I didn’t want to go back. Everything I tried to understand the first go-round was now revealed to me. I know what happened to my mother. I know why my childhood was spent bouncing around and never really settling into one place. I know who I am. I had no interest in going over it again, or in adding Greg to the mix in a new way. I'd already talked about him. My therapist knew what I went through when he disappeared and how that played into my breakdown two years ago. I didn't want to go any deeper or talk about his death.
But I didn't have a choice. That dusty pink couch was waiting for me, and I had to fill it. But they couldn't force me to unzip my soul and spill my guts out. She could only sit there and wait. The words were mine, and I could choose when and if to say them. For those few weeks in the beginning, I barely spoke. I listened to her try to prod me along, only answering her questions with the simplest words I could, but I didn't offer her anything else. Not until October. Not until I couldn't breathe.
I slept almost the entire day after tearing the room in the attic apart. Sam gently washed my hands and wrapped them in bandages, then tucked me into bed and cared for me there until I felt like I was back in reality. The next day I walked back into my therapist's office and told her what happened.
She called it a breakthrough. I didn't care what she called it. All I knew is something shifted. I still wasn't able to come back up into the attic for a long time. Everything stayed exactly where I left it. I couldn't even go up to get the Christmas decorations or return them after the new year. But gradually, I chipped away. I brought myself through the house. To the bottom of the stairs. I opened the door. I turned on the single bulb that hung over it. Two weeks ago, I walked through the swaying light and climbed the stairs into the attic. The destruction was still there, and I put myself to the task of putting it all back together again.
The cuts on my hands are gone now, and I don't shake when I climb the stairs.
Sam comes up into the attic. I stretch my back to release the tension in the muscles. It's amazing how just crouching down to paint something as simple as a baseboard can create so much discomfort. He leans down and kisses me, putting his big strong hand right on the spot of my back that hurts. It's amazing how he can tell exactly what I need. I lean into his touch, letting the warmth of his skin sink through the baggy button-up shirt I have over my clothes.
“It's looking really good up here,” he tells me. “So, I see you went with the ecru.”
I look down at the section of the wall I just finished painting and narrow my eyes at him.
“That's eggshell,” I tell him. “Can't you tell the difference?”
But he looks at it; his head tilted to the side.
“Seriously?” he asks.
“I actually have no idea,” I smile. “It's white. I just got the first one on the shelf."
Sam laughs and shakes his head.
“Well, whatever color it is, you're doing a good job. Is the electricity still holding up?” he asks.
I reach over to the newly installed light switch and flick it up and down a few times to show off the bright bulbs that now fill the room with warm yellow light.
“Looking good. Hasn't lit any fires or anything,” I shrug.
“What do you know, I do have some skills," he teases.
I turn to him for another kiss.
"You have a lot of skills."
“Is there anything else you want to get done up here? Or are you good for a break?”
I look back into the room and let out a breath.
“A break seems like a good idea. Do you have something specific in mind?” I ask.
“Maybe the giant containers of biscuits and gravy from Pearl's I have downstairs,” he suggests.
“You always know just what to say,” I tell him.
Sam gives me his bright, boyish smile and reaches down to take my hand so he can guide me down to the kitchen. I stop by the bathroom first to wash my hands, and by the time I get to the kitchen, he has already spread the food out and is pouring fresh coffee into a mug for me.
“What time is it?” I ask, realizing I don't even know how long I've been up in the attic.
“About three,” he tells me. “Does that mean you haven't stopped since you went up there this morning?”
I accept the mug from him and take a long swallow.
“Maybe,” I shrug.
“You've got to stop doing that, Emma.”
“I know. I just want to get it done. It will feel so much better when I can pretend that room has always been a reading room,” I say.
“Are you really going to be able to do that?” he asks.
My eyes lift to him, and the words tumble down along the back of my spine.
"Let's eat before everything gets cold," I say.
He regrets the words now hanging in the air around us. I can see it in his eyes. But I won't say anything. I'll leave them alone and hope with enough breaths; they will dilute and fade away. In, out. In, out.
As I take my first bite of intensely buttery biscuit and rich pepper gravy, I notice a stack of envelopes
