“I was wrong earlier.” She narrows her eyes for emphasis. “I should have picked Tom to bring me home.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Charley
I don’t know what depression feels like. I know what my life feels like. I was diagnosed with clinical depression four years ago, after the incident. So is my entire life a “depression”? It can’t be. I’m happy when I’m staying busy, running and working, or when I’m with Naomi. But then there are times when I feel like the atoms inside of my body are firing in every direction, rioting against me and boiling over until all I can do is scream. In those moments, I feel completely at a loss, out of control of my own body and mind. Most of the time, if I just expel the anger, I can start over, building my resolve once again. That’s the reason why I run every morning. I have to exert every muscle of my body into submission, willing my brain to comply for the day.
It’s very simple. I don’t look homeless. I don’t look crazy. Maybe that’s life’s greatest hoax— on the outside I’m a model, completely flawless, and on the inside, I’m a whack job.
The whole process was easy compared to everything else I was living through during the end of my senior year of high school. I smiled and took the anti-depressants until Dr. Francis asked me if I was ready to wean myself off of them. I should have said no. I should have told them that I had no appetite and never slept. Instead, I smiled politely and crossed my hands on top of my designer skirt. “I’m ready to take control of my life. I feel so much better, Dr. Francis. You have no idea how much these past few months have changed me.” I said it so convincingly, and who doesn’t trust a girl in designer clothes with perfectly applied makeup?
That’s the reason I picked up painting in the first place. Dr. Francis suggested it for therapeutic purposes once he decided I could quit taking the prescriptions. It was either start to keep a journal, join a weekly support group — hell no — or pick up a hobby, like painting. Dr. Francis said that it would help me work through my emotions, and in a way, it does.
The summer after high school I started painting. I lost touch with every friend, or rather acquaintance, I had from my old life, and I let the images in my mind take over. It wasn’t enough though. It didn’t sate me, so on the very first day of my freshman year at Columbia, I swapped out of Finance Honors and into Fine Arts.
I’ve painted ever since. I don’t have a strict medium, everything collides together and usually I let the work lead me. Each time I start a new painting, my heart beats wildly and my limbs feel light. My stomach quivers and a high spreads through my veins like a drug.
But then, every time I finish, I step back, tilt my head, and feel the spiraling downfall carry me back to the darkness of my life. Every single time I finish a piece, I think the same thing. “This is all there is?”
But then, I begin anew, grabbing a fresh canvas and racing for the next high.
…
Mrs. Jenkins came by earlier, but I brushed off her left-over coffee cake and told her I still wasn’t feeling well. I stayed in bed and skipped my morning run. I can’t help but replay last night in my mind. I was tipsy when we got to the bar and those shots pushed me over the edge. Yet, sadly, I still remember everything. I remember practically throwing myself at Jude. What guy watches a girl strip and then leaves? Every time I think about it a new wave of nausea hits me. He could see the sadness beneath the thin layer of makeup. That’s why he left. Why would he want to be with someone as messed up as I am?
Naomi called me last night and a few times this morning. I know she’ll be over soon if I don’t respond to her texts. We’ve been friends long enough for her to see me when I’m low, but for some reason I just want to file away last night in the recesses of my mind. It’s embarrassing and I’m sure I’ll have to see Jude again if Naomi and Bennett are serious about each other. That thought makes me dip my brush into the paint I’d mixed earlier and spread it harshly across the canvas.
I have a splitting headache, but I don’t take any of the aspirin Jude left me last night. I relish the pain; I used it when I chose the brushes. I used it when I mixed the acrylic paint until I ended up with a deep, red hue. It’s beautiful and sad, like a wilting rose. I’ve heard every single argument concerning whether or not abstract painting can be considered art, and to be honest, I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks. I stood in front of my first Rothko painting when I was eighteen years old and it broke my heart. It tore at the sadness that I felt every day the summer my father died. I sat on the floor of the museum with my knees tucked toward my chest and wept.
I didn’t go to his funeral.
Staring at that painting was the first time I’d acknowledged his death anywhere outside of Dr. Francis’ office.
Rothko’s canvas stood floor to ceiling, painted a solid black. There was nothing else, no abstract elements, no faces or shapes. Just a dark, rich black. The spotlight in the museum highlighted the texture of the paint on the canvas, the way Rothko streaked the lines. The brush strokes were visible, alive, organic, and they spoke to my soul.
I let myself feel more that day in the cold museum than I did in a year and a half of therapy.
…
“Open this door, Charley, or I will bust through it. I’m serious,” Naomi calls as she hammers on the door to my apartment. It’s almost seven at night and I’ve avoided talking to her all day. I shot her a text saying all was well, but of course she saw through it.
I hover on the other side with my cheek pushed against the cold wood. “Naomi, I’m fine.”
“Charley, let me in,” she begs, and her voice cuts through me. I don’t mean to make her sad; I don’t mean to make anyone sad. This is why I wish she’d just leave. I hate being the friend that brings everyone down. It’s not fair that she’s always the happy one trying to cheer me up.
A second later a slip of paper slides under my door, hitting my foot. I glance down to read her chicken scratch. Naomi + Charley = Bad Bitches for life (no exceptions, not even on the sad days).
I let a smile break through the cloudiness and unlock the door. Dr. Francis said part of recovering was choosing to be happy, to allow people in and to accept their kindness.
“I’m doing it for your sake, Naomi,” I say as I crack the door open and let her walk past. “Can’t you see that you should be sexing Bennett right now, not hanging out with me?”
I shut the door and whip around to look at her, but she completely ignores my logic. A timid smile dots her face and she reaches out to show me the contents of her intervention. I cup a hand over my mouth, trying to quell my emotions. She has all the essentials because she’s amazing, and I love her. It’s that simple. I have to accept her kindness because she gives it willingly and without strings attached.
“Dinner,” she says, holding up a white cardboard box, “Obviously pizza because what else would you want?”
I smile gently as she puts the box down and grabs her purse. She pulls out a DVD and holds it up. “Best of SNL with Tina Fey and Amy Poehler.” She tosses it over and I have to think fast to catch it.
“And lastly, some sleeping pills.” She knows me so well that sometimes I swear she’s an extension of myself.
“I’m going to force you to eat, we’re going to laugh our asses off, and then I’m staying with you until you pass out. You’re allowed sad days, Charley. I wouldn’t expect anything less, but you aren’t allowed to have a sad life.” Her warm, brown eyes see straight through me, and I nod gently. “I’m cutting you off. Starting tomorrow, you’re going to wake up refreshed and you’re going to rock that photo shoot. I’m not going to ask about Photographer Boy because he doesn’t get to add to your sad days. Tina and Amy are the only people we need tonight,” she states, finally cracking a smile.
I brush away a tear, but it’s different from the sad tears that filled my day before she arrived. She’s like a guardian angel and I thank my lucky stars that she walked into my life our freshman year at Columbia. Without a word, I walk over to her and hug her with every ounce of strength I have. I want her to know how important she is. How much her kindness affects these sad days.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Charley
I brush a stray strand of hair away from my face as I weave through the crowded sidewalk. I feel better. I know I’ll have more lows. After all, my newfound resolve is only skin deep, but on days like this it’s hard to remember just how sad I felt yesterday. A good night’s sleep is exactly what I needed.
As I head into MILK studio fifteen minutes early, I smile and take a deep breath. Jude did the right thing. He saw that I arrived home safely and he left when he felt uncomfortable. It was an honorable thing to do and I see that now. Yes, I wanted to jump his bones, and yes, he walked away after I took my shirt off for him, but that doesn’t mean I should have yelled at him.
“Morning, Charley!” Joanie chirps as I walk out of the elevator.
“Morning, Joanie,” I wave, genuinely happy to see her again.
Most of the crew has already arrived. I wrap my hand around the strap of my purse, trying to spy Jude among all of the frantic people. I shouldn’t have been surprised to find him in the same location he had occupied on Friday: tucked behind the media table, scrolling through proofs.
As I approach the table, he looks up and wets his lips. I take in his dark stubble, his tousled brown hair, and his blue, button down shirt. He’s got the first two buttons undone and a shadow of brown chest hair is just barely visible. His expression is reserved, maybe even hesitant, but when I offer what I hope to be a “truce” smile, his shoulders relax.
“Hi.” I swallow and adjust my purse strap.
His smile grows even wider. “Hi.”
I glance around to the assistants who’ve all paused their work and are looking at us with bemused expressions. I shake my head, smile, and look back to Jude.
“Could we talk for a quick second?” I ask with a hopeful tone.
He raises his eyebrows in surprise, but quickly recovers, “Oh, sure.”
Once we’re away from prying eyes and ears, I clear my throat and begin, “I’m really sorry about Saturday night. I was rude to you after you were nothing but a complete gentleman.” My cheeks redden from the sincerity behind my words, and I look to the floor for a moment. I have no clue what he thinks of me after that night. I just hope my apology isn’t falling on deaf ears. I push past the thought and continue.
“I don’t know if you remember me saying that I usually don’t drink that much…or really at all,” I offer, trying to skirt around the subject of whether or not he was listening me talk about my mother.
“Charley, you don’t need to apologize. We’ve all been there… and yes, I remember everything you told me that night.” His voice is level, but when I glance up into his blue eyes, they’re warm and sincere. He’s being so much nicer than I was expecting. He should hate me after what I said to him.