Page 75 of Glass Half Full
I’ve handled my most daunting task of the day, but instead of feeling relieved, I get more and more edgy as my shift continues. I keep tripping over my feet, and I have to brace a hand on the bar and force a few deep breaths after I almost drop an entire tray of shot glasses on the floor.
It’s been a while since I’ve fallen into my habit of replaying conversations, of searching for moments I screwed up or said something wrong, agonizing over my mistakes and how I must have looked to other people. I can’t get Monroe and I’s chat out of my head.
Will Dylan get fired? Did I only get off easy because she’s putting the blame on him?
I kept trying to convince myself that us being together wouldn’t have serious consequences, but now I’m not sure, and that just makes me wonder what else I’m not sure about.
Was I right to just walk away?
I wipe a wet rag over the already clean bar top, tracing frantic circles as the questions keep swirling in my mind.
Should I have stayed? Should I have fought for this?
I’m still at war with myself by the time the end of my shift rolls around. I was on for the afternoon shift today, so it’s only seven in the evening when I punch out. I take the bus back to Rosemont, tapping my fingers against my bag the whole way home.
Both my parents are at some dinner tonight, and my sister is out god knows where doing god knows what, so I come home to an empty house. Usually I’d be grateful for the quiet, but tonight it’s the last thing I want. It makes it far too easy to think.
I haven’t had a full-blown anxiety attack since the alleyway at Taverne Toulouse. I don’t know why I thought they’d stopped—I’ve accepted that my anxiety is part of me, and this is, after all, part of my anxiety—but I guess I was hoping I had more control.
There’s no control in the way I grip the edge of the kitchen sink, letting my head drop forward as my breaths get more and more shallow. I hear the all too familiar rushing sound in my ears, and I know then that this is happening. My only choice is to ride it out.
My stomach churns and my mouth goes dry as the hyperventilating starts. Everything is blurry. I stay hunched over the sink until my knees start to feel weak, and I let myself slide to the floor. I flop over on my side and pull my legs into my chest, curling myself into a tight ball as I continue to gasp for air.
I hate this. I hate this. I fucking hate this.
“Renee?” My name sounds like it’s coming from the bottom of a well. “Oh my god, Renee!”
I lift my head and find my sister rushing across the kitchen to kneel beside me. She stares down at me with panic on her face, and then I watch her swallow and shift her features into an expression I’ve never seen on her before.
“Renee, it’s me. It’s Michelle,” she says gently. My sister has never spoken gently to me in her life. “Everything is going to be okay.”
I’m almost shocked enough to snap out of my panic right there and then. She looks compassionate. She looks loving. She looks like she’s not moving off this kitchen floor until she knows I’m all right.
“I’m gonna put my hand on your arm now, okay?” she asks. “Is that all right?”
I’m still hyperventilating way too hard to speak, but I nod. She puts her hand on my shoulder and starts to rub up and down my bicep.
“Do you remember that park we used to go to when we were little?” she asks. “They had those horses you sit on that are attached to the big springs. I don’t what they’re called, but you know what I’m talking about. You sit on them and you kind of rock back and forth and stuff. You remember those?”
I nod again. I can picture them so clearly. They were always the first thing we ran to when Mom or Dad took us to the park.
“And I always wanted the pink one,” Michelle continues, “but one day you got on it first, and I tried to push you off. Do you remember what happened?”
Even in the midst of an anxiety attack, the memory makes me let out a sound that’s as close to a laugh as I can get.
“I went flying,” Michelle describes. “I don’t know how it happened, but I like, rebounded off the springing action and flew across the park. I landed on some cement. I don’t know why the hell they had cement right there, but I got so scraped up. Dad had to carry me home, and I was screaming and crying the whole time. It took forever to get me cleaned up. Then we had to put the bandages on, and...”
She trails off and chuckles to herself. My memory of that day stops at the part where she flew across the park. I didn’t know there was more to the story.
“I guess you and I had both gotten to pick out the Band-Aids the last time we bought new ones. I got some princess ones and you got some with kittens on them, and me, being the brat I was, decided I really wanted the kitten ones that day. I remember dad saying, ‘You tried to take Renee’s horse. Now you want her Band-Aids. I know you’re hurt, baby, but maybe there’s something to learn here.’ Then you came in the bathroom. You didn’t say anything. You just took the kitten Band-Aids off the counter and started sticking them all over my arms and legs. I think you used the whole box. Dad just stood there. Then you gave me a kiss on the cheek and walked back out of the room to go watch TV.”
Michelle goes silent, and I realize I’m not gasping anymore. She’s still stroking my arm, her eyes unfocused as they stare at the floor.
“I did learn a lesson that day,” she says quietly. “Not the one dad was talking about, though. I was probably only five-years-old, but I remember looking at you putting those kitten Band-Aids on my knees and thinking, so clearly, ‘This is what it means to be a sister.’”
Another moment of silence passes. I push myself up so I’m sitting next to her and grab her hand just as she drops it off my shoulder.
“I miss you,” I whisper. My voice trembles, but I can speak now. “I miss you, Michelle.”
