HEAL YOU | JENLISA

TWENTY-NINE

JENNIE

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EARLY MONDAY MORNING, LISA AND I SIT IN HIS CAR OUTSIDE my parents’ house. It’s 7:56 A.M. A good daughter, a good person, would run inside and take over for her mom, give her those extra four minutes.

Me, I want my four minutes.

My weekend away should have given me the energy to tackle this. Indeed, I slept through most of my vacation—most of Saturday and then half of Sunday as well—and when I was awake, my time with Lisa was easy and relaxed.

Yesterday, we went to the pancake house by my apartment for brunch, and we took selfies with mountains of fancy pancakes in the foreground. After that, I showed her my favorite places in the city—a café with the best espresso, an art gallery where they don’t mind if you eat your lunch on the benches and admire the work, a park that presents different modern sculptures every month. Everything was within walking distance of the Davies Symphony Hall, my world is small after all, but Lisa never mentioned it. She never asked me about my music. I’m grateful for that. When we got home, I promptly fell asleep on the couch and didn’t wake up until late evening. I was starving but still exhausted, so Lisa ran out for takeout and we watched the documentary My Octopus Teacher as we ate. Then we cuddled, which led to kissing, which led to touching, which led to my bedroom and another night of the most glorious sex.

But even after all that, I don’t feel well rested or restored. There’s a knot in my stomach and dread in my heart.

I do not want to go into that house.

“Are you going to be okay?” Lisa asks.

I put a smile on without thinking. “Yeah.” That might be the truth, so it’s not quite a lie. It feels like one, though, and I correct myself, saying, “Maybe. I don’t know.”

She considers me for a moment before saying, “I’m worried this isn’t good for you. Is there any way you guys can get help? You’re clearly not hurting for money, so—”

“It has to be me. It has to be family,” I say firmly.

“I mean, yeah. I get it. But you’re not doing well. Jennie, I think you were only awake for eight hours the entire weekend.”

Wincing, I say, “I’m sorry. That wasn’t a cool thing for me to do when we were supposed to be spending time together.”

She releases a frustrated sigh. “I’m not complaining. I’m worried.”

I slump back in my seat and stare out the window at the house. “There’s nothing we can do about it. It’s hard for everyone, and I need to tough it out just like everybody else.”

She begins to reply, but the time on the clock changes to 8:00 A.M. Gathering my things from the floor by my feet, I say, “I have to go. Text me when you get to work?”

“Yeah, I’ll text you,” she says in a resigned voice.

I lean across the center console and kiss her on the cheek. I should make it fast and run into the house, but I linger. I press my forehead against her temple for a moment. “I’m going to miss you.”

Somehow, I find the motivation to pull away, leave the car, and cross the dew-moistened lawn. With one last wave at her, I let myself into the house.

As I shut the front door, the weight of this place descends on my shoulders. There’s sunlight pouring in through the many windows, but it feels dark. I take my shoes off and walk down the cold marble hallway toward the kitchen, where I toss my things on one of the island stools before heading to my dad’s room.