Benevolence

Chapter 17: Troubled Waters

Water falls from my face in ringlets as I emerge from the bath clutching both sides of the tub, my chin tilted upwards from the sudden heaviness of my hair and my eyes slightly stinging from being open too long underwater. It's time for me to get out; the hot wax cascading down the candles I lit is enough evidence. But just as I decide to retire, the scent of lavender incense and burnt out sage swarms my senses, coating my pores in a call to relax, and I fall submissive, helplessly.

"Just a few more minutes," I tell myself, closing my eyes while slouching back against the wall of the tub.

I couldn't sleep last night, too nauseated by the traumatic realism of my dreams, so I threw the covers off of me in a fit of both anger and stricken inspiration to draw a bath. Not your every day sit and sip wine self-indulgence. I didn't want to forget my dream. I filled the tub more than halfway and immersed myself consecutively, holding my breath until I could no more, only to watch the images re-enact themselves.

Call it method-writing, for now, my journal sits upended on the floor beside the tub, with a finally completed first entry. I'm proud of myself, not of the fact that Drew gave me the drive, but because each word was written without a stutter in my pen nor a doubt in my mind.

It's one of the upsides of being the daughter of a psychotherapist. You have bad days, just like everyone else, if not just a bit more extreme, but you're equipped enough to dismantle storms yourself. Reinventing vivid dreams that, on one side creates torment, but on the other stimulates introspection becomes your idea of meditation. And now and then you find yourself unsupervised, toxically self-medicating.

A sharp ring emanates throughout the house signaling someone at the front door and I sigh disappointedly, knowing my mother won't make an effort to get it. She would always assume it's for me. The water swooshes around my feet as I stand, gathering my hair the best I can to ring it dry before grabbing the robe hanging from the rack. I wrap it around me swiftly and tie a knot as I make my way down the hall.

"Who visits this early in the morning?" I complain, the pads of my feet kissing the last stair before I turn to approach the front door. Uneasy, I push apart the blinds to steal a glance at the unexpected guest.

The stark red pantsuit, smooth umber skin, pixie cut, and high cheekbones gives her away.  I squeal excitedly and throw open the door, not even caring as the cold draft crawls up my naked legs. "Kenya?" I say, smiling vibrantly.

"AJ," she gushes, walking in to scoop me into a chilling hug. "My sweet girl," she pulls back. "Or should I say, woman?" She quirks a brow.

"I'm in my twenties, I think it's about that time." I laugh, ushering her in before closing the door.

"Aww," she whines, removing her coat and pouting her lips. "But I'm not ready to let that image of you go. Neither Bryan, no matter how deep his voice gets or how tall he becomes. You're still my babies." Her eyes roam around the room. "Where's your crazy momma?"

"Kenya?" I hear my mother's docile voice from the staircase. She's already dressed for work: In a white blouse tucked into nude slacks and a pair of pointed-toe heels. She always manages to put the word elegance to shame; her wardrobe only consisting of neutral colors that compliment her warm yet reserved personality. She's woven in Spider's Silk, as my father used to say, delicate at first glance but full of prowess. It's what he loved about her.

"Oh! Just the lady I was looking for," Kenya says, beaming up at her. Contrary to my mother, she's Bryan on caffeine: Fun-loving and bold. She approaches the staircase, meeting my mother in a tight hug. "I've come to dig you out of your cave, woman." She pulls away from her. "I hope you're ready," she sing-songs.