#46 Long Answer Part 1 - Freagra Fada Cuid 1

"May, darling,"

I flinched slightly as Grace's silky voice wove through the otherwise quiet kitchen. My back was to her as I scoured the griddle, who'd fell victim to multiple baked on splatters after a particularly busy breakfast rush.

I didn't turn to meet Grace as she slide quietly beside me placing a hand on my shoulder. "Are you free to go to the market, we're running low on a few things and I heard the asparagus guy is coming to town today."

She wiggled her eyebrows at the thought of fresh asparagus. Her painted fingers prodded my sides playfully and I flinched away.

"Could you get Dania to do it? I'm busy." I focused on a burnt piece of batter clinging on the curve of the griddle.

"I suppose." Grace gave me a once over. "You know I have some cream for those bags under your eyes. Have you been sleeping alright?"

"Fine."

She huffed at my simple response and placed her hands on her hips. I braced myself knowing that I was about to be treated to a class A Grace scolding. "May," She began in a tight voice, but instead she softened her stance letting her arms fall from her prominent hips and reach out to brush a piece of hair away from my face.

"Is there something going on?"

I managed a laugh. "No."

"Well, you haven't left the B&B or your cabin in.. well in a while." She stumbled over the time as though she hadn't come to the conclusion that my deviant behavior began the minute I returned from my trip with Lyle.

It'd been three weeks since I'd left her on the train and in those three weeks I hadn't received a single phone call, not one letter to let me know she was alright. Even a text would've been good enough.

Did I want her to come back?

Short answer yes, long answer no.

My simple thought was misleadingly selfish. At first I believed I missed her and that she missed me. I convinced myself that I missed the way she ruffled her wavy hair and how the freckles in her eyes seemed to light up as she watched me. For the first week of being back thoughts of her drove me crazy, contributing to my anxiety.

On Monday my mindset changed and it was clear to me that I didn't miss Lyle the independent person, I missed our shared experiences – not that I was intent on reliving them. In my current state getting through the day without shuddering as I passed room # 9 - where Smith and Jones trapped us on what should've been a relaxed night around the bonfire - was a victory.

I needed someone to talk to who understood, someone who was in the same boat – or at least in the same lake. Lyle filled that position, sure she didn't know about my mother, but she'd understood it.

Here I was going through the motions of daily life that had once brought me content, only now I had a weight on me. One that forced me to drag my feet, like a giant boulder I balanced on my back and somehow managed to conceal.

I didn't need to talk necessarily, I just wanted someone around who knew. Someone who could see the surface of the bumpy rock that carved a home between my shoulder blades.

It was selfish.

Maybe it wouldn't be if I felt I still cared for her. I'd disposed of that nonsense a long time ago, chalking it up to endorphins and adrenaline. All that I said to myself and all that I imagined she felt while her freckled eyes captured mine weren't real. I felt silly now, how could I've been so blinded that my body and mind were latching onto her- was it a survival instinct? Subconsciously I sensed her protectiveness and projected that as affection – mixed with my own desperate want of it.

Our relationship was nothing more than circumstance, and I idiotically suffered from Stockholm syndrome. As it wore off bit by bit I tried harder and harder to convince myself that I could balance my world on my own – or maybe the reaction occurred the other way around.

"The girls and I are worried about you." Genuine concern outlined Grace's words and I couldn't help but look up. Wrinkles formed around the ends of her eyes and her pristinely white teeth were hidden by her lips as they met in a firm line.

"Don't be," I tried my best to pump some pep into my voice. As much as I hurt right now it hurt more to see that I was causing Grace even the tiniest bit of grief. "I really am ok, just a little tired like you said."

She paused and for a moment I thought she intended on letting the matter slide. "Was it that girl – Lyle? I've been trying not to ask but sweetie ever since you came back – Evelyn says you've been obsessively locking the doors even when guests are outside. Are you scared of her? Is there something we need to know -"

"No!" I exclaimed as my hand slipped making rough contact with the stove top. I cursed under my breath and tried to avoid the worried gaze of Grace as I made my way to the sink.

Neither of us said anything for a beat as we both took in my denial. I wasn't angry with Lyle, she needed to be with Ivy and Beth, they were her family. A family which I'd indirectly brought pain to.

I was more angry with myself.

"Maybe you should take mornings off, just for a few weeks so you can sleep in." Grace spoke softly and let the proposal hang in the air. I knew the simple offer was Grace's attempt to intervene tactfully after seeing my adamant outburst.

"Just for the week."

The week turned into two weeks, but I wasn't sleeping.

I know it's cliché, to say that every time I close my eyes I see him, but my mind didn't seem to be conscious of violating taboos. Every night I was inundated with flashbacks. Mostly construed faces and mumbled words, never complete pictures. It was as if my unconscious mind was doing its best to keep my waking self from intruding on a peaceful sleep putting up screens to block my anxiety. A valiant effort, it wasn't entirely successful as pieces seeped through to my dream world leaving me with Picasso-esk versions of my trauma. The scene and information were there but not in the right spots like an eye painted in the middle of a woman's cheek.

Some nights were worse than others. Monroe had become a household name within the last few weeks, booking talk shows and news interviews by the dozens. He was creating his own brand and taunting his take over of X-Enterprises as the "new dawn of business". I was disgusted at how easily the interviewers smiled at him or laughed at his jokes while he basked in their attention.

The worst was when the city newspaper ended up on the check in desk. Aside from the local paper we received the city publication once a week on Sundays for our guests to read. Being a dull evening I decided to leaf through it – with the purpose of finding the comics – until my line of sight rested on a photo of Monroe. The photo was close cropped but allowed his folded arms to take up most of the image. Somehow he managed to appear as if he was looking down at the innocent civilian leafing aimlessly through the paper.

Instantly I tore at the page and in a fit of fury ripped it to shreds. He was mocking me and I couldn't escape his presence.

I tried reading to go to sleep, but the only thing I wanted to read was Mo Soileireacht. So each night I read myself to sleep with my mother's words, and after a month I had most of the eighty pages memorized. Never the less I felt comfort in holding the soft fabric and following the gallant loops of my mother's writing. It was like the bedtime story I never had.

Around two in the morning is when I would wake up - usually abruptly - and more often than not shaking or covered in sweat. I'd be wide awake and anxiously holding my body as if I were trembling so hard I was threatening to break at the seams and scatter to the wind.

Days in, I found a routine, attempting to make the disruption as normative as possible. Out of habit I would climb down the ladder and drink a full glass of water, then grab a heavy blanket from my couch and go outside.

Most days it was cool, but just warm enough where I could lay out with nothing heavier than a light jacket or sweatshirt. My purple and white stripped blanket was just long enough for my legs with only my heels laying in the grass.

One advantage of being miles out of town were the stars. I could count every single one as they clustered and fanned out across the night sky. Laying amidst the clean grass surrounded by trees cleansed me - a treatment I was in need of each night. It's odd how laying on your back looking up makes you see the world in a different perspective. Breathing is more difficult, your lungs slow and it takes conscious effort to pump them full of oxygen as if the sky is pushing down on you.

I rose with the sun as it broke the tree line before 6am. Two out of three times I fell back asleep before the warmth of her rays woke me, but other times I waited for her to welcome me before I went back inside.

I spent over a month without drawing a portrait - it wasn't that I didn't want to - I simply couldn't. An outline was as far as I could get, but then when I went in to start a deeper shading and detailing of the eyes I got lost. What was supposed to be dark became light and what I meant to be curved became rigid.

Lyle's unfinished portrait hung in my living room next to the ladder. One day I decided to put it up and ignored further pressing to suss out why I decided to display my failed work. I suppose it was because despite how much I learned about the mysterious girl, I was still lost in her eyes. Every night I came home to a quiet house and while I ate my pancakes and jam my eyes were drawn to her. I was unable to kick my old habit of diving people's feelings and intentions

Maybe that is why when I thought about it my long answer resulted in a 'no'. I didn't want her to come back because then my feelings would start up all over again. Not only my feelings for her – the ones that I convinced myself were fabricated in the heat of the moment – but the ones that became by default associated with her. Fear, anger, defeating despair. Neither she nor I chose them but the feelings weren't ours to choose, the situation demanded and created negative energy that was then divided and seeped into the both of us.

Maybe it was for that same reason that she stayed away.

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