Watch Over Me (13 page)

Hearing Zander call me by a nickname synonymous with the one my mom always used for
me makes me feel special and unique—something I haven't felt in so long that I almost
forgot what it feels like. I realize quickly that I like the sound of it on Zander's
lips. But that's not really a surprise since I like anything that has to do with his
lips, especially after that kiss in the bakery. Despite the confrontation with my
father, that kiss is all I've been able to think about.

"So, I need to ask you something, and I have a feeling it's going to either make you
hang up on me or think I'm crazy," he finally says.

My guard immediately locks back into place when he says this. I'm nervous he's going
to ask me something about my dad, ask who he was, or why I didn't introduce him, or
why in all the months he's come into the bakery (before we ever even spoke) has he
never seen my father here. But just like always, Zander surprises me.

"So, we're having a little get-together for my mom's birthday this weekend at my parent's
house. And since you were so awesome at teaching me how to throw cake batter all over
the kitchen, I feel it's only right that you come with me so I can show off my mad
cake batter flinging skills," he explains.

He really
is
crazy. I'm still in shock that he didn't run away during my freak out and can hardly
believe he wanted to kiss me AND he called when he said he would. And now he wants
me to meet his parents?

"I don't know if that's such a good idea," I reply nervously.

"Sorry, not only is it a good idea, it's a genius idea. If I bake this cake and it
ends up tasting like old gym shoes, you'll be there to save the day."

Okay, now it makes sense. He doesn't want his mother's birthday to be cake-less. If
he takes his own personal baker with him, he can make sure that doesn't happen. Maybe
that kiss didn't mean as much to him as it did to me. I don't like the feelings of
insecurity floating around in my brain as I sit here second-guessing what this thing
is between us. I'm not used to feeling so girly and needy.

"Plus, I really want you to be there. I want to spend more time with you, and I want
you to meet my family," he tells me softly after I'd already convinced myself he was
only asking to make sure his mom had cake.

I don't say anything right away. What can I say? It's probably not a good idea for
you to take me around other people because I'm not all that normal?

"Please, Addison? I'd really like you to be there."

He sounds so earnest and sweet that I can't help but agree to whatever he asks. I
hesitantly accept his invitation and hope to God I haven't just made the biggest mistake
of my life.

"
There's no shame in taking medication, Addison. Plenty of people need a little something
to help with their depression. It doesn't mean you're weak. It just means you need
a little boost. You've been on a small dose for a while now. Maybe it's time we bump
it up a little bit," Dr. Thompson explains as she takes a sip of hazelnut coffee out
of a mug that says "Let them eat cake."

I know it's normal and that one in ten people take some sort of antidepressant. I've
read all of the literature, but that still doesn't mean I like it.

"For some people it's hard to get back on track after a tragedy. It's not going to
turn you into a zombie or anything. It's just going to help keep your emotions in
check so you aren't all over the place."

I trust Dr. Thompson as much as I
can
trust someone, and as I watch her write out a prescription refill for one hundred
milligrams of Zoloft, I actually do feel a small weight lifted off of my shoulders.
Maybe this will be the light at the end of the tunnel that I need. Maybe now my thoughts
won't constantly be plagued with death and sadness.

As I pull the bottle of pills out of my medicine cabinet, I close the mirrored door
and stand in front of the sink staring at myself. As I blindly open the lid and let
one of the little blue pills spill into my hand, I wonder why I continue to do this.
I've been taking this medication for a year now, and even though it keeps me from
crying every single day and wanting nothing more than to curl up into a ball in bed
and never get out, it hasn't helped. Instead, it does what Dr. Thompson said it wouldn't.
It turns me into a zombie. I don't walk around in a daze or mumble incoherently, I
just…don't. I don't feel; I don't care; I don't do anything other than get up every
day and go through the motions. If I read a book that made other people sob for days,
I feel nothing. If I watch a gut-wrenching movie, I stare at the screen and wonder
what all the fuss was about. Nothing affects me and nothing shakes me.

Setting the bottle on the edge of the sink, I stare at the pill in my hand. Such a
tiny little thing, the color of a robin's egg. It's so small and yet what it does
to me is so huge.

I don't want to feel everything. I don't want to drown in my emotions, but I also
don't want to keep going like this anymore. I want to feel something. I don't know
what this thing with Zander is or where it's going, but I do know that it won't go
anywhere if it's impossible for me to feel the emotions that go hand-in-hand with
being with someone, especially someone like him. He's so full of life and I'm just
blah.

Glancing up at my reflection in the mirror again, I wonder what it is he sees in me.
My eyes are vacant and they have dark shadows under them, and I can't remember the
last time I actually smiled when it wasn't forced. Why would he want to spend time
with someone like me? I think he would have really loved the old me. The one who could
always make people laugh and actually cared about things. The one who loved unconditionally
and easily shared that love with others.

I've done as my dad said and took the last few days off from the bakery, but I honestly
have no idea what to do with myself. I tried writing again, but the words wouldn't
come. I tried reading but nothing held my interest. I even tried shopping, something
a nineteen-year-old girl should love to do. I walked aimlessly around the mall and
didn't buy anything.

Suddenly, it doesn't feel right to be taking this pill anymore. It doesn't feel right
to shut everything off when I actually want to feel. There were definitely times when
I should have been on this medication: when she was diagnosed, when she was sick,
or even at her funeral. Maybe this little blue pill would have kept me together then
instead of letting me fall apart.

I stood just outside the viewing room and stared at the open doorway, refusing to
go in. My father was already there, choosing to go in alone. I could hear his sobs
from out here as he stood over the casket.

I didn't want to go in there. I didn't want to see her like that, so still and quiet.
She was never still OR quiet, and to see her like that now, in a perfectly pressed
blue dress that she was going to wear to my high school graduation, makes me want
to scream. I can hear the funeral director talking softly to my Aunt Katie behind
me about how long the viewing will last and that if the family needed anything to
let him know. I just wanted to tell him to shut up. What the family needed right now
was her to be alive and not lying in a white casket with pink roses etched all around
it. My mother hated roses. She would hate that people would be filing in here soon
to stare at her and cry for her. She would hate that there were a hundred flower bouquets
lined up all around the perimeter of the room she was in. All that money wasted on
someone who would never get to enjoy them.

"Don't send me flowers when I'm dead. They're of no use to me when I'm gone. Give
me flowers when I'm still here and can appreciate them."

A memory of the words she spoke each time we went to someone else's funeral and wandered
around to look at all the arrangements filled my head and anger began to mix with
the sadness.

I wanted to go in there, pick up all of the baskets and vases, and hurl them across
the room. I wanted the cloying smell of roses and carnations and lilies gone from
my nose. The smell made me sick to my stomach, and I knew that from now on, anytime
I smelled a flower I would remember this moment.

"Come on, sweetie, it's time to go in. People are going to start showing up any minute
now," Aunt Katie said softly as she walked up next to me and put her arm around my
waist.

The funeral home had the close family members come in a half hour early so they could
grieve in private for a little while before the masses showed up. Didn't they realize
that thirty minutes was nowhere near long enough to grieve?

Aunt Katie gently pushed me forward and together we walked up to the open doorway.
My father sat in the first row of chairs the funeral home had set up right in front
of the casket. He had his head in his hands, and I could see his shoulders shaking
with sobs. I didn't want to look, but I couldn't help it. My gaze slid across the
deep red carpet by his feet, over to the black stand the casket rested on, and up
the front of the shiny white marble with pink roses. The breath I'd been holding whooshed
from my lungs
when I saw her. It looked like her, but it didn't. In her hands she clutched a black
rosary my father had given her for their anniversary a few years before. I remembered
going to my grandfather's funeral when I was six years old and staring at his body,
waiting to see his chest start moving with the breath of life again. I found myself
doing that now. I stared at her chest and willed it to move. Please, God, let it move.
Let this all be a nightmare. Please don't let it be real. My eyes traveled up to her
face, and I had to swallow back a sob. She had on too much makeup. Why did they put
lipstick on her? She never wore lipstick. I wanted to run up there and wipe it all
off and tell her to open her eyes. I couldn't be here. I couldn't do this. It wasn't
right and it shouldn't be happening.

Turning from my Aunt Katie's arms, I fled from the doorway, through the lobby, and
down a hallway until I found the bathroom. I didn't turn on the light; I preferred
the darkness right then. With heaving sobs I buried my face into the corner of the
wall and cried. I cried so hard that my chest hurt.

"No, no, no, no, no," I sobbed over and over. "I don't want to go in there. I don't
want to go in there. Why is this happening?"

My tears fell so fast they poured out of me and I let them. I didn't wipe them away
or try to stop them. Maybe if I cried all of the tears I had in me it would wash away
all of this pain. It would stop the hurt and make this all a bad dream. I didn't want
to feel this anymore. I didn't want to feel anything anymore. I sank to my knees on
the bathroom floor and cried for my mother and the unfairness of it all.