Telling the Two Apart
001
She had found herself awake in the dark, blinking, fumbling for a clock. Something had stirred her. It was like the feeling of falling and catching yourself just in time, just before you hit what might or might not exist.
6.03 am.
She let her hand fall from the top of the clock, its red numbers the only light in the room. But the sun would be up soon. She lay there, seeing nothing. Whatever feeling or thought had woken her was not prepared to give her any more rest tonight.
Or this morning. Whichever.
She sat up, pushing her hair out of her eyes and putting her feet on the pine floor. One early morning couldn’t do any harm. What was the saying? Early to bed, early to rise. She’d been sleeping too much in the past few weeks. It was like she was a prisoner of her own home—the four walls of her room closing in on her, she slept for twelve hours a day or more. She hadn’t been outside in what felt like a lifetime. She didn’t know if she cared.
Enter now the feline companion, rubbing its face on her legs as she stood. Every time the cat did this, she wondered about it. Was it merely marking her with its scent as its property, or was there affection? The cat, named Orion, let out a tiny meow. Whatever its reasons, it wanted attention.
She rubbed the cat’s neck. “Yeah, it’s early,” she said distantly, starting a slow trudge to the world outside her bedroom. Of course, kitty followed.
She realized that the feline’s attention was probably granted so unsparingly because the poor thing was out of food. She checked the dish—sure enough, only a few small morsels remained around the edges. As she poured Meow Mix into the porcelain bowl, a few pieces missed and scattered across the cool tile. The kitty raced with her to pick them up.
After finishing this small chore, Nina left Orion to crunch on his dry breakfast as she padded softly into the living room. She looked around as if making sure everything was still there. It was. Another day, another clot of miserable existence? The furniture seemed to sadly agree.
She wasn’t sure if three months was too long to mourn. Wait, had it been three months? She did the math painfully. Three months, a week and…five days.
What she was mourning was the untimely death of a childhood friend. They had grown up in the smog of inner-urban Chicago, not poor but not altogether wealthy, and their parents had been friends, and so they were required to be playmates. Forced to spend time together, Nina and Rhea (as that was her name) formed a friendship that was slow to blossom but long lasting. That was when they were young—Nina eight years old, Rhea six.
They went through adolescence holding one another’s hand. Rhea had been there when Nina’s grandmother had died—a relative closer to her than even her own mother at times. Rhea had advised Nina to put away the fortune she had received in her grandmother’s will, and Rhea had warded off the leeches after the money. Nina had been there through Rhea’s abusive relationship with her father, and later, the same type of relationship with the owner of a grocery store whom she once loved.
Now Nina was twenty-five, had just turned twenty-five. And Rhea had been twenty-two years old when the car passing hers on the freeway clipped hers, spun it out of control, and sent it sailing off a ledge into a small forest yards below.
A freak accident, they said. Nina didn’t think it very freakish—in fact, she heard of things like that happening all the time. She was sure the part they were referring to was that it had to touch Nina’s life. Or maybe that it had to touch Rhea’s life.
Or maybe that there was absolutely no way to predict it, no time to say goodbye.
She knew that her behavior for the past three months had been ultimately foolish and maybe even selfish. Becoming a recluse was not something Rhea would have wanted her to do. But on the other hand, it wasn’t something Nina had planned on doing. When she woke up and remembered what she’d lost, and when the pain of the raw wound came back to her, facing the day was far too difficult—much less facing the people outside.
It wasn’t that she wasn’t independent.
Well, perhaps it was. She hoped it would change soon.
She’d never really given much thought, since that accident, to what Rhea would want Nina to do with herself once she was gone. But after all, once someone dies, all anyone wants is to fulfill the wishes the deceased might have had for their friends and family. Nina’s mother had been grief-stricken as well, had not gotten the news from Nina but rather from Rhea’s mother, but was now moving on with her life and doing other things besides focusing on the hole where Rhea had once been.
They’d been like sisters, Nina and Rhea.
Now, starting a pot of coffee—although she really wasn’t a coffee drinker—Nina plopped herself down at the kitchen table and spread her hands out in front of her. Well, she hadn’t killed herself yet. She hadn’t done any harm to anyone or anything, including herself—she knew that plenty were that type, but she was not.
Her fingers were not rough. She wasn’t a heavy worker. The money her grandmother had left her gathered enough interest for her to live on that alone—she had taken a few jobs here and there, of course. She wasn’t a blue blood, and she did get bored. She certainly wasn’t spoiled.
She sat there, studying her fingers, waiting for the coffee to finish. When it did, she poured herself a big mug—sugar, cream—and sat back down, cuddling it.
It was true. Rhea would never have wanted Nina to be so miserable. And as cliché as it may have been, Nina wanted what she knew Rhea would want. Maybe it was time to start healing. Really healing, not just wallowing in the grief and packing salt uselessly into the wound.
For Rhea. Nina sipped the coffee, watching Orion saunter around the apartment, his tail twitching.
Nina gathered her short brown hair into a ponytail with her hands, then let it fall back down to her chin. She didn’t know what to do, where to begin. She supposed that therapy could help—she was wary of shrinks as much as the next person, but she knew that in this day and age, everyone seemed to have one, and many people found it comforting and even helpful. So could she try?
After considering this for a long few minutes, Nina stood and walked to the coffee table, where the phone book had been lying, spread-eagled, for weeks now. It was open to Domino’s number, and she sat on the couch to flip through the yellow pages. When she found “Therapy,” she slowed and read.
6.03 am.
She let her hand fall from the top of the clock, its red numbers the only light in the room. But the sun would be up soon. She lay there, seeing nothing. Whatever feeling or thought had woken her was not prepared to give her any more rest tonight.
Or this morning. Whichever.
She sat up, pushing her hair out of her eyes and putting her feet on the pine floor. One early morning couldn’t do any harm. What was the saying? Early to bed, early to rise. She’d been sleeping too much in the past few weeks. It was like she was a prisoner of her own home—the four walls of her room closing in on her, she slept for twelve hours a day or more. She hadn’t been outside in what felt like a lifetime. She didn’t know if she cared.
Enter now the feline companion, rubbing its face on her legs as she stood. Every time the cat did this, she wondered about it. Was it merely marking her with its scent as its property, or was there affection? The cat, named Orion, let out a tiny meow. Whatever its reasons, it wanted attention.
She rubbed the cat’s neck. “Yeah, it’s early,” she said distantly, starting a slow trudge to the world outside her bedroom. Of course, kitty followed.
She realized that the feline’s attention was probably granted so unsparingly because the poor thing was out of food. She checked the dish—sure enough, only a few small morsels remained around the edges. As she poured Meow Mix into the porcelain bowl, a few pieces missed and scattered across the cool tile. The kitty raced with her to pick them up.
After finishing this small chore, Nina left Orion to crunch on his dry breakfast as she padded softly into the living room. She looked around as if making sure everything was still there. It was. Another day, another clot of miserable existence? The furniture seemed to sadly agree.
She wasn’t sure if three months was too long to mourn. Wait, had it been three months? She did the math painfully. Three months, a week and…five days.
What she was mourning was the untimely death of a childhood friend. They had grown up in the smog of inner-urban Chicago, not poor but not altogether wealthy, and their parents had been friends, and so they were required to be playmates. Forced to spend time together, Nina and Rhea (as that was her name) formed a friendship that was slow to blossom but long lasting. That was when they were young—Nina eight years old, Rhea six.
They went through adolescence holding one another’s hand. Rhea had been there when Nina’s grandmother had died—a relative closer to her than even her own mother at times. Rhea had advised Nina to put away the fortune she had received in her grandmother’s will, and Rhea had warded off the leeches after the money. Nina had been there through Rhea’s abusive relationship with her father, and later, the same type of relationship with the owner of a grocery store whom she once loved.
Now Nina was twenty-five, had just turned twenty-five. And Rhea had been twenty-two years old when the car passing hers on the freeway clipped hers, spun it out of control, and sent it sailing off a ledge into a small forest yards below.
A freak accident, they said. Nina didn’t think it very freakish—in fact, she heard of things like that happening all the time. She was sure the part they were referring to was that it had to touch Nina’s life. Or maybe that it had to touch Rhea’s life.
Or maybe that there was absolutely no way to predict it, no time to say goodbye.
She knew that her behavior for the past three months had been ultimately foolish and maybe even selfish. Becoming a recluse was not something Rhea would have wanted her to do. But on the other hand, it wasn’t something Nina had planned on doing. When she woke up and remembered what she’d lost, and when the pain of the raw wound came back to her, facing the day was far too difficult—much less facing the people outside.
It wasn’t that she wasn’t independent.
Well, perhaps it was. She hoped it would change soon.
She’d never really given much thought, since that accident, to what Rhea would want Nina to do with herself once she was gone. But after all, once someone dies, all anyone wants is to fulfill the wishes the deceased might have had for their friends and family. Nina’s mother had been grief-stricken as well, had not gotten the news from Nina but rather from Rhea’s mother, but was now moving on with her life and doing other things besides focusing on the hole where Rhea had once been.
They’d been like sisters, Nina and Rhea.
Now, starting a pot of coffee—although she really wasn’t a coffee drinker—Nina plopped herself down at the kitchen table and spread her hands out in front of her. Well, she hadn’t killed herself yet. She hadn’t done any harm to anyone or anything, including herself—she knew that plenty were that type, but she was not.
Her fingers were not rough. She wasn’t a heavy worker. The money her grandmother had left her gathered enough interest for her to live on that alone—she had taken a few jobs here and there, of course. She wasn’t a blue blood, and she did get bored. She certainly wasn’t spoiled.
She sat there, studying her fingers, waiting for the coffee to finish. When it did, she poured herself a big mug—sugar, cream—and sat back down, cuddling it.
It was true. Rhea would never have wanted Nina to be so miserable. And as cliché as it may have been, Nina wanted what she knew Rhea would want. Maybe it was time to start healing. Really healing, not just wallowing in the grief and packing salt uselessly into the wound.
For Rhea. Nina sipped the coffee, watching Orion saunter around the apartment, his tail twitching.
Nina gathered her short brown hair into a ponytail with her hands, then let it fall back down to her chin. She didn’t know what to do, where to begin. She supposed that therapy could help—she was wary of shrinks as much as the next person, but she knew that in this day and age, everyone seemed to have one, and many people found it comforting and even helpful. So could she try?
After considering this for a long few minutes, Nina stood and walked to the coffee table, where the phone book had been lying, spread-eagled, for weeks now. It was open to Domino’s number, and she sat on the couch to flip through the yellow pages. When she found “Therapy,” she slowed and read.