Lime in the Coconut
Moving into a new house would usually trigger her anxiety, but Rosie has found genuine comfort and peace here. Her therapist suggested that she try keeping a journal — as if writing about what she had for breakfast would make the recovery easier. It wouldn’t. Only time can fix her, to an extent. There is only so much to heal after Nathan’s abuse.
At least she’s free of him, now. She hasn’t checked his Facebook profile in three months. If that’s not progress, what is?
This townhouse keeps her busy and quite happy, even. She got this place for a ridiculously small price. Then again, she did invest in its refurbishment — more than half of her life savings, and worth every penny.
Rosie does most of it herself. A lick of paint here, a reconditioned vintage futon there… She loves it. The entire operation, carefully spread out over the course of two weeks she’s taken off from work, makes her feel like she’s in control. “Better than any goddamn diary,” Rosie mutters to herself while refilling her coffee mug.
The living room is almost done, and she’s already tested the couch. Just the right amount of plumpness. She loves the kitchen the most, though, especially at this hour in the morning, when the sun bathes it in a soft amber light. It fills her with the kind of positive energy Nathan never gave her.
Checking her smartphone, there’s a plethora of emails from family and friends, many unopened. They know she’s got time off, but they’re all still a little worried about her. It’s like they can’t believe she’s not that version of herself anymore — the tolerant fool with good foundation always handy to cover the bruises.
“Oh, no…” Rosie murmurs, noticing his name in the inbox. Nathan sent her an email. Her fingers tremble over the screen. He hasn’t said a word since she left him. She skims it briefly. He’s sorry. He’s going to AA meetings. He wants to see her, so he can apologize and make amends.
She’s not ready to address this yet. Maybe tomorrow. Setting her coffee down, she decides to take on the attic next. With slow but determined steps, she makes her way up the creaky stairs — ah, that old house charm…