Page 34 of Those Two Words

“Wow,” she says, taking in the view as we sit. “So this is Anakiwa Lookout? It’s special to you, huh?”

Maybe it’s the familiar scenery, the tranquil sound of waves crashing, or birds calling overhead. Or perhaps it’s Quinn’s assurances that it’s okay to be unguarded, for whatever reason, I tell her all about Anakiwa Lookout. The hikes we took every month, the camping trips, and how this is where we came to scatter my mom’s ashes.

“Fucking stupid door!” I mutter to myself as I wiggle the key in the front door of the restaurant. I’m trying to be quiet, not wanting people to think I’m breaking in and call the cops on me, but my impatience is getting the better of me.

It’s almost 1:00 a.m. on a Saturday and well past my bedtime. We closed hours ago, and I’m so exhausted from working a double and experiencing serious brain fog, that it took me hours to realize I left my phone here. Or I hope I did.

That’s why I’m standing outside the restaurant, in my pajamas, freezing my tits off, and very close to kicking down the door if it doesn’t open in the next five seconds.

I’m trying to remember what Patrick said about the front door getting stuck sometimes. Something like, “Pump the handle up and down, then turn the key as soon as you hear it click.” Honestly, I don’t remember. I was too busy looking at his arms flexing with the motion he made when he said pump.

I’d find it funny that I was so distracted by his biceps if I wasn’t so tired and having an all-around shitty day. Nothing seemed to be going right. I got a flat tire driving to my dad’s. Burned my breakfast. Chipped a nail. All microscopic, but sometimes they just add up. I’m about to force my way inside when I hear a snick and feel the handle pop. Not wasting my opportunity, I twist the key and almost cry in relief when the door swings open.

Wincing at the alarm blaring louder than usual, I scramble over to the keypad and clumsily type in the six-digit code. It takes me three tries to get it right, my mind somehow drawing blanks every time I press the numbers. God, I need to sleep.

My feet drag across the floor to the back, and once I’m inside the office, I flick on the light. A big sigh leaves me when I spot my phone sitting on the desk. I grab it, switch off the light, lock up, and trudge my way to the front. In and out, no issues.

Each step toward the front door is another step closer to my warm bed, where I plan to sleep until mid-afternoon. As I walk alongside the bar, my feet dragging behind me, I run my hand along the multicolored surface of the driftwood. The feel of the different textures beneath my fingertips usually comforts me, but not tonight. I’m so on edge, and I snatch my hand away when the lights of a passing car shine through the window and reflect off something on my left.

My steps falter before being rooted to the spot. A chill runs through me, like I’ve been plunged into an ice bath. Front and center, in the middle of all the liquor bottles, sits my mom and Ted, forever frozen in time.

I’ve seen that photograph every day when at the restaurant, and my heart has never seized like it is now. Grief is fickle like that. It sits below the surface of your mind on some days, barely noticeable, then hits you out of nowhere.

Their smiling faces are a stark reminder that they’re no longer with us. Ripped away too soon. And there was nothing I could do about it. That last one is something I try not to think about too deeply, but I’ve triggered the thought now, and the roots of anxiety and grief burrow deep in my chest.

Mom has been gone for almost two decades, but sometimes that pain is as fresh as the day we lost her. Those roots now creep down my arms, my legs, and remind me of how all my loved ones will be ripped away from me in the same way.

Dad. Harriet. Patrick. Claire.

So many people I care so deeply about, and I have no control over how long they will be on this earth.

I try to remind myself these thoughts are unhelpful, that everyone I love is fine, but the pressure in my chest and tingling in my fingers lets me know the anxiety has got a good grip on me now.

“It’s fine,” I mumble to myself. “I just need…”

My words drift off when I realize my anxiety medication is all the way back in my apartment, which sets off a whole new wave of panic. It isn’t far, but as I take a shaky step toward the door, I know it’s too late for the meds to do their job.

Discarding my phone on top of the bar, I crouch, running my hands through my hair in frustration, willing the beating of my heart and the shaking in my hands to stop. I slowly massage my temples, but it all feels useless. All of this because of one photograph. I grip the edge of the bar and pull myself up to standing, eyes landing on the framed photograph. If I can just get it out of sight so their memory stops haunting me, this will all go away. Right?

With shaky legs, I make my way around the bar until I’m standing directly in front of the shelves of liquor bottles and glassware. The photograph is higher up than I anticipated, but I use the bottom two shelves to climb up until it’s in reach. As my fingertips graze the cold edges of the metal frame, the bottom of my sneaker slips.

As if in slow motion, I watch the picture frame tip forward. It tumbles off the shelf and brings a bottle of bourbon with it. The moment the glass cracks and shatters against the wooden floor, so does my heart. The floodgate holding back the tidal wave of emotions splinters open.

“No, no, no, no,” I repeat frantically. Falling to my knees among the mess of broken glass and bourbon, my hands hover over the broken frame, like I might do more damage. Mom and Ted stare up at me, their happy faces now tarnished. I try my best to shake the glass and sticky liquid away, but the damage is done.

In more ways than one.

Heartbreak and panic aren’t a good combination.

The pressure in my temples increases.

The tingling in my fingers spreads all over, leaving me numb in its path.

My already quickening breathing turns to desperate gasps for air.

The corner of my vision fades to black, and icy panic seizes up my muscles. I try to slow my breathing and think of a color, any color.

Green.

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