Maybe Maby

  “Just stop! You’re making yourself worse. Stop already! You’re acting like a crazy person!” he yelled.

  “What’s it hurting you whether I do this or not? Just leave me alone! You wanted me off the medicine. This is me!”

  He got out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. Instead of crawling back into bed the way I had all 12 nights since my mom had died, I left the apartment too. I walked the 16 blocks to Saul. I’d picked at the fuzzies on my fleece sweatshirt all the way there and when he saw me, he held me and then looked at my hands.

  “You’re bleeding,” he said, alarmed.

  “It’s nothing. My hands are just dry and I can’t stop picking at my clothes.”

  He looked at me sadly. And then he threw me over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes and ran up the stairs with me. I laughed for the first time in 12 days. He led me to the sink and washed all the blood off.

  “We need to get some kind of ointment or heavy cream or something,” he muttered. “Would it work to put Band-Aids over your fingers? Would that help you stop?”

  “I don’t know. I never thought of that. I’ll have to try it.”

  He didn’t ask what I was doing there and I didn’t say anything about Dalton.

  “Wanna watch a movie?”

  “Yeah, that sounds nice.” I feel my shoulders relaxing just being near him.

  We cuddled on the bed and I fell asleep. It was a couple of hours later when I woke up and looked at Saul. The room was dark except for a streetlight shining in the room. He was sleeping too. I touched his face softly, loving the way his eyelashes looked against his cheeks. His eyes popped open.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

  He did a little chuckle that always made me smile.

  I kept touching his face and he touched mine. He touched my lips and I kissed his finger. His eyes grew darker, but he didn’t stop. His hand trailed down the front of my body, over my breasts, down my stomach, down my legs and feet.

  He looked in my eyes and saw the answer he needed and pulled off my shirt. I pulled off his. He pushed my pants down and I pushed down his. Bra and underwear came off next and we just lay there, quietly, touching each other. Slowly. He pulled me on top of him and his fingers wandered down, down, down and with just a few strokes, he made me come. I shuddered and was so overcome—with feelings for him and that I had even been able to go there with him after so long without—that I leaned down and kissed him. He kissed me, but then went completely still. His body felt heavenly under mine, but I could tell something had shifted for him.

  He grabbed my shirt and put it back on me, tugging my hair forward on each shoulder. Confused, I got off of him and put my underwear on under the covers.

  He took my hand and tried to pull me back to his chest, but I sat up and put on my pants.

  “I should go,” I said quietly.

  HE CALLED ME early the next morning. Dalton had already left for work.

  “Hey. Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Um, yeah. As good as I can be, I guess,” I answered.

  “I just … wanted to make sure … after last night. I—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay.”

  “We kissed…”

  “That’s not all we did,” I said.

  “I know, but … I’m sorry, Maby.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. I hung up and bawled. I was sorry, too. Sorry that I’d cheated on Dalton, sorry that I was really alone, sorry that Saul regretted what we’d done, sorry that my mom was dead and I wasn’t.

  INSTEAD OF SNAPPING out of it, I got worse. I kept walking miles every day and getting lost. One night I passed out after walking too long and woke up in the hospital. When I came to and they couldn’t get me to talk, they put me in the psych ward. I wasn’t there long, but it was a nightmare. Being in the mental hospital was the closest I ever came to losing my mind. Enough that I swore to myself that if I ever got even close to being put in there again, I would kill myself first.

  Dalton broke up with me when I got out.

  “I THINK MY job isn’t helping me get any better.”

  I’m sitting at therapy, holding a hot cup of tea. Dr. Still looks at me thoughtfully.

  “What do you think it is about work that’s a trigger for you?” she asks.

  “My boss is high-strung and demanding. I think since she knows about my issues she makes allowances for me, but I feel bad about that and try to be sure that I make it up to her. I do most of the work she should be doing, so she’ll know I’m still valuable. I’ve started doing all of the buying. She seems to trust my opinion and I work doubly hard to make sure she doesn’t regret it.”

  “You know, Mabel, a common thread I’m seeing in our conversations is guilt. The things you’ve told me about Dalton and Saul, and now even with work. You seem to be carrying a lot of guilt around about everything you do, whether it’s warranted or not. In some ways guilt propels OCD symptoms: you feel bad that you didn’t get something right, you have to do it again and again until you make it right. I’m going to propose for the next week, take note of everything you say and think that has guilt as the driving force. I want guilt taken out of the equation.”

  It’s a light bulb moment.

  “You’re right. I’m not sure I know how to live without some form of guilt or another.” I study my hands. “Why do I have so much of it and where should I focus all of it now?”

  “I don’t know,” she says truthfully. “I’m hoping we can get to the bottom of it, but I’m not sure why you’ve taken on so much. The good thing is I know you can start recognizing it and deflecting it. Your responsibility is to take care of you. What fills you with peace? What makes you happy? What do you enjoy doing?”

  “I wish I were one of those people who had a passion, you know, something I absolutely love to do. I feel like the only thing I’m really good at is organizing closets and counting.”

  “If you’re organizing closets for fun or it brings you peace, I don’t see anything wrong with it. If you’re doing it because you feel bad about the way you did something at work or it’s in any way tied into guilt, don’t do it. Put your energy into things that give you joy.”

  I think about that for a few moments. “Saul always brought me joy.”

  “And does he now?”

  “Well, I think I’m still too mad at him.”

  “What makes you the maddest about Saul?”

  “Two things. I still don’t really know how he feels and he never fought for our friendship, platonic or otherwise. Oh … three things. He abandoned me when I needed him most.”

  “And if Saul is never in the equation? What brings you joy?”

  I’m quiet for a long time.

  Dr. Still finally clears her throat. “Mabel?”

  “Nothing.”

  INSTEAD OF BEING depressed by my revelations in therapy, I’m driven. I have to find something that makes me happy, besides Saul. I walk by a storefront and see my reflection in the window. My haircut. It makes me happy. As inconsequential as it seems, it has given me a little bounce in my step. I decide to walk the extra blocks to the salon and say hello to Paschal. I could also use a trim. I smirk when I think about his thoughts on that.

  The place is quiet when I get there. Paschal is at the front desk and there’s only one client getting their hair cut by another stylist.

  “Hey, Maby!” he says when he sees me.

  “Hi, Paschal! Sure is quiet in here.”

  “Ugh. I know. Business is so slow right now.”

  “Have time to touch me up?”

  “Absolutely.” He doesn’t even grimace. Business must be really slow.

  When he washes my hair, I tell him his fingers have supernatural powers. He laughs.

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Mm-hmm. I bet,” I moan.

  Once I’m in the chair, we’re talking like old girlfriends. I know it’s what hair stylists and clients do, but there’s a bond. I don’t th
ink I’m imagining it. When he mentions loving the salon but not being sure if he’s going to be able to keep it at that location, a seed is planted in my head.

  “I’ll try to help you get more business—it’s what I’m good at doing. The place looks great and you have magical fingers—so it’s just a matter of spreading the word. We could put an ad in the paper and give coupons out at coffee shops and nail salons. Do you have a Facebook page or a website?”

  He stares at me, getting more excited with every word I say. “I’m terrible at all of that. I would love help. I can’t afford to pay you, is the only problem…” he trails off.

  “I know. I’m not even asking you to pay me. I need a distraction.”

  He finishes up my hair.

  “Thank you, Maby. Any amount of help would be huge to me.”

  I snap a picture of him in the front entrance … it’s the only place that has enough light for a decent shot. He approves the picture and I make a salon Facebook page for him.

  He shares it with all his friends and within minutes has a dozen likes. 10% off cuts and color all week is his first post.

  The other stylist gets done with his client and Paschal asks them both to share the page with their friends. By the time I leave, they’ve got 56 likes and 4 new customers have called to make appointments.

  “My job for the night is done.” I put my hands together and bow.

  “You are a little pixie genius,” he says. “Come here, let me hug you.” He gives me a quick squeeze and I leave happier than when I came.

  I’M IN BED before I realize that I didn’t count anything on my way home. Not once. I know the medicine has kicked in, but I also think I might be getting a little better.

  I get a text right before I go to sleep.

  Dalton: Courtney’s pregnant.

  Congratulations! You had sex again!

  Dalton: Shut up. I think we’re gonna get married.

  Double congratulations! So I guess that was a no on the breaking up...

  Dalton: Why were we ever together?

  I’ve been asking myself that same question.

  THE NEXT NIGHT, I take fliers to Paschal and then go to a few cafes, coffee shops, and boutiques in the area to pin the flier up anywhere that has a bulletin board. I talk to each store owner or manager and tell them about Paschal’s business, offering special rates for any salon services. At La Colombe, Coen asks if that’s where I got my haircut.

  When I say yes, he says, “I liked it long too, but you look smokin’ now.”

  “Oh! Um, thank you,” I stutter, flattered and surprised.

  “What are you, like, 22-23?” he asks.

  “Ha, no,” I laugh, “I’m 28.”

  “Wow, had no idea. Well, if you ever wanna go all Ashton and Demi with me, I’m game,” he says.

  “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” I smile at him. “That would make you 13, by the way…”

  “What?”

  “They were 15 years apart … never mind.” I awkwardly back away with my coffee.

  He laughs. “Oh yeah, gotcha. Well, see? We’re not that bad. How ‘bout you go out with me?”

  I’m tempted. He’s adorable and funny.

  “You know what, Coen? I’m not looking for a boyfriend, but I could use new friends.”

  “Got it. I’m cool with that. My sister’s playing at The 55 tomorrow night—would you like to meet up with us?”

  I take just a moment’s pause. “Yeah, I’d love to.”

  “Maybe get there a little before 8. I’ll save you a spot.”

  PASCHAL CALLS ME at work the next morning. “I’ve gotten several calls from people you met last night.”

  “Great! Everyone was really nice. It seems like they’ll help spread the word. They have your business card and a few places have your flier up. Been giving your flier to all my customers today, too…”

  “Wow, that’s huge. Thank you so much! Okay, I know you have to work. I’ll see you later.”

  “Oh hey—I have a non-date, let’s be friends later tonight. Wish me luck.”

  “You’ll have to tell me everything while I do your nails or something…”

  “I might be willing to let you do that,” I say with a giggle. I surprise myself with that giggle. I look up and Anna is standing there, watching me. “Gotta go.” I hang up quickly. “Hi, Anna.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” She wrinkles her nose as if that’s the most disgusting thing she can imagine.

  “Nope. Still single,” I tell her. “How’s the baby making going?”

  What? She can jab me about being single but I can’t jab at her about her desire to just have a baby boy when she already has a beautiful baby girl she never sees? Okay, I know. I’m bitter.

  “I’m pregnant, actually.” She beams. “I was just coming in to tell you. I knew you’d be happy for me.”

  Ugh. Stab. Guilt. Wait, Dr. Still says I can’t have guilt. Except this time it might be well-deserved.

  “Congratulations!” I tell her. I get up and hug her and as soon as I turn around I can’t even wait until she’s gone to wet wipe my hands. I do wait to spray the Lysol until she’s stepped away. Huh. Seems Dr. Still might be on to something.

  “I need you to stay late tonight. We have that huge shipment coming in and I need you to stay and cover the paperwork when it comes through.”

  “It was supposed to come in tomorrow morning. I can’t stay tonight, sorry.”

  “They called and said it’s coming in tonight. What do you mean you can’t stay?” She genuinely looks floored.

  “I’m not able to stay late tonight. Sorry.”

  Her eyes narrow into penetrating spears, pricking into me by the second.

  “I don’t understand. This is really important. I need you to stay.”

  “I can’t … not tonight.”

  “This is your job. Are you telling me you don’t care about your job anymore?”

  “You know what? Not really.” I shrug just to bug her. “I’ve put in countless overtime hours without the pay that would normally come with a job. Find someone else who can stay tonight. I have plans.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. After all I’ve done for you…” She enunciates each word so clearly.

  “You really haven’t done much for me, Anna,” I say calmly. “Any time I’ve ever taken off has been without pay. I don’t go on vacations. I make sure everything is in order here for you before I go home every night, typically long after closing. And I’ve never once, in 3 years, gotten a raise. I used to think you were doing me a favor, knowing my issues, but … not anymore. I’m not going to allow you to hold anything over my head any longer.” I grin at her. Damn, that felt good to say.

  “What … the hell?” she sputters.

  “I appreciate having a job, so thank you for that. And congratulations about the baby. I really am happy for you.”

  And I am. Now that I’ve said my piece, I feel light as a feather and genuinely wish the girl well.

  “I have a few more things to get done before I leave, so I better get back to work.” I turn around and get busy finishing up my projects for the night.

  I don’t hear her walk away, but when I get up to file one of the contracts I’ve just finalized, she’s long gone.

  PASCHAL PUTS A strip of blue in one of the front longer pieces of my hair. I love it. We work on my nails. I could get into this pampering.

  “Hey—you should come to The 55 when you’re done here. Live music.”

  “I wouldn’t mind seeing this non-date … but I don’t want to intrude.”

  “No, please! Come. I might need backup.”

  “Maybe I will.” He checks my nails. “You’re ready, girl.”

  I flashback to the past year in my apartment when I couldn’t go out the door, paralyzed by what a fool I’d make of myself once I went out there. It wasn’t that my friends left me—I just stopped existing. I feel a pang of grief for that girl and a whisper of hope for the one I’m becomi
ng.

  IN THE TAXI to the bar, I look over the texts from Saul that I’ve ignored the last couple of weeks.

  Saul: It’s funny. A punk Tinkerbell has been ravaging my dreams. She’s an angry little fairy.

  And a couple of days later…

  Saul: Not funny? I’ll have you know Tink is hot. Especially when she’s mad.

  And a few days after that…

  Saul: Come on, Maby. Don’t be mad at me. I miss you. Tell me what you want me to do.

  That last one was just a few days ago.

  I text him back.

  You can’t do what you don’t feel. I can’t be mad at you for that anymore.

  He texts back right away.

  Saul: I don’t know what that means, but maybe you can tell me over dinner tonight.

  Can’t. I have a date.

  He calls just as I get out of the cab.

  “You’ve got a date?”

  I can’t tell if he’s mad or nervous. He sounds … contained, but just barely.

  “Yeah.”

  “Who?”

  “A guy I met at the coffee shop,” I tell him nonchalantly. “Actually I’ve gotta go. I just got to the bar.”

  “He’s taking you to a bar?” he asks, scoffing. “What kind of dinner is that?”

  “We’re gonna hear his sister play, if you must know,” I snap. “What’s with the third degree?”

  “No third degree. You finally texted me. I hoped we could … I don’t know. Just call me later, okay?”

  I agree to it and hang up before he gets to me any more.

  COEN OPENS THE door when he sees me coming.

  “For someone so young, you sure are a gentleman,” I tease.