Frost

“Of course. She and I are going home on Saturday. My mom really wants to meet you.”

“I want to meet her, too,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll be able to go.”

A knock on the door startled me awake. How long had I been asleep? I put on my glasses and saw it was a couple of hours later. My stomach grumbled. The knock came again.

“Come in.”

The open door revealed Viv, standing with a red-and-white-checked cardboard take-out box from Commons in her hands.

“I ran into David at dinner,” she said. “He thought you might appreciate this.” She extended her arms.

“Oh, thanks, Viv.” I sat up straighter in bed.

She crossed the room and handed it to me, along with a fork and napkins. “I wasn’t sure what would agree with your stomach.”

I rested the heavy box on my lap; warmth spread through my thighs. Inside was probably everything Commons had offered tonight: spaghetti, chicken, potatoes, sautéed veggies, bread, cake.

“This is great,” I said. “I’m starving. I just wasn’t up to trekking over there.”

Viv sat down next to me. “I don’t blame you. I can’t believe how sick you were. I was really scared when I found you.”

“Thanks again for helping me.” I tasted a bite of buttery mashed potatoes. So much better than the infirmary food. Actual flavor.

“Viv?” I said. “Not to sound all second grade, or anything, but does this mean we’re okay? Because you know, I’m really, really sorry about Cameron. About the whole thing. More sorry than I could ever say. I feel as awful about it as I have about anything, ever.”

Viv stared at her lap. “I love you, Leen,” she finally said. “And it’s so not Buddhist of me to stay angry. But . . . the thing is, I can’t help getting mad, still, whenever I miss Cam. Not to mention getting mad about what this has done to him. But at the same time, I also miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” I said. “So much. And Abby.”

“Abby’s a different story,” she said. “That’s another reason it’ll be hard for us to really be friends, like before. At least for now.”

“Oh.” I took another bite; the chicken tasted like dust.

“But we can try, a bit,” she said. “You know, start slow?”

I nodded.

“So . . .” Viv smoothed out the wrinkles on the quilt next to her. “I watered your plants. And opened the blinds, to give them sun. And washed the puke out of your clothes.”

“It was you? Thanks, Viv. That was so sweet.”

She kept her eyes on the bed, pressed her lips together, and smoothed the quilt over and over as if she’d developed OCD while

I’d been gone. “I, uh, I saw something while I was in here,” she said. “I . . . wanted to ask you about it.”

Oh, God. “It’s not as weird as it seems, Viv.” How wasn’t a piece of paper with info about ten or so psychotropic meds not as weird as it seems? Maybe I was studying for a test, in psych? About medications?

“Really?” she said. “What do you do in there?”

“In there?”

“The closet. I saw that whole mattress thing you have set up, the pillows. Do you, like, sleep in there or something?”

The closet. She knew about the closet. My chest tightened. But, then again, she didn’t know about my conversations.

“No, I don’t sleep in there.” I drew crisscrosses in my potatoes and searched my brain for a plausible explanation.

“So, you . . . ?”

“I . . . I meditate.”

Viv raised her eyebrows. “You? Meditate? How come I didn’t know this?”

“Well, it’s not like we’ve been close enough recently for you to notice.” As I spoke, I realized that the dreamlike state I went into in the closet was kind of what I imagined meditation to be like. An alternate consciousness. “It’s helped me be less stressed.”

“You do this in a closet?”

“It blocks out the distractions, being in there.”

“Gosh, Leen. I’d never have pictured you meditating. Did you, like, learn it somewhere? Or just figure it out on your own?” There wasn’t an ounce of humor in Viv’s eyes. Just genuine interest.

What would she say if I told her the truth? Viv, of all people, might understand, after all. She was open-minded about these things. She’d probably love the fact that I’d been coming to terms with suppressed feelings. Could I . . . ?

“Well, it’s not really traditional. I have my own way.”

“You should come to the meditation center with me sometime,” she said. “In the Berkshires.”

“I’d love to,” I said. “But, there’s . . . there’s something different about . . . about the way—”

One minute, I was speaking, then—my throat. Swollen shut. Hands on my neck—tightening. My hands? I loosened my grip. Still, something pressed my throat closed. No air. No breath. Viv leaned toward me. “Are you okay?”  Blood rushed to my face. Eyes watered. No breath.

“Should I do the . . . that thing? Whatever it’s called? Leena?”

Don’t know. Oh my God. Jesus. Can’t breathe. Something’s pressing, pressing . . . I need air need air need—

Air.

A shift. A release. Yes, finally, a cough. Oh, Jesus. Tears swam in my eyes.

The cough hurt. Ripped my esophagus. My chest heaved, sucking in all the air, all the air from the room. Oh. Thank God.

“Leen, are you okay?”