“Robena!”
I hear the voice, but I keep going. I trudge up Clifton Hill, searching for a full breath and some sanity.
“Robena! Stop!”
And then I’m drenched. Apparently, someone has seen fit to douse me with what I pray is water.
“What the hell?!” I scream and round on my perpetrator. It’s Vicky, a six-foot-tall, strikingly beautiful, 30-something, originally from Nunavut, Vicky. Her skin is glowy and smooth. Her eyes are the colour of strong coffee. And she looks at me like she knows everything in my heart. This is something that has always made me nervous. I fear she can read my mind, and that would be a bad thing. I think a lot of things I’d much rather not and that I’d really like to take back.
“Robena, I saw you fly past my window. You having another one?” Vicky’s look is one of concern, and yet there is not even a whiff of apology for throwing water at me in public.
My breath is starting to slow, but now I’m shivering, teeth chattering. “I was, yes. But what’s with the water, Vicky? Everything was under control. I was walking it out!”
She sighs and rolls her eyes. “I couldn’t let you run off like that.” She reaches out to me, and I let her embrace me. This time I’m not nervous. This time, I trust something in her face. “What happened?”
I shake my head and lie, “I don’t know. I just panicked and had to get out of there. Fil’s gonna freak that I left the store empty.”
“She doesn’t have to know. Come on, let’s go back. I can sit with you a while.”
Pulling away from her, I ask, “How can you? Don’t you have a client?”
Her face is amused. “You met Serge, did you?”
I nod weakly.
“He’s a friend, Robena, not a client.”
And all of a sudden, I’m nervous again. I feel my rib cage filling up with a treacherous tightness, crowding my lungs. There is no voice in me to tell her, yes, so I nod. She hooks her arm in mine and leads me back to the gallery.
I take in a long exhale and look up at Vicky, who is already looking at me. “Grief is a shedding of skin,” she says. “You look mostly the same but slightly tougher.”
I blink in acknowledgement. I have never told her about my mother’s death, but she’s heard from someone, and it’s probably written all over my face.
“Robena, you can ride this wave in one of two ways: with your head above the water or beneath it. It’s always your choice.” She speaks as if she knows by experience.
“Some days, I’m under, and others, I’m above.”
Vicky smiles thinly. Her eyes hold no sadness, only understanding. She looks how a mother would, how my mother would. So I allow myself one last cry. And when I’m done, Vicky releases me from a gentle hug. My arm is across my middle, grabbing my other arm.
“You grind your teeth, Robena. Your breathing is also very shallow. Your root chakra is out of whack, and this is what is causing the anxiety attacks. Also, your throat chakra is completely blocked. It’s important for you to be honest and to allow yourself to feel. I’m guessing you get a lot of sore throats. But your heart chakra is bright and balanced, so that’s good.”
I self-consciously cross my arms over my chest and observe her suspiciously. “And how do you know all of this?”
“I can see it, sense it,” she says.
“Can you see what finger I’m giving you?” I ask, surprised at my own cheek.
Vicky rolls her eyes, but keeps smiling. “All in all, Robena, I’d say you’re grief-stricken and nothing more.”
My relief surprises me. I suppose that part of what feeds my anxiety is that I have been far too close to death. I wipe at my eyes and through the fog of tears, I spy a figure in the front corner of the gallery, just astride a shadow. It’s the man from before.
“Serge, come here,” Vicky calls softly.
He clears his throat and approaches us with care. Why is he here?
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says. He keeps his distance, but as he steps into the light, I can finally make out his features. His hair is dark, almost black and shaved short, his eyes are copper brown, and he appears to be in his mid-thirties. He looks nervous. Men hate it when women cry. I know this because my brother and father have told me repeatedly. It makes them feel powerless, I think.
“Thank you,” I manage to reply as I wonder what he could possibly know about my loss.
“Robena, I told Serge about your mother’s death. I hope that’s okay. He can sympathize.” Vicky pauses and looks over at the man with gentle reassurance. “He just lost his sister.”
I am speechless. It’s strange to be united with someone in grief, but as I look Serge in the eyes, it’s clear we understand each other. The pain needs no words, no further acknowledgement. It is the same. In its purity, its weight and its overwhelm, it is the same.
“I’m Serge Villeneuve, by the way.” He approaches us and awkwardly holds out his hand for me.
I grasp it quickly and let it go. “Listen, guys. I have some stuff to do before I close up. Thanks for your help, Vicky. And Serge, it was nice to meet you.”
“Yes, of course. Me too,” he says nervously.
Vicky gets up and hugs me. “Let’s meet at The Peg and Pigeon tonight. You and I never go out. My treat, okay? Nine o’clock?”
I hesitate. I was going to go home, change into grey sweat pants, drink half a bottle of wine and watch Bridesmaids for the tenth time. But a chance at something besides wallowing is suddenly too tempting. “Okay,” I say.
