The weight of the silence pressed down on her like a thick blanket. The therapist and her husband faded into the background as her breath caught in her throat. Even if she could find her voice, she knew her words would fall on deaf ears.
She wanted to bolt from the office, but instead, she sat there, head bowed as if in deep contemplation.
“How are you feeling?” The therapist’s voice was gentle, almost melodic.
The ticking of the wall clock, her husband’s steady breathing beside her on the leather couch, and the therapist’s penetrating gaze all grated on her nerves.
She inhaled deeply and looked up.
Her husband leaned towards her, placing his hand on her knee. “We’re all here for you,” he said softly.
Her eyes wandered around the room, finally settling on a large abstract painting behind the therapist. The canvas was a swirl of deep blues and vibrant oranges, like a turbulent sunset over a stormy sea. She wondered what would happen if the therapist, in her rolling chair, accidentally bumped into it. She imagined the painting teetering, swaying back and forth before crashing down. Would it be heavy enough to injure the therapist? Could the shattered frame reach her and her husband on their plush sofa?
She wanted to discuss the pretentious artwork, to ask an open-ended question like, “What do you think that painting represents?” Instead, she said, “I’m fine, thank you,” and placed her hand atop her husband’s.
She guided her weathered van around a rare bend in the coastal highway. The afternoon sun beat down on her right side, warming her arm through the open window. She envisioned the desert, eager to feel the hot sand beneath her feet and see the endless expanse of the arid wilderness. Unlike the lush, green landscapes of her hometown, she knew she would appreciate the stark beauty of the desert. When asked, “Why the desert? It’s so desolate,” she’d simply replied that she’d never experienced it before.
She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, humming along to the radio. She’d need to refuel in another hour or so, but nothing else until she reached her destination for the night. “Hang in there, old girl,” she said, patting the sun-faded dashboard.
She had two rules: explore everything intriguing, and rely on no one, especially not a man. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind: “You don’t understand what it’s like, having to fend for yourself,” and so that had become her mantra, the second rule of this journey and her life.
The landscape here was dotted with modest bungalows set back from the highway. Their driveways were lined with towering trees, hinting at the majestic forests beyond. Progress was encroaching, most likely due to the expanding tech industry in nearby cities. After seeing nothing but dense forests and misty coastlines for miles, her attention was captured by a solitary yellow cottage. It stood out against the green backdrop, its cheerful color a beacon to weary travelers. A hand-painted sign hung from its white picket fence.
She read the sign aloud and then pulled the wheel hard right to turn into the gravel driveway.
The shop was cozy and empty. A gentle breeze wafted through open windows, carrying the scent of ocean and pine. Sunlight streamed in, casting playful shadows through potted ferns hanging from the ceiling. A few Edison bulbs dangled from driftwood beams, adding a rustic charm.
There was nothing here reminiscent of the bustling cities she’d left behind or the scorching deserts that lay ahead.
There were signs, subtle hints she should have heeded, but he was as unexpected as the oasis-like shop itself.
She perused the menu chalked on a reclaimed barn door. There were classic combinations alongside more adventurous blends that screamed of the local flavors.
Suddenly, he was there beside her as if materialized from the salty air, leaning casually against the counter. He was close enough that she could smell the faint scent of cedarwood and something uniquely… him.
A petite woman with wild, curly hair bounded through a beaded curtain, pulling a cart of fresh produce. She couldn’t quite place the woman’s age. Her face was youthful, but her eyes held the wisdom of years. When she smiled in greeting, laugh lines crinkled at the corners of her eyes.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “Sorry to keep you waiting, dear.”
“No worries,” she replied, her finger tracing the menu indecisively.
“You should try the local favorite,” he suggested, his voice a low rumble beside her.
“I’m sorry?” she said, instinctively stepping back. She hugged her arms close to her body.
“Just thought you might like a local favorite. It has wild ingredients, and a hint of…”
“Thanks, but I can decide for myself,” she wanted to say. He didn’t look like a local, wearing cargo shorts and a faded band t-shirt despite the cool coastal air. There were splatters of paint near the hem, as if he’d hastily wiped his hands there. She imagined his life was full of spontaneity, interrupted only by the ebb and flow of creative inspiration.
Her expression must have betrayed her thoughts because he backed up, hands raised in a gesture of peace, though his eyes still twinkled with amusement. He persisted, “The local favorite is…”
She laughed despite herself. “I can read the menu, thanks.” She wanted to ask why he cared what she ordered but didn’t want to prolong the interaction. Instead, she asked the woman behind the counter, “Can you make the ‘Coastal Sunrise’ with oat milk?”
The woman nodded enthusiastically, “Absolutely!” and set to work.
He chuckled. “Trading earthiness for sweetness?” he said, as if this was some profound metaphor. “If you’re passing through, you should try something uniquely local. Last chance,” and he spread his arms wide, as if presenting the entire shop to her. She noticed his sun-bleached hair and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. It wasn’t hard to imagine skilled hands beneath the paint-splattered shirt. He was undeniably attractive.
“One Coastal Sunrise with oat milk!” the woman called out, sliding the vibrant drink across the counter.
“Thanks,” she said, turning slightly towards the stranger. She measured her response carefully. “To each their own,” she’d wanted to say, taking a sip of her smoothie, aware of his gaze. To hell with his suggestions, what he thought he knew about her preferences. She’d leave the thought unfinished and breeze out the door.
Except that’s not what happened.
He padded past her in the darkness, his bare feet barely audible on the worn floorboards. She was awake, staring into the void. She was exhausted, but sleep eluded her. One leg was propped up on the rocking chair, supporting the baby’s weight as he slumbered peacefully, head tilted back and mouth slightly agape. Even in the pitch black, she felt it – the walls closing in, just as they did in her nightmares. They were always the same in her dreams, the color of sand and emptiness.
Noticing her, he crept back towards her and stood silently for a moment before asking, “What did the doctor say?”
“It’s been three months. It’s not just postpartum anymore,” and when he didn’t seem to understand, she added, “I need to find a therapist or psychiatrist or someone.” She looked in his general direction, barely making out his silhouette. “He gave me some referrals,” and then her gaze drifted back to where she knew the baby’s face would be, though she could see nothing but shadows.
“You know my sister can come help,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. She wondered if he was trying not to wake the baby or if he was afraid of her reaction. She sighed. “I was supposed to go to South America: Peru and Chile, maybe even Easter Island,” as if reciting a list of far-off galaxies. Then, “Do you think we’ll ever get there?”
The first light of dawn was beginning to filter through the curtains. She leaned over the crib and gazed at her baby boy, his face as round and perfect as a full moon, with dimples that mirrored his father’s when he smiled. Her breathing steadied as she gently stroked the baby’s cheek, marveling at its impossible softness. She could hear his sister in the kitchen already, her presence expanding to fill the space as she moved about, opening cabinets and setting things on the countertop. The moment shattered, and she rose to her feet.
She was improving now. At least that’s what he said.
His sister had entered their lives like a whirlwind. Crossing the threshold of their small bungalow, she immediately set down her duffel bag and surveyed the living room. “A growing family needs nourishment,” she declared, as if it explained everything. With a sweeping motion of her toned arm, she cleared a large portion of the coffee table. Magazines, empty mugs, and half-eaten snacks were piled into a box to be sorted later, even the baby’s toys. “There,” she said, satisfied. She then picked up her bag, strode to the guest room, and began unpacking her essentials. His sister kept organizing things. She’d moved the cherished record player from its spot by the window to a high shelf, citing baby-proofing concerns. She had to stretch and fumble each time she wanted to play a vinyl.
The initial feeling was one of reprieve. She slept. She woke up one day, unsure if it was evening of the same day or morning of the next. Hearing the soft murmur of conversation and the clink of cutlery, she found her husband hunched over a plate, eating something green and fragrant over quinoa that he scooped up with a fork. He ate with quiet appreciation. His sister stood by the sink, dishes drying on a bamboo rack, gently bouncing the baby. She beamed and said, “Look who’s up!” to her, her voice carrying a note of forced cheer.
“This is amazing, sis, thanks,” he said as he stood. He went to kiss his sister on the cheek and then sidestep the high chair as he made his way to where she stood in the doorway, still blinking sleep from her eyes.
“Oh, it’s nothing special,” his sister said with a dismissive wave. “Just a quick stir-fry. Anyone can throw it together.”
He guided her to her seat, where a plate of the same green stir-fry and quinoa awaited her. The reclaimed wood table looked different. She ran her fingers along the edge of a new placemat, its pattern a swirl of ocean waves, and noticed her fork resting on a cloth napkin folded into an origami crane. He squeezed her shoulder gently. “See,” he whispered close to her ear, “Everything’s going to be alright,” though she was certain his sister overheard. She pushed the food around on her plate.
“How is it?” his sister asked while cradling the baby, who was starting to fuss. She nodded silently.
The therapist said, “Let’s try a mindfulness exercise.”
The therapist’s office was painted a soft sage green, unlike the sandy hues of her dreams and their bungalow, but the therapist had chosen large houseplants to fill the corners. They were lush and vibrant: a towering fiddle leaf fig, a cascading pothos, a collection of succulents in varying shades of green. Still, the walls seemed to pulse, the ceiling above her undulating like waves, the breathable space contracting until she felt submerged in an endless ocean. She massaged her temples, trying to dispel the unsettling image.
The gentle ticking of a meditation timer punctuated the silence, a reminder that their session had a finite duration. The therapist observed them through round, wire-rimmed glasses that softened her features. “Please face one another,” she instructed. They joined hands, their knees almost touching. His gaze moved slowly over her face, as if memorizing every detail.
“I want you to repeat after me,” the therapist said, “and then add your own words, focusing on what you appreciate most about your partner.” She reminded them, “Maintain eye contact.” After a pause, she began, “I see you…”
He took a deep breath, his lips curving into a gentle smile. “I see you,” he echoed, giving her hands a reassuring squeeze.
“What do you see?” the therapist prompted. “Continue.”
“I see your strength. I see the love you have for our son, and the way you’re trying,” he added, glancing briefly at the therapist before returning his gaze to her.
She nodded, feeling a tear trace its way down her cheek. “I see you,” she repeated softly. After a moment’s hesitation, she continued, “I see your patience, and your unwavering support.”
As she spoke the words, she felt as if she were floating, tethered only by his steady hands holding hers. The exercise continued, but afterwards, she struggled to recall the specifics of what had been said.
As they prepared to leave, the therapist remarked, “You’ve made significant progress today. Especially you,” she added, looking at her.
“Thank you,” she replied, and turning to her husband, she managed a small smile and said, “I think I might take a walk on the beach later. It’s been a while since I’ve felt the sand between my toes.”
“That’s wonderful!” the therapist chimed in, overhearing her. “Reconnecting with nature can be incredibly healing,” and she gently closed the door behind them.
