Karma Brown - Come Away With Me

She takes the few steps back to where I am and tugs me gently out of the way of the shoppers, who barely break stride. “Screw lunch. Food is overrated anyway,” she says with a most unladylike snort—a classic Anna-ism, which helps to remind me that at least some things don’t change. “Let’s just get a coffee, okay?” I allow her to pull me into the Starbucks in front of us.

It’s warm inside, and familiar. Both things that make me feel instantly better.

While Anna orders us coffee I grab a table near the back. I take off my gloves and lay my snow-damp wool hat on the chair across from me, knowing Anna will take the seat beside me. She has this thing about sitting side by side. She thinks it’s easier to talk naturally if you aren’t forced to stare into each other’s eyes. She says it’s a Chinese thing, even though she was born and raised in Chicago.

“Here,” she says, pushing a venti cup across the table and into my idle hands. Without thought, my fingers close around the cardboard sleeve, the heat coming through just enough to make me never want to let go. “I got you a vanilla latte...with whole milk and whip on top.” My regular order is a skinny vanilla latte, hold the whip. “If I can’t get you to eat the least I can do is make your coffee more caloric.”

She sits beside me and takes a sip from her own venti cup, which I know holds a soy chai tea latte, extra whip, then rests her other hand on my thigh. I jump from her touch, and she rubs my thigh harder. “Talk to me, Tegan.” I’m grateful she can’t see my eyes. “How can I help?”

“Tell me something funny.”

“Funny...okay. Hmm.” Anna sips at her coffee again. I wait. “Did I tell you about Caroline?” I shake my head. “No? Holy crap. You’re going to die...” Anna’s voice trails and she whispers, “Sorry.” Sometimes I think I’ll put together a spreadsheet of words people should avoid when in conversation with me. Words like death . And baby . Perhaps that’s how to prevent these uncomfortable, cringe-worthy moments. But it wouldn’t be for my benefit, because the truth is no words can make this worse—or better, for that matter. I put my hand on Anna’s, still on my thigh, and give it a squeeze to let her know it’s okay. She smiles, and I’m glad one of us feels relieved.

“Okay, so last week we had the fun fair, remember the one Principal Clayton planned for Valentine’s Day? So one of the stations was face painting, like always, but this year the kids got to paint the teachers’ faces.” Anna, like me, is a teacher—grade four. She says kids under the age of nine give her migraines. “Anyway, they did a great job but that’s not the part I think you’re going to like,” she says, her voice dropping for effect. “I’d gone to the little girl’s room and Caroline was leaving the staff room as I was coming back in...and, well, I let her walk out without taking her face paint off! I looked right at her and smiled without saying a word!” Anna laughs, snorting deeply again. “She went on the ‘L’ with cat whiskers...ears—” Anna laughs so hard she’s losing her breath “—and...and a bright pink nose!” The energy from her laughter is contagious, and I can’t help the small chuckle that escapes me. Caroline DuPont was one of the other kindergarten teachers, and always trying to show me up with her Martha Stewart–perfect craft ideas for her class. The thought of her sitting on the train in full costume makeup applied by a clumsy five-year-old’s hand did bring some light to my soul. For a moment.

Anna laughs again and I want to join her, but it’s just too much work. She realizes she’s laughing alone and stops. We drink our coffees in silence, and then I blurt out, “I think something’s wrong with me. Really wrong.”

She looks at me, surprise muddling her pretty features. “Why do you think that?” To her credit, she keeps her tone light. Perhaps trying not to alarm me. Or maybe, herself. “What do you mean?”

My voice is softer now. “I talk to him.” Barely a whisper. “Sometimes it feels like he’s still with me...right here...” I gulp back a sob and clutch my stomach, the pain that can no longer be blamed on physical wounds starting up again. “Like nothing happened.”

“Oh, Teg.” Anna clutches my arm. I see something flash across her face. Relief? “That’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with you. I promise.”

I can see she believes it, and I’m grateful for her certainty. Even though I don’t share it.

“It will get better, sweetie,” Anna soothes. “But not today. Or tomorrow, or probably even months from now. But I promise you, you won’t feel like this forever.”

Something inside me snaps. My chair scrapes the hardwood floor noisily and Anna jolts back, the sudden movement surprising her.

“You promise me?” My voice is loud and unrecognizable to my own ears. It’s filled with misplaced, toxic anger, which unfortunately for Anna, needs to be released right now. It’s bubbling up in me like boiling water inside a tightly lidded pot. Straining to break the seal. I start to laugh, but without joy. “I suggest not promising me anything.”

“Tegan, please sit down,” Anna says, pulling on my coat’s arm with some urgency. People look our way, anticipating something more interesting than whatever is on their laptop screens or on the lips of their coffee dates. Their curiosity sickens me. Although admittedly, only months ago I would have been doing exactly the same thing.

“This will never get better. Never.” I bite my lip, not to hold back my words but to feel physical pain. I learned while recovering from my surgery just how valuable physical hurt is in keeping emotional anguish at bay. But it would have to be extreme to counter what I’m feeling, because most days it feels like my insides are covered in a million paper cuts, and I’ve just swallowed a bottle of lemon juice.

I taste blood, and feel the rough edge of my lip where I’ve gone through the skin. “I lost... I lost my—” My voice cracks, and I can’t make the word pass my lips. “I lost everything. I am without a future now. At twenty-six. Do you know how that feels? No, you don’t. Because you still have the chance for all that.”

I suppose I do, too, although not in any way that makes sense to me now. I keep going, despite the stares of the coffee-shop patrons, despite the tears that stream down Anna’s cheeks, ruining her mascara.

“So, please. Please don’t promise me anything, Anna. Especially something you can’t control.” You see now? I want to add. No one can help me.

“I’m sorry,” Anna says, eyes downcast. Her voice is thick with emotion. For a second I feel guilty for making her cry. “I really thought...maybe if you could... You said you weren’t ready. I’m sorry.”

“What the hell are you sorry about?” I’m giggling uncontrollably even though I know it isn’t the right reaction. I should be crying. Wailing. But for some strange reason I giggle, like a carefree schoolgirl.

I’m barely hanging on.

“You weren’t driving the car. You always drive the fucking speed limit anyway. I wish you had been driving instead of Gabe. Maybe then... Maybe...” The giggles shift to a full-body sob, but I can’t stop the words spilling from my tear-damp lips. “I hear it all the time. The crash. Have I told you that, what it sounded like? Did you know metal screams when it’s being ripped apart? Like, it actually screams.” Anna stands quickly, grabbing her stuff and then my arm as I sob around my words.

“Come on.” Anna ushers me through the now crowded tables. There are murmurs, chairs pulling in to accommodate our quick departure. She leads me outside, into the cold air. I concentrate on breathing. In and out. In and out.