Page 71 of The Unraveling

“Excuse me,” I say, because everyone is looking at me, and then walk quickly out of the studio.

I go straight down the hall to the bathroom, where I splash freezing-cold water on my face and breathe in deeply. I feel dizzy and sick. My mind keeps spinning around, then the sound of a car crash fills my heart and head. Memories of Louisiana float into my mind. My mom. My mom is dead. I feel a sob build in my throat and then explode out of me. And then the crash I’ve been waiting for.

A sob bursts out of me so deep I can’t breathe.

She’s gone.

The house is gone now. What is left for me? There’s no home left. There never was much of a home, but now it’s really gone.

I cry hard, one hand on the sink, one hand on my open mouth. I let myself descend to a crouch, my tears wetting my Adidas warm-up pants.

It’s the kind of crying that just can’t be stopped. The kind that’s bigger than any self. Everything I’ve been suppressing the past few weeks is hitting me now like a fucking tsunami at fucking work. I feel like I can’t breathe. My chest feels tight. I put my head between my knees and try to calm down.

A few minutes must go by as I sit there, falling hard into the feeling, tears still falling uncontrollably down my cheeks, and then the door opens.

My self-consciousness asserts the rest of me and I regret I didn’t hide in a stall, but it’s too late to run into one now. I try to breathe and pretend I wasn’t being so small, so weak.

It’s Isabella.

Now that I see her up close, I see that she is quite beautiful. Blond hair with some gray. Hazel and honey-colored eyes, dappled with kindness and a sharp, present attention.

“Jocelyn? Right?” she asks. “You all right, sweetie?”

I nod, but the tears are still spilling. “I’m fine,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

She comes over to me and crouches down in front of me. “What’s going on?”

I bite my tongue and shake my head.

“It’s okay,” she says. “You can tell me or not. Would you like me to leave you?”

The answer is no, so I find the strength to say, “My mother died recently.”

It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud.

God.

“Oh, dear. Oh, I am so sorry. I’m just so sorry.”

“I hated her. I don’t know why I’m so upset,” I say, trying to laugh, but the tears keep coming.

“We all hate our mothers,” she says, smiling kindly, a hand on my arm. “But we all love them, too.”

I nod and hide my face, sobbing silently into myself.

“Jocelyn, honey, can you do me a favor?”

I sit up. “Sorry, yes. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s something I want you to do for yourself. Stand up. It’s okay, I’ve got you, stand up.”

She takes my hands in hers and I stand up.

“Okay, now I want you to get really big for me. Your whole body is crouched into a tiny shell. I want you to open up that chest for me.” She does what she’s telling me to do. I mirror her, and she says, “That’s right. Now put your arms out as wide as you can and take in the biggest breath you have all day. Maybe all week. Okay? Let’s go.”

We both breathe in together.

I let it out audibly, and I really do feel better.

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