“I have Jolene,” she said.
“Yes, but I think it’s time you make new connections and flex your social muscles. I also want you to make up a list of four to five things you’d like to do. They can be small goals. Perhaps you’ve always wanted to take a painting class or learn how to decorate a cake.”
“Why?” she asked, uncomfortable with the direction the good doctor was pushing her in.
“This is the next step, rebuilding a life. You’ve been on pause for the past two years. We’ve worked through the bigger issues. It’s time to tackle the smaller ones that continue to hold you back.”
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from balking. Engaging with the outside world made her skittish. Caring led to pain.
“Remember what we said about keeping an open mind?” Dr. Nimoy asked.
“I remember,” she answered, taking a deep breath.
“Here, I’ll start. What are some of the things you liked to do before?”
“Read, craft, cook.”
“Some things that were more social.”
“I used to host cocktail parties,” she said, remembering the themed events she once took pride in.
“And what did you like about them?”
“I liked playing bartender, and coming up with themes to get everyone dressed up for.”
“What about a bartending school?” he suggested.
“That could be fun.” She had enough money to live off indefinitely if she remained frugal, but they’d discussed getting her back into the work field in twenty sixteen.
“So let’s put that on the list,” he said, scribbling on a piece of paper. “What else?”
She opened the door to the past and peered back at the woman she once was. There was a lengthy list of things she wanted to do, but never managed to get around to—pottery, painting, traveling, and a dozen other activities she hadn’t thought about in far too long. Looking at her life at present was painful. What had once been a lush forest had become a barren wasteland. Loneliness flooded into the opening she’d made, and she slammed her barriers back into place.
“Can you tell me why we’re making this list, Doc?”
“I want you to commit to at least one thing on the list, and the group once a week.”
“And if I don’t like it?”
“I ask that you give it at least a month. Then we’ll go from there.”
It’s four weeks. I can do anything for four weeks.
§
She walked into the apartment with Dr. Nimoy’s words marinating in her brain. They were finally taking the step, and moving toward life. The past couple of years had been a meager existence. She’d done the bare minimum—eating, sleeping when the nightmares allowed, and showering with a frequency most would find alarming. This year was different.
She unwrapped the black and white plaid scarf, hung it on the peg by the door, and took in her current living situation. The walls were a basic eggshell white devoid of any adornment. A tiny table for two rested against the divider which separated the kitchen from the living room. The dish towel that hung on the oven handle was white, and the pot holders hanging on hooks were black. It looked like she had just moved in when in reality she’d been there for nearly two years.
She walked down the small hallway to the bedroom and stared at the full-sized bed with its black jersey knit sheets, and black comforter. It was a lackluster existence. With her head finally above water she could see the emptiness surrounding her. Like a crocus peeking up through the snow, she was returning to life. The numbness had begun to fade along with the blinding pain. Now she was left with loneliness.
Walking to the mirror she studied her face. Her cheekbones were sharp enough to cut; her eyes were dim and her hair held no shine. Once her pride and joy, the waist-length blonde locks that had led Everett to give her the nickname ‘fairy’ had been sorely neglected. She studied the image that made a mockery of what she once was. She opened the drawer, picked up the scissors, and began to shorn her locks. Each piece of hair that fell to the floor felt like a shedding of skin which no longer fit. In the end she was all eyes, and curls to her collarbone. Breathing heavily, she placed her hands on the counter and bowed her head. If she was going to make a new life she was going to start from the ground up. The woman Everett loved had died along with him. She had to figure out who this new Estelle was without him.
§
Snake
He didn’t need a calendar to tell him what day it was—he spent three hundred and sixty-three days dreading it. He hadn’t always been on the path of an outlaw. It took one act of senseless violence to show him just how fucked up the world was. People go along blindly believing the law will bring them justice, but too many times things slip through the cracks.