Page 53

Martingale by Searows

“She offered me the job on the spot,” I tell Henry as I walk out of the building. “Kacey was excited to know I’m back in Virginia for good.”

“I told you, Ames.” I can hear his smile over the phone.

To say I was terrified for this interview today was an understatement.

Knowing I was going to be interviewing at the place where I did my internship helped to ease my anxiety a little.

Kacey, my old supervisor, helped me get the job over in England, but I was still worried.

For some reason, even though I did great work, I thought I was going to look stupid coming back to the place I once worked at.

I thought she would ask me about the forced leave I took at the beginning of the year, but that never came up.

Sure, my work faltered a little bit, but it went right back up to where it was as soon as I had better coping mechanisms and understood my brain a little better.

But, like everything else, it had changed. Kacey was elated to have me back. She was going to try and poach me anyway—at least, that’s what she told me. Apparently, the position I had at National Geographic in England is a direct mirror to the job I’m going to have starting Monday.

“I’m excited,” I tell my boyfriend. “I really feel like this is where I’m meant to be.”

“I’m glad,” he says as I hear him typing something. “You deserve this, Mills.”

“Thanks, Hen.” I smile as I get into my car. “I’ll see you tonight?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“I love you.”

He giggles a little. “I love you too.”

And as I hang up the phone, a stupid smile on my face, I take a deep breath before I start my car. My therapist told me to try and start taking in the big moments a few months ago, and instead of focusing on the future and the next thing, I’ve been trying to live in my emotions when they show up.

Part of me still feels like something is missing, though, and I know exactly what that is. That’s the good and bad part of being so self-aware. It’s good because at least I know what’s bugging me, but it’s bad because I’m not sure how to face the things that make me ache.

I turn my car on and drive, already knowing where I’m headed, the familiar streets of my hometown burned into my memories.

Looking back on when I would wander these streets searching for something I thought I would never find, I wish I could have coffee with my younger self.

I’d tell her it’s all going to be relatively okay.

I think she would ask about our travels, and I’d be able to show her photos of all the places we’ve gone on our own.

She would ask me if we found people who could handle her sense of humor and odd personality, and I’d tell her we did, and even though we lost them for a little bit, we found our way back.

She would ask if our brain ever started to make sense, and I’d tell her about our diagnosis and how grateful we are to finally understand.

I’d tell her we’re still scared of talking to our parents because we didn't follow the path they wanted for us, and she’ll hold my hand and tell me she understands.

As I park in the driveway of my childhood home, spotting the window I used to climb out of, I take a deep breath.

I’ve changed throughout the years, but I’m still terrified to talk to my parents and finally have an open conversation—if they’ll even have one with me.

I probably should have done this sooner, but I was too busy trying to get my life back on track.

I was securing my future first before I tried to figure out my past. My new routine has been okay so far, and now that I officially have a job, it will be even better.

The last thing my mother said to me before I left for England was that I was destined to be alone, and I thought she was right. I’ve barely talked to my father in the last two years. I have no idea who they are. They feel more like strangers to me than my parents.

But my mother wasn't right, and I’m tired of running from the past and the people who created me. I want to think she didn't say that to be mean—maybe it was simply an observation—but she was right for a period of time. I was the loneliest I’ve ever been.

I get out of my car, trying to even out my breathing as I head for the door and knock. It takes a few seconds longer than I thought it would for them to answer the door, but as soon as my mother sees me, she wraps me in her arms.

“Amelia, it’s been too long since we’ve seen you,” she says into my hair, and I’m frozen, my arms glued to my sides as I take in her words.

The only other time my mom hugged me was…never. At least from what I remember growing up in this house.

“Uh, hi?” I say as she pulls back, her arms still on my shoulders as she takes a long look at me.

“George! Come here! It’s Amelia,” she smiles as she ushers me into the house, and I’m still confused at this reaction. My dad comes into the foyer then, and his eyes light up as he sees it’s actually me. His arms are around me too, and I’m practically robotic as I hug him back.

“Okay, this is not what I was expecting when I drove over here,” I say as I take my shoes off. “Did you guys get abducted by aliens or something? Blink twice if you need help.”

They just sit and stare at me, huge smiles on their faces. “Do you want some coffee? Or hot chocolate? Or water? Please, Amelia, let’s sit down and catch up.” My mother grabs my hand and leads me into the kitchen, the familiar environment making nostalgia float into me.

“Uh, coffee is fine,” I say as I shed my jacket. “I’ll be honest, I was expecting you guys to turn me away.”

“Why would we do that, honey?” my father asks as he sits next to me.

“Because of how I left,” I say as I grab my necklace. “And because we’re not a family who talks about feelings and stuff. At least when I was growing up, we weren't.”

“Amelia, getting emotions and feelings out of you as a kid was worse than pulling teeth,” my mother says as she pours me a coffee. “We didn't want to pry because you would only retreat further.”

“You always did like to sort through your feelings on your own, so we let you,” my father says as he sips his own coffee.

“We’ve realized over the years that wasn't the best way to go about it, and we’re sorry if you ever felt like you couldn't come to us with what you were feeling, especially if you were struggling.”

This is the exact opposite of how I thought this conversation was going to go. If anything, this house feels warmer and more inviting than it did when I was a child. I thought the rose-colored glasses of childhood were supposed to go away as you got older, but that isn't the case here .

“Okay, pardon my confusion,” I say as I adjust how I’m sitting on the chair.

“But when I changed my major in college, I was terrified to tell you guys about it because I wasn't following in Steven’s footsteps like you wanted me to. Every conversation I had with you back in college, all I could hear was disappointment in your voices.”

“Well, we were disappointed at first, but then we kept seeing pictures from your travels all over social media—”

“Which Steven had to teach us how to use,” my mom says with a laugh. “You looked so different from the daughter we knew, almost carefree in those photos.”

“That’s how traveling made me feel. It’s how I still feel, but I’ve realized over the years that Virginia is where I’m meant to be.”

“George, go get them,” my mother says.

My father jumps up from the table, already knowing what she’s referring to.

“Wait,” I say before he rounds the staircase. “Can I tell you both something before you grab whatever you’re grabbing?”

“Sure, honey,” he says before he comes back over, still standing. They wait for me to continue, but for some reason, telling them about my diagnosis is terrifying.

“I know you guys thought I was a lazy kid who was unmotivated and moody, but when I was in England, things got dark. I was depressed, unhappy, and I couldn't figure out why my brain was being as mean to me as it was. So, I went to see someone about it, and she diagnosed me with ADHD.”

They let what I say settle into the air, and before I know it, my father has his arms around me.

“I’m sorry for not getting you the proper help you needed as a kid,” he whispers to me.

“We always thought it was just your personality,” my mom says. “I wish we tried a little harder and noticed the signs sooner, Amelia. That must have been hard for you discovering that all by yourself.”

I can only nod. “It was, but I got through it. I’m handling it a lot better. I’m on medication for it, and I don’t feel as messy as I did before.”

My dad squeezes me a little tighter before he pulls back, rounding the stairs before looking back at me. “Please don’t leave until I come back, okay?”

“I’ll be here, Dad.”

“Good.” He smiles before he’s out of sight, and it’s just me and my mother at the table.

“It might take him a few minutes, but I really am glad to see you, Amelia.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” my mother says as she grabs one of my hands.

“What did you mean when you told me I was destined to be alone before I went to England? Because I’ve tried saying it a thousand different ways, and none of them end up being taken well.”

Her head falls a little as she finds my eyes again. “I shouldn't have said that.”

“But why did you?”

“The therapist we’ve been seeing the past few years tells me it's because I was projecting my feelings onto you,” she tells me, and my eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“I always felt so far away from you, and I blamed myself for not being able to tell when my own daughter was struggling. I apologize, Amelia. I’m sorry I said that to you as your mother and as a person. ”

A tear falls from my eye, and I swipe it away.

“Wow. It’s kind of funny that we’re both seeing someone,” I tell her.

“Dr. Elyse has helped me get a better handle on how my brain operates. She’s also helped me to stop running away from things and instead run toward them.

Which, I guess, is why I’m here right now. ”

“Your father and I are so glad you’re back.” My mom squeezes my hand. “We can’t wait to hear all about England, if that’s something you want to talk to us about. And we’d love to hear about that brain of yours and what we can do to help.”

“I’d like that,” I tell her.

“I found them,” my father announces, and as soon as he gets to the table, he pours a bunch of issues from National Geographic onto the table. “These are all the issues you worked on, Amelia. We bought all of them.”

“You’re a wonderful writer and journalist, honey,” my mother says, and I’m about to burst into tears.

“You guys read all of them?” I say as I filter through the magazines, remembering each piece I did.

“Of course we did,” my father says as he wraps his arms around my shoulders. “We’re really proud of you for all the wonderful work you’ve created.”

“You’re proud of me?” I say, tears filling my eyes. “Really?”

“Of course we are,” my father says. “We're sorry it took us so long to see this was the path you were meant to be on.”

“And we’re proud you were brave enough to change it, despite us not trusting you knew what was best for you,” my mom tells me. “Steven even has them all on his shelf in his office at the hospital. We bought two of each so he could read them too.”

“I don’t know what to say.” I smile through my tears.

Growing up, I always saw my parents one way, but now, I’m seeing them through an entirely different lens.

They are right—I do like to sort through my own feelings, but I’m also trying to get better at being more open with the people I love.

I can’t keep picking myself back up all the time.

I need to rely on the people who love me to take some of the weight and vice versa.

Maybe the same goes with my parents. It is their first time living on this planet too, and we’re all just trying to be the best we can be with the short time we have. We’re all growing up. Every day, each person on the planet gets older, and we’re all just trying to be good people.

Existing is difficult sometimes, and the fact that my parents and I are both seeing someone and trying to do better is proof we can always evolve, we can always grow, and it’s never too late to rewire your brain.

“Maybe you can come to dinner next weekend? We can even call your brother and see if he’s available?”

“A family dinner?” I ask my father, wondering if I heard him right. “Like we used to back when I was a child?”

“If that’s okay?” my mother asks, and I can tell she’s worried about my answer.

“It’s perfect,” I say. “Can I bring Henry?”

“Henry? The boy from college?” my father asks.

I nod. “There’s a lot to catch you guys up on.”

“We want to hear it all, honey.” My mother refills my coffee for me. “If you want to share it, that is.”

“I do,” I tell them, and for the rest of the afternoon, I sit around the kitchen table and talk with my parents about the life I’ve been living the past few years.

Tears are shed, laughs are traded, and for the first time in my life, I feel like I have a family who understands me.

It’s the opposite of my childhood, where I used to sit around the table quietly and wish for a time when someone would understand me.

I thought I would only experience a close knit family unit in another life, but this timeline is the only one I want to be present in, because I’m somehow lucky enough to have two close family units.