Page 25 of Texting Dr. Stalker

I hated that I hated myself for letting it happen. Iknewthis wasn’t me. I knew this fear didn’t belong to me. I knew that I was safe and had a good life and was lucky tobe meand nothing should shake that foundation, yet…it was shaken.

No matter how many pep talks I gave myself, I couldn’t seem to stop the clotting cloud sticking to my thoughts or the creeping depression each time I looked in the mirror and watched my bruises fade from purple-black to brown-green.

My throat finally started to heal, and I could whisper without too much pain. Lily kept popping by unannounced between her open houses and client appointments, which meant I walked around in a perpetual state of false cheer, just in case she surprised me, when all I wanted to do was sob in the corner.

A wise part of myself knew I needed to feel what I was feeling in order to free these blocked emotions inside me. I had to be kind to myself and acknowledge that right now, I was feeling hurt and weak and small, and the sooner Iallowedmyself to feel it, the sooner I could move on.

But the moment I tried to let myself sink into the grief of losing something I couldn’t even name, another wall would shoot up and fortify the barrier I’d already put in place. It came with thoughts like ‘You’re being silly, you’re fine.’ ‘Stop moping, you’re alive.’ ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself, so many others are worse off.’

And so, I stayed on that awful carousel of knowing I needed to grieve, all while being far too stubborn to think I needed to grieve anything.

The morning my voice came back just enough to speak to someone without choking, I called the police number that’d been assigned to my case. I listened as the officer told me every shred of information I wanted. Milton hadn’t met bail and was currently in a prison a few states over awaiting trial. His family hadn’t helped him, and none of his friends had stepped up, revealing by their actions exactly the type of person he was.

How I’d been so hoodwinked by him for so long added yet another layer of guilt and shame to my already overloaded sense of failure. I’d failed as a woman. I’d failed my nana. And most of all, I’d failed myself.

Argh, enough!

Stalking through the house, I balled my hands.

If my mind wasn’t ready to process and my heart was stuck in some sort of emotional jail cell, I wouldn’t sit around and wait for things to get better. I’d fight to get there as fast as possible, which meant staying busy. I’d already replenished all the stock required for the market this coming weekend. I had no more flowers or herbs to harvest, and the oil press didn’t need me to hover.

I didn’t want to go out in public. I wasn’t ready to face a shopping mall or a coffee shop or even a local park. Therefore…I would renovate.

I slammed to a stop at the bottom of the stairs.

Renovate?

I’d dabbled with the idea of slowly turning Nana’s house into my own but…now? Would that be a wise decision or be seen as a cry for help? Was I trying to paint the walls and erase the past of the house or myself?

Am I the doer-upper?

Wow, I’m driving myself crazy.

Marching up the stairs, the black-and-white photos of my grandparents crept up the wall beside me, revealing their first date at a dance hall, their wedding, their honeymoon, and my father in his bassinet. I’d grown so used to seeing them on the walls that I no longer saw them.

Wasn’t that the thing about life? We became blind and complacent until something reminded us to pay attention?

Maybe a renovation was exactly what I needed? To reclaim myself just like I would finally claim this house as my own now that my loved ones were gone.

Heading into my bedroom that I’d shared with Milton for the past few months, familiar black ice oozed through me. My bed no longer looked safe with its mound of lacy pillows, the ancient wooden dresser by the wall, or the bedside tables with dusty Tiffany lamps.

None of those things were mine. I’d moved into Nana’s guest room and hadn’t minded that there’d been no room for my furniture. After all, I’d only been renting previously, and most of my stuff was second-hand.

But now…the thought of never sleeping in here again and erasing the ghost of the man who’d tried to ruin me sounded like awonderfulidea.

With a bubble of hope in my heart, I headed down the corridor to Nana’s bedroom. The large suite took up the front of the house. Her window wasn’t directly in line with Alexander’s bedroom, thanks to the building work she’d had done in the nineties when she’d stolen some room from the huge primary to make another bedroom for guests.

Alexander’s bedroom hadn’t been carved up and took up most of the front of his house. The matching curved bay window downstairs added a nicely rounded area to stand and admire the neatly tended street. Nana’s dresser still sat with its doily table runner and her jars of handmade face creams. Her bed and its large rattan headboard in the shape of a blooming rose was an ode to her love of flowers but also to her last name.

A last name I shared.

Rose.

The sensation of trespassing on her memories niggled. I didn’t want to desecrate her past or throw out her old life, but she’d been gone a while now, and…she no longer lived here. She’d begged me countless times as she was nearing the end to put my own stamp on her home.

I’d put off claiming this house as mine, but now that I’d lost my sense of self, what better way to get it back than by renovating every room in the hope of fixing myself too?

Fine, I’ll do it.

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