Annie arrived in Midtown at the restored firehouse-turned-Off-Broadway theater just before curtain, dressed for the wet weather in boots and Tab’s rain jacket.
She strolled down the center aisle, maroon seats on her left and right, until she found a single cushiony chair five rows from the stage.
Crossing a knee over her leg, she eyed the people surrounding her and listened to their voices humming while she waited for the imminent arrival of the characters, the plot, and Tabitha — whom she hadn’t seen yet and couldn’t wait to.
Annie hoped it would all be a wonderful distraction from the anxiety that had returned in spades.
The tapping of her foot made her knees bounce. She chewed a nail. Bit a lip. Twirled a piece of hair.
She waited.
In the stillness, a feeling descended, overwhelming her ridiculously fragile nerves. It sprinkled over her the way the rain cloaked the city. Someone held a constant watering can overhead, saturating her pores.
Why had it started with New York? Since the plane? Why was it continuing after the pills and the nap?
It was different than a panic attack. Or was it the precipice of one? Was she on the edge? Was the sweet-sixteen birthday dream a prelude to a righteous, heart-choking descent through the eye of a needle?
Peter was only a dream.
She’d experienced tons of those — he's alive he's alive he's alive — dreams. What was it then?
Something, something...
The lights in the auditorium dimmed. The audience became quiet.
Annie longed for the peace of Maggie's home — the sound of the ocean a welcome mat of tender noise — and she needed her room where silence was abundant…
Because here, she felt like an insignificant grain of sand on the beach. New York City's beach. Being pelted by its surf and wind, by the millions of people walking in a goddamned hurry on the shore of its tiny island. Annie was just another person. A mosquito. A gnat. A killable bug.
I'm a bug in a net. In the throngs.
Fly.
Flight.
Flee.
Leave.
She wanted to bolt from her seat, escape her scattered thoughts — Post-It notes she scrawled on and couldn’t keep track of — and run from the indescribable, the unavoidable, the nothingness which had begun its chase at the airport. The somethingness. Something. Something. Something.
Stop!
The black curtain parted. An actor took center stage. Stop. She clenched her fists. Bit her bottom lip. Stop. Straightjacket yourself to the seat. Don't move. Watch. Shut up.
A couple hours later — a full-blown panic attack somehow averted — backstage after the play, Annie leaned against a brick wall outside a random dressing room door. Hands in her pockets, face somewhat tilted toward the floor, her green eyes discerned the private vista. The hustle of the behind-the-scenes action was every bit as exciting as the play had been.
Thank God the story had distracted her from the cage of her mind.
"Annie!" Tab shrieked. An ink pen lay over her small ear. Her long hair was pulled tight in a clip, pieces of the black strands clawing at her face. “You’re wearing my coat. Aren't you hot?" Tab smiled, pulling at the knotted string around Annie's waist. "God, it's so good to see you."
They hugged.
And even though Annie rested her chin on Tab's shoulder, smelled the vanilla in her perfume, felt a relaxing, familiar comfort in their embrace, Annie couldn’t help but focus on the wall of bricks behind them.
The need to touch and photograph them — to stare at them until her eyes blurred at the places where the concrete created chasms — distracted her … maybe it pacified her. Made her feel safe. Gave her something to concentrate on other than trying to accept the love inside Tab’s arms.
Whatever it took to deny the feelings which had consumed her since arriving. A hug might split her open.
"Did you like the play?" Tab pulled away and shook Annie's shoulders. "Tell me, what did you think?"
"I did. I really liked—"
"There are so many people I want you to meet." Tab pulled the pen from her ear and tapped the air with it. "We're going to a great little place not far from here to celebrate." Tab’s voice and stance had the fever. The adrenaline. Annie wished she could borrow it. Or … never mind, maybe she didn't.
Annie stuffed her hands back into the raincoat pockets but left her thumbs poking out of the creases as she twisted her lip between her teeth and sighed.
"I'm sorry. I can't. I'm not feeling well. Tom gave me a key. I just need to go back to the apartment and lie down." There. She’d spoken as fast as Tabitha usually did. Maybe faster. No room for error or argument. No damn heart on her sleeve.
Tab furrowed her brow and rested the back of her hand on Annie's forehead. "Are you sick?"
"No." Annie glanced at the ceiling, then at the few people milling about, then back at her friend. "I think I just need to rest."
"God, Annie, you know I have to stay."
"I know." Annie paused, getting lost inside her friend’s loving eyes. Don't cry. Don't cry. "It's me, okay." Annie hunched her shoulders. "I'm sorry. I—"
Tab squeezed Annie's hand.
"Don't feel bad. It's probably just all this damn rain. You'll feel better tomorrow. The sun is actually supposed to make an appearance."
Annie chimed in with the words of the famous song the little orange-haired orphan sang about the sun, then both women sang the next line together. The Annie song. Tabitha, with her adoration of musicals, loved to tease Annie about that. Thank God Annie didn’t have red hair too.
"I have the day off tomorrow." Tab tried assuring Annie with only a look, but it didn't work. "Come here." She pulled her friend in for another hug, a deeper and longer one.
"Thank you," Annie said, her voice muffled against Tab's shirt.
Why couldn’t she just be normal? She used to be normal. Used to go out, hang out, and mingle. Now she walked around with a wad of cotton in her throat. She was a turtle shell. Closed up and off. Broken. Not normal.
What the fuck was normal anyway?
A word.
Normal was a connotation. Subjective bullshit. A lame word to make weirdos feel even weirder. I'm weird. I'm proud I have that. But she could’ve done without the anxiety, the fleeing, the suffocation, the whatever/something bullshit, the pansy-ass, flaky weirdo, pill taker, panic attacker, blah, blah, blah. Fuck. Me.
“Do you need any help getting a taxi?" Tab yelled across the open space.
Annie had pulled herself together and now stood at the exit, looking over her shoulder, about to push open the fat bar on the door. "It hasn't been that long."
"Yeah, well, cabs can be a bitch to flag down around here. Call an Uber."
"I'll manage."
All smiles, blue eyes twinkling, Tab waved. "I'll see you in the morning, Annie-pie. I’m sure you’ll be asleep when I get home."
Those oceanic eyes, the wave, the “Annie-pie,” and their goodbye turned out to be the most "normal" thing Annie had experienced all day.