Olivia

Chapter from an incomplete story

I rise from my seat on the train enough to inch down my shorts that are beginning to stick to my thighs. These stiff jean shorts absorb all the sweat so you can’t see how sweaty I actually am. The air conditioner on the train isn’t working, so everyone here is miserable and lifeless. The air is thick, like that one time I forgot to turn off the oven after I made my favorite oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. The heat filled the apartment that summer evening in July. At least the cookies turned out good.

I feel a short vibration come from my phone. I already know who it is and what the message says. Yes, I know I’m late Olivia. I reply to her impatient text. About to get off the train. Which is somewhat true; I have three more stops. A little waiting never hurt anyone. It’s good for the soul...Yeah, keep telling yourself that M.

Walking down the steps from the platform onto the street, I look both ways quickly before crossing the street. Not seeing the speeding car that almost hits me.

“Okay, Olivia. Where are you?” mutter to myself as I look to my phone to see which direction I should start walking towards. Two side streets and one sketchy alley later; finally I see the wind pulling and combing through her red hair. Her back facing towards me, I jump on her.

“Hey girlie.” She’s not a touchy, sentimental person so after the 5 seconds too many that pass by, I detach myself from her. She mumbles out a hey as she turns towards me.

I was too busy to notice the vacant lot we were standing across the street from. The change in the surroundings went from coffee shops, banks, and spacious organic grocery stores to half finished buildings, ATMs, and liquor stores. This is gentrification at its best. A 10 minute bus ride later and I go from yuppie-ville to ghost town, simultaneously popping the cloudy bubble I live in.

I give my attention to Olivia. I can feel her grim aroma.

“Challenging assignment, eh?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. 

“My teacher is a social justice warrior, as she likes to put it,” she pouts, “so she wants us to capture something that’s different from what we see on a daily basis.”

“That’s specific,” I say with a thick layer of dry humor. Art is always way too vague. “I don’t get art. It’s up to you, the viewer, to determine the meaning, so can you really call it your art?” I pause to think what I say next, not to step on her toes too much. “All I’m saying is that you are the author that gets the credit, but is it really your art if you make it for others, for others to interpret, to take, to consume?”

“That’s the point,” she spits out. Mmm, yeah, I guess she has a point. I offer her an agreement groan.

“Okay, so you’re going to take a picture of a vacant lot, vacant buildings, what have you, since you’re a privileged, white girl who lives in a nice apartment on the north side and goes to an expensive art school her wealthy parents pay for?” I say with a wide grin to show I have no harsh feelings, just the truth to give.

“Eggs-actly.” She gives me a playful shove with her shoulder.

-

Before I met Olivia. She wasn’t well known in high school because she was distant and reserved. However, now I know that she suffers from anxiety. Unfortunately, I had to find out the hard way.

We were on our way to my apartment, coming from a small concert of a local band, The Knights. The train a bit crowded, but it was a Saturday night on President’s Day  weekend. And I began to notice that Olivia was stiff and distracted. I didn’t think anything of it, I just thought she was uncomfortable because of how loud and full the train was for after midnight. Even I  was uncomfortable of how loud and full the train was.

Making it my apartment building,  waiting for the elevator down the hall from the lobby. We are alone except for the doorman, but he’s around the corner and probably isn’t paying attention to two teenagers. While I’m humming to the song last played at the concert, I can hear Olivia’s irregular deep breaths. Her hands are criss crossed and I can see her fingernails scratching away at her skin.

“Woah. What’s going on?” I fully face her and I notice she’s crying. Her tears are falling like a running faucet, but all I can hear is her stagnant breathing.

Before I can begin to process what’s going on, she sinks to the tile floor as the elevator door opens. Luckily, no one is on it. So I grab her shoulders, forcing her to stand up and walk her onto the elevator.

I realized this was a mistake as soon as the doors close, because she begins to hyperventilate while squatting in the corner of the elevator. She sounds like a disk skipping due to too many scratches or smudges; sporadically playing.

Realizing we’re not going anywhere, I push the right number, my mind racing, not being able to fully comprehend what’s happening. I try to comfort her. “It’s okay, you’re okay. We’re almost off.” I say through her now loud, but broken sobs, “see we’re here, we’re here.” I plead desperately as if that helps.

I grab her, but she doesn’t budge. I almost begin to cry. My friend is having a breakdown in the elevator and I can’t even help her off the floor. Quickly, I shrug off my jacket and shoes and place them in the elevator doorway. I run down the hall to my door, yelling, practically screaming for my mom. “Please be home.” I mutter to myself hopelessly as I pound on the door.

As she opens the door, “Olivia needs help” I manage to spit out while I turn on my heel towards the elevator.

Her mom mode activates as soon as she sees the limp Olivia in the corner of the elevator. Olivia’s reaching for her purse on the floor next to her, “I need my medication,” she forces out. My mom orders me to bring a glass of water and a pillow out.  

When I return to the hallway, I see my mom sitting next to Olivia, holding her hand and mumbling something to her. Her face is stained with mascara and tears, her hair is a tangled red blur, and the bright orange prescription pill bottle is lying on its side next to her shoe.

My mom takes the pillow and places it in Olivia’s hands. “Grab onto this,” she instructs her, “breathe with me,” she continues to count. After a few several minutes pass, her breathing returns to normal, her grip on the pillow has loosened, and she is alert.

Once my mom is convinced everything is okay, she leaves us alone, and Olivia takes a steamy shower. She emerges the bathroom with a plaid blue shirt and matching pajama shorts on. She takes a seat on the white couch facing the windows curling her legs to the side, while I sit in the farthest chair near the windows that look out onto the street folding mine crisscross. The street is dark and empty, only filled with shadows that define the doorways, windows, and cars.  

Olivia is staring at the pillow in her lap, fidgeting with its fringe in between her two fingers. While trying to read her, she interrupts my analyzing and says quietly, “I’m sorry. Usually, I can tell when I’m about to have one. I should have taken my medication sooner, when I felt it coming.”

I think she can tell my face scrunch up with confusion. “I was diagnosed with anxiety during my first semester of college.” She tells me with a straight face as she continues, “I had it in high school but it got worse when I had my first panic attack during one of my classes.” She pauses, choosing her words carefully, “ I was terrified. I thought I was going to die.” I look at her with wide eyes, mouth slightly gaped open, and a familiar ache spreading throughout my throat.

“Is that what you had? A panic attack?” I want to cry for her when she nodded. I didn’t think those were real. That people actually had them. “Are you okay now?” She nods again as she tells me about her medication that allows her to calm down and prevent attacks from happening.

“I didn’t know you had that.” Not wanting to say the wrong thing, I add, “or that anxiety could get that bad.” I get up from my chair. “Do you want some tea?”

She follows me into the kitchen. “Yes please.” She sits at the tiled counter that separates the kitchen and the living room. “I didn’t either.” She’s silent for a moment as I turn my back to her while I turn on the faucet to fill the kettle with water. “Remember how I was in high school?” I nod, eyeing the water level rise. “I thought something was wrong with me. I thought I was depressed or something. I couldn’t function. My mind was always racing when I was around people. I always overthought everything. I couldn’t even talk to people at times. It was bad.”

Still grabbing the kettle by its metal handle, I remove it from under the running water and turn it off. “My mom thought I was depressed or that it was a phase or just something kids do.” She continued, “we aren’t taught much about mental health. It’s taboo. It’s scary. It’s almost wrong to admit there’s something wrong. We don’t talk about our problems. Hell, we don’t even admit our problems most of the time.” I can hear the frustration ringing in her voice.

I’m silent. She’s right. “You’re right,” I say. I don’t want to say too much. I want to listen, I need to listen.

“Anyways... I was terrified of going to school. Even though I live in this city. I’m from this city. I love this city. I was nervous. The morning of my classes, I threw up my breakfast. I kinda ignored it because I thought it was just first day jitters. Which it was, but…” She shakes her head. I move to open the left cabinet above the stove for the two teas I know Olivia likes. I turn slightly to my left to show her the boxes. “Mint.” I put the tea on the counter and the other box back in the cabinet. “But, it was more than that. It was a s**t show.” I move back by the sink to open the two cabinets above it. I grab the grey mug with the giant handle for Olivia and my favorite white mug with a chip on the bottom.

“What happened?” I rip the top off the tea packets and place each bag into a mug. “Honey?” I ask.

“No thanks.” She pauses. “I get to class and it’s packed. It’s a giant lecture hall of maybe 150 or 200 people. I don’t know. There’s a lot of people and not a lot of places to sit left. So I find a seat that’s sandwiched between two people to the right side of the room.” The kettle starts to whisper. “I already feel nauseous from puking, but this really sends me to the edge. I try to calm myself down, but I can already feel myself sweating and getting hot. Next, the professor comes in and begins to get settled in at the front of the class.” 

The kettle’s whisper turns into a high pitched whistle, signaling it’s hotness. “But I’m already ready to go. I start to freak out and fidgeting because of my sweat. I’m worried that I smell and I’m also pretty sure the entire class is looking at me, even though I know it’s not true.”

I turn the fire off and pour water into our mugs. “Just when I think it’s not going to get any worse, I can feel myself starting to cry. So I grab my bag and make my way of out the lecture hall. Right when I leave, I hear the professor say “Am I really that bad?” and the room laughs.”

I hand her the mug and give her a sympathetic look. “Aww no, stupid professor. I’m assuming you don’t go back?”

“Thanks.” Referring to her tea. “And no, I don’t go back. I find the nearest bathroom and cry. Then basically what happened in the elevator, happened in the stall. I didn’t know what it was until after I told my mom. And that’s when she told me to go see a therapist and get evaluated by a doctor.” She pauses to sip the tea.

“Good?” I ask even though I know it’s good. “So you got evaluated? And find out you have anxiety?”

She nods to all of my questions. “Yeah, and they give me pills to take when I feel like it’s getting out of control. And I know you’re wondering why I didn’t take it before I had an attack.” I smile because yes, actually, if she had those pills what’s the point of them if she doesn’t use them? 

“Well, I was going to take one after we got off the train, but I didn’t want to scare you or for you to judge me. I was gonna wait until we got to your house and do it in the bathroom…” She trails off.

“I understand.” I say quietly into my tea. Even though I don’t. How could I understand? I don’t have anxiety. I don’t know the first thing when it comes to anxiety. They don’t mention it in health class and I am a social butterfly, I have no problem with people.

A wave of sadness floods my body. “Well, I’m glad you told me. And I won’t judge you. Ever. Got it?” I look at her and raise my eyebrows to lighten the mood.

She smiles warmly as her hands wrap around her mug through the handle, “yeah, thanks Amy.”

Author's Note

rough draft