I know is that if I get in my car now, in an hour I’ll be back to the last place that made me feel really happy.

And when I get there, nothing will have changed but maybe I’ll be safe enough to start again.

Tuesday, May 30

On May 28, Liv takes me home with her from the hospital. She helps me into my pajamas and then into bed. She assures me that even if I wanted to do something about my situation, I wouldn’t have the energy to tackle it all right now. Instead, I need to take life one moment at a time and in this moment, rest comes first. Then, she stays in bed with me while I shake with quiet tears. Assuring me that there’s no way I’ve ruined the one good thing that’s ever happened to me. That Marco will call. He will. And if he doesn’t, then that should tell me everything I need to know.

She doesn’t see what I’ve done as the type of emotional betrayal that changes the way Marco sees me forever. She can’t—she’s my sister. She remembers when I believed in Santa and was afraid of mall escalators. And she doesn’t see Marco’s face every time she closes her eyes.

On May 29, I manage to take a shower. But underneath the steam, my mind and body are suddenly gripped by a breath-stealing panic.

I’ll never see him again, will I?

We’ll never kiss again; never point at the sky and name the song on the radio together; we’ll never say things we regret and ask for forgiveness and find ourselves willing to give it, fully—no questions asked.

One day, I’ll turn on my TV and see him again. A stranger, maybe with salt and pepper freckling his hair. They’ll announce he’s getting married to a tall woman with narrow hips and perfect bone structure and all her health, an overflowing chalice of energy and vitality. And it’ll make perfect sense.

Today, I fight with myself. Liv’s home is shining clean, all white and reflective. I am the dark spot, the rain cloud. I move from room to room like a ghost.

I can figure this out, I tell myself. I can be the person he needs; I know I can. Haven’t I spent a lifetime trying?

But Liv is right. If there was room for forgiveness, wouldn’t it have come? Wouldn’t he have called? Wouldn’t he have known exactly what to say, in the moment, to make me feel okay?

I push myself out of bed and wander downstairs to find my phone, which my sister has sequestered in an effort to help me focus on resting.

I find it on the dining room table. I have more missed calls than I’ve ever had in my life. My heart hammers as I unlock my phone and scroll. Some are from Marco.

Many are from Marco.

I crawl back into bed, pull the covers over my head, and hit call.

“Nadia.”

At the sound of my name, I bite as hard as I can into my bottom lip. “Nadia?”

I hang up.

Wednesday, May 31

“I’m taking you back to Evergreen.” Liv makes this declaration while ripping the duvet off me.