Page 2 of Until the Ribbon Breaks

My hands itch to move, to fidget, to pick the last pieces of polish off my nails. I take a slow blink, conjure a little courage, and make the conscience decision to answer his question truthfully. “Restless. I’ve been having nightmares.”

“What’s happening in those dreams?”

“I’m outside of my body, watching myself in the bathroom.” I pinch my eyes shut when the visions become too clear. Behind my lids, tears drip like acid, their presence burning the back of my tongue as they fall inside me.

“Can you tell me what you see?”

Turning my head, I look out the window again. “Disappointment.”

“With what you intended to happen or with what actually happened?”

“Neither.” He doesn’t press forward with another question, and when I shift my eyes back to him, I give him one more truth before our hour is up, saying, “Disappointment with who I am.”

After leaving therapy, I need to clear my head, so I drive to my favorite spot along the Sound.

Gray blankets the city as I walk across the damp parking lot. Soggy petals from cherry blossoms cover the pavement. It’s blooming season—March—and yet, so many of the pink flowers have already found death. They stick to the bottoms of my shoes. The lot ends, and I take the old wooden stairs down to the vacant beach. Patches of puddles have formed in the densely packed sand—I walk right through them before settling on a large piece of driftwood. I shrug my backpack off my shoulders and pull out my notebook. The ever-present Washington mist speckles the page I started working on yesterday, but not enough to ruin the paper.

A gust of wind whips through my long, auburn hair, and I flip the hood of my raincoat over my head to keep the unruly locks tamed. I then grab my pencil, inhale a lungful of salty air, and allow the sound of lead against fibrous paper to lull me.

This notebook started about six months ago when I needed something to keep my hands occupied. I often feel restless, as if there’s a constant hum in my body that rarely subsides.

It began in middle school, not long after my father announced that his job at Boeing was transferring him to the Renton office. I was so upset because I knew the promotion meant he would be traveling overseas most weeks out of the year, leaving me with my mom. I begged him not to take the job, but he accepted it anyway. His absence has increased over the past few years and so has the tension between my mother and me. But here, in the dank chill along the Puget Sound, I’m able to forget the stress at home and relax. My pencil skitters across the page and, without breaking my flow, I drag my pinky along the lines to smooth them out. I have pages filled with drawings, poetry, and sporadic journal entries.

Time is illusive as I become hyperfocused. It isn’t until the sheet is filled with my feelings that I tuck it back into my bag. This spiral notebook is my only outlet where I can be utterly honest. It’s my release.

I grab my cell phone and note the time. My dad’s plane should’ve landed an hour ago. I haven’t seen him in almost two weeks. I also haven’t talked to my mother since I left for school earlier this morning, but it isn’t surprising that she hasn’t called or texted to ask my whereabouts. Lately, she swings on the pendulum of being overbearing or completely disconnected. It drives me crazy not knowing which of the two I’m getting from one day to the next.

She swings whereas I stand still. I’m annoyed when she’s too busy to notice me, and I’m annoyed when she’s breathing down my neck. It would probably take a cataclysmic act for her to find a happy medium.

Slinging my backpack over my shoulders, I head to my car.

From the Sound, I drive along the winding road, which is flanked by tall lush trees that canopy overhead. I’ve always loved this drive. It’s peaceful and not littered with the city’s traffic—at least not this time of year. When summertime hits, these roads will be clogged with locals and tourists alike, anxious to soak up the sunshine before the rain returns.

When I make it home, my dad is already here. The exterior lights illuminate the two-story house that’s surrounded by towering pines, giving the illusion that we’re tucked far away from civilization. In reality, our neighbors are just around the corner.

“Harlow?” my mom calls from the kitchen when I walk through the front door. “Is that you?”

“Yeah.”

“Dinner will be ready in five minutes.”

The smell of garlic and basil fills the air, and after tossing my bag by the foot of the stairs, I make my way into the kitchen to find my parents.

My father is pouring my mom a glass of wine while she stirs the pot of spaghetti sauce. “Hey, sweetheart,” he says as we both walk toward each other. He gathers me into his arms, hugging me tightly. “I’ve missed you.”

“Missed you too, Dad.”

We have always had a special bond, one I’ve never felt with my mother. He and I don’t talk as much as we used to, but if I had it my way, I would choose for my mother to be gone so my father wouldn’t ever have to leave. It isn’t that I hate my mom or anything. I mean ... she’s my mom. We just fight and butt heads a lot.

“Where have you been?” she questions as I grab a soda from the fridge.

I pop the tab. “At the Sound.”

Silently, the two of them move about until dinner has been plated, served, and we are all sitting at the dining table.

My dad passes me a piece of garlic bread. “So, how’s school been going?”

“The usual ... boring.”

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