Dear Ana: A Novel

“Movie?”

“Eagle Eye.”

“Never heard of it.”

“That’s concerning.”

Noah chuckled. “I’ll add it to my list. Season?”

“Winter.”

“Winter?” he repeated in disgust.

“Yes. I love the cold. I hate the sun. I love when it gets dark early. I wish daylight savings was never-ending.”

“Well,” he said doubtfully. “I guess that explains why you’re always wearing gloves.”

I looked away and took a sip of my coffee instead of responding to his not-so-subtle way of trying to get me to uncover something about myself. It was Friday night and we were at Espresso & Chill after hours. I wasn’t scheduled at Tysons and usually I would pick up a shift, but once we started talking the time flew by and it was too late. Noah and I had come up with a system over the last few months. I clearly laid out all the topics of conversation forbidden from being discussed, and after that, everything was . . . easy. I hadn’t had easy in a long time.

Noah had no issues filling my silence with his life. His story was heartbreaking and inspiring, with a happily ever after to tie it all together. The plot to a touching movie, or a sentimental memoir. He talked about his café. He talked about his loving brothers. He talked about the close relationship he had with his parents.

He talked about Ana.

I thought I’d felt the worst of it. That never-ending, all- consuming, always there guilt. But listening to him speak so highly of her . . . it hurt. God, it fucking hurt. Ana was everything I wasn’t and everything I would never be. If only her best qualities had gotten donated as well. I still couldn’t bring myself to stop asking, though, to stop torturing myself because somewhere, deep down in the corrupted barrel I called a soul, I knew I deserved it. The questions kept steamrolling through, questions I didn’t even know I had until suddenly this boy who had access to all the answers fell right into my lap.

I hesitated before bringing her up, certain he would hear the irrational eagerness behind my innocent curiosity, but he didn’t seem to notice. It was obvious he was holding back when he spoke of her, but I didn’t mind. I took the crumbs he fed me fervently. Desperately. A mouse trapped in a home with a vegan family but eating the dairy-free cheese anyway just to survive.

So while Noah gave me depth, I gave him minor and nonessential facts about myself. I was sure he would get sick of my answers, but every night ended the same way.

“Will I see you tomorrow?”

And I would nod.

“Pinky promise.”

“What about baked goods? You only ever get a coffee when you’re here,” he said suspiciously.

“I’m more savory than sweet and I put hot sauce on everything, but if I was in the mood for it, I would choose anything with chocolate. I hate cheese, except on a well-done pizza or in a double-toasted bagel. I hate nuts and anything peanut butter flavored, but I do love pb&j sandwiches, and my favorite chocolate bar is definitely Reese. I know that sounds contradicting––”

“Everything you said sounds contradicting––”

“But the fuzzy math makes sense in my head. I prefer processed snacks over real food. I love candy. Hate rabbit food. Fruit-based pastries are a no, except for banana––oh!” I clapped my hands together loudly. “Okay, I have my answer. I would never eat a banana, like, by itself––that’s gross. But my mom makes this chocolate chip banana bread that is to die for.”

“Chocolate chip banana bread?” he repeated, shaking his head. “Did you have to choose the one thing that’s not on my menu?”

“I’m just trying to improve your business.”

“I appreciate the input. Chocolate chip banana bread has also been added to my list.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

I was leaning casually on the table with my chin in my right hand and my left hand resting beside me. He was sitting back against his chair, arms crossed, eyes never leaving mine, giving me that look I’d become so accustomed to. It was focused and fascinated, one green orb, one blue orb, and suddenly I was flying in the sky and laying in the grass at the same time.

Thump, thump––

“What? Is the interrogation over? Did I finally bore you?”

“Not even close,” he assured me. “I’m giving you an opportunity to offer something up voluntarily.”

“I just gave you an entire speech about what I like to eat.”

“And it was truly invigorating.”

I grinned and pointed to the white drape covering the right side of the café. “Are you still renovating?”

He ignored my question. “What’s your favourite color?”

“Green. Does someone else own that part of the building?”

He huffed playfully. “I’m the sole owner of the building, but I still have no idea what to do with the rest of it. I think I might just expand the shop once it starts to get more foot traffic.”

“This place is packed every day,” I reminded him. “I’m starting to suspect that you’re shoving some innocent person out of this chair seconds before I walk in because it’s conveniently always empty.”

He looked down, his cheeks tinted pink. “It’s the least I could do, seeing as my café is always packed because of the continuous anonymous glowing Yelp reviews.”

“Oh, those aren’t me. I mean, your café is nice and all, but I definitely wouldn’t rate it five stars.”

“Sure it’s not, hotcoffeeh8ter101.”

“It’s not,” I insisted, biting back a smile. “But I would love to meet them.”

“I’ll set you guys up,” he promised jokingly.

I kept looking at the tarp and an idea occurred to me suddenly. “You should turn it into a bookstore.”

“A bookstore?”

“Yeah, reading is super in right now.”

“I didn’t realize you kept up with the trends.”

“I don’t,” I agreed. “I’m part of the generation of readers that spent lunch in the library because I had no friends.”

“Wow . . . no wonder you’re sad.”

“Those are happy memories, Noah. Reading is much more fun than socializing.”

“Okay, reading has also been added to my list,” he said. “So, what are we talking––Austin? Dickinson? Atwood?”

I stared at him blankly. “None of the above.”

“Oh. I assumed you’d be into classic literature or intellectually stimulating novels.”

“Intellectually stimulating?” I repeated with a chuckle. “My favorite book series is Twilight. Which was very stimulating, just not intellectually.”

“Oh God,” he groaned. “You were one of those girls?”

“No,” I replied. “I still am one of those girls. Present tense, Noah.”

“I’m sorry, I just can’t picture you fangirling like the girls did at my school.”

I laughed at that. “It’s not cool to be a hater. Besides, I was more of a silent-obsessed fan. I didn’t express it in fits of squeals and giggles, but I was exactly like them. And yes, Edward Cullen was and will forever be my one true love,” I told him with conviction.

“Really? A sparkly fictional character is my competition?” he teased.

Thump, thump––

“Fictional men are definitely the standard, but it was the unconditional and irrevocable love concept that gripped my attention.”

He contemplated my words for a moment. “Have you ever been in love? With a real person?”

I coughed as the coffee went down the wrong pipe.

“Are you joking?”

“No, I’m seriously asking.”

“Um, well, in order to fall in love, you would have to get to know someone. Date someone. Talk to someone. None of which I have ever done. You’re actually the first guy I’ve ever been . . . friends with.”

When did the word ‘friends’ become such an ugly word?

I glanced at him when he didn’t respond, and Noah was smiling brightly.

“What?” I demanded.

“You called me your friend.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late.” He winked. “You’ve really never been in a relationship before?”

“Are you surprised?” I looked at him skeptically. “It’s so obvious how awkward I am. That’s not exactly a turn-on for people.”

“That’s not how I see you. I mean, you’re certainly difficult at times. Most times.”

My lips twitched. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm,” he agreed sarcastically. “You’re also a little mean.”

“Only a little?” I scoffed.

“Extremely pessimistic.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that.”

“You’re so . . . secretive. But somehow you’re also remarkably blunt at the same time.” He shook his head. “You’re an enigma, Maya.”

“See?” I said, laughing. “Getting to know me is too much work.”

“But,” he continued. “You’re also funny. Smart. You listen in a way that I know you’re listening, even though I can’t physically see the action. When I talk to you . . . I don’t feel like my words are just bouncing off. You absorb everything I say,” he said softly. “I like the way you think. You never respond or react to stuff like I expect you to. It keeps things interesting.”

“You’re making me sound like a science experiment.”

“You’re pretty,” he pressed on. “Effortlessly, painlessly, fluently pretty.”

Thump, thump––

“If only that’s what men want.”

“What do you mean?”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t play dumb, Noah. I may have been single for a lifetime, but I’m not naïve. Men don’t care if a woman is smart––actually, most would prefer the opposite. You know, to protect their fragile ego. And, I don’t have proof, but I’m almost positive the first rule in the male pledge of allegiance is that a female can’t be funny. Literally and figuratively.”

He raised his eyebrows in shock. “You’ve read it?”

I ignored his mockery and kept going. “Listening, Noah? If I let a single brain cell comprehend what was coming out of a man’s mouth, it would only take half a second to hear something sexist, misogynistic, or just plain cruel.” I shook my head in distaste. “Men don’t want unpredictable. They want easily controlled, and someone willing to accept the bare minimum.”

He regarded me skeptically. “For someone who isn’t a fan of real men, your words carry the fumes of a scorched past relationship.” His eyes lit up suddenly, and he gave me a suggestive look. “Girls?”

I sighed longingly. “Yeah, I wish.”

He paused, thinking. “Your dad?”

“We’re not close, but he still fulfilled all the fatherly requirements.”

“A male stranger on the street? A creepy professor?” He was grasping at strings. “I’ve got nothing.”

Of course he didn’t. Those were always the immediate assumptions––boyfriend, father, or a fucking stranger. Those were the only possible ways a man could ever hurt a woman. There were no other scenarios. Everything else didn’t count. My story didn’t count.

It wasn’t Noah’s fault for thinking that way. We lived in a world that chose to only recognize the right kind of abuse, and that chose to only believe the right kind of victim. If it wasn’t previously psychoanalyzed in a published document, or artistically displayed in the media by an Oscar-winning celebrity then it wasn’t real. If you didn’t relentlessly perform your victimhood with calculated tears and a striking, unmistakable image of frailty during all hours of the day then it must not be true. It was deemed unacceptable and therefore couldn’t be heard. And if your story couldn’t be heard, then it also couldn’t be helped. And as the days went on . . . as the minutes of being ignored and invisible continued to tick loudly in a never-ending cycle of despair you inevitably started to believe it too.

But so be it. You got blamed when you fought back. You got blamed when you didn’t speak up sooner. You got blamed for being too sensitive. Too dramatic. Too emotional. You got blamed when the situation you described wasn’t common or ideal. You got blamed when you didn’t have proof because obviously, the first thing I felt like doing after getting beaten and strangled was to take a fucking selfie. I refused to humiliate myself any further. I refused to fold myself into society’s version of the perfect damsel in distress, and if that meant my story would remain unspoken until it died with me then so fucking be it.

“The silent monologue raging on in your head looks good,” Noah said when I continued to reel quietly. “If only I could hear it too.”

“It’s extremely rusty,” I assured him, forcing my unyielding anger back into its forbidden box. “You’re not missing out.”

“Well, on behalf of my very fucked up species, I apologize.”

I gave him a small smile. “You’re not all bad.”

“A select few aren’t,” he agreed reluctantly. “You’ll find your match, Maya. Any guy would be lucky to date you.”

Thump, thump––

“Who said I was looking?”

“You just told me that you only read about cheesy romance and everything love.”

“I do.”

He gave me a look. “So you enjoy reading about it, but you don’t want to experience it?”

“Not necessarily.” I hesitated. “I guess I just don’t believe in it.”

“There’s nothing to believe in. Love isn’t a theory or a hypothesis––it exists.”

“I believe in love as an emotion,” I clarified. “I believe that love can be strong. I believe that love can be beautiful. But I also believe that love is conditional and subject to change. It can happen in a split second, or after a prolonged sequence of time . . . but it always happens. Real and unconditional love is as make belief as vampires, and werewolf’s and any other mystical creature or fairytale ever written on paper.”

“Do you really believe that?” he asked doubtfully.

“There’s always something, Noah. There’s always going to be something that you can’t forgive, or look past.” I swallowed noisily, all remnants of humor gone. “Sometimes you don’t even know what it is that made them change their mind––that made them decide to hate you––but it always happens.”

He was quiet for a second, before suddenly leaning into the table, his chair squeaking against the tile. “They’re wrong.”

“Who’s they?”

“They,” he repeated firmly. “Them, he, she, it. The person who told you that you couldn’t be loved without restrictions or limitations. They’re wrong.”

His face was so close to mine, I could count every eyelash, and freckle, and smile line, and hair follicle beginning to sprout over his lip.

Thump, thump––

I leaned back in my chair, pushing it away from the table.

He would never forgive this.

“Maya?”

“Sorry,” I replied, standing. “I have to go . . . my mom’s going to be wondering where I am.”

He nodded. “Drive safe.”

I walked to the door but stopped with my hand on the knob.

“Thank you,” I said, looking back at him.

“For what?”

“Calling me pretty.”

He grinned. “No need to thank me for being honest.”

“Okay, settle down.” I rolled my eyes. “Bye, dude.”

“See ya, chick.”

I pulled onto my street with a smile on my face, just like I’d been doing every day since December. Somewhere within the hours of laughter and shared words, I always found myself forgetting . . .

. . . but then that same smile disappeared as soon as I saw my brother’s car in the driveway, just like it did every day since December.

I walked to the front door slowly, counting each stride. After three tries it finally took exactly 52 steps. I knew 52 steps. 52 steps was real. 52 steps confirmed I wasn’t imagining. I could hear them all talking in the living room, and they sounded so . . . normal. But everything would change as soon as I stepped through the door. My presence would shatter the illusion they’d created for themselves––a tornado ripping through on a cloudless day. Or maybe it wasn’t an illusion. Maybe they weren’t pretending. Maybe they genuinely felt like an ordinary, loving family and it was me who made it feel incredibly dishonest and illegal.

“Salam Mama, Baba,” I greeted, tilting my head in their direction but keeping my gaze on the floor. I could feel Mikhail’s eyes burning a hole through my skin like bleach.

“Maya, honey, we’ve been waiting for you. We wanted to have dinner all together tonight. Like a family.”

“I already ate,” I lied quickly, my stomach growling in response. “I’m really tired, I just want to––”

“Maya,” she interrupted. “Please.”

I shifted my stare to her pleading eyes. I spent my whole life pretending, couldn’t I do it for one more night? For her?

“Okay,” I agreed. “I’m just going to change.”

After getting dressed in some sweats, I went to the bathroom and leaned against the door, staring at my hand. I swapped out my leather gloves for my cut-off cotton pair today. They were meant to be used for arthritis or carpal tunnel, which was what my mom thought I had because that’s what I told her. Not because I had anything to hide or because I was doing anything wrong, I just didn’t know how to explain whatever this was. I liked to think of it as grooming. It was equivalent to shaving your legs or popping a pimple. I was only cleansing my body of its noticeable flaws.

I carefully slipped them off and examined the skin on the dorsal side of my right hand––for some reason, my deranged hyper fixation excluded my left hand, but wearing one glove was more conspicuous than wearing two. It wasn’t as bad as I thought. Most of the scabs had healed into a faded pink spot, but there were a few that were still bumpy and protruding from my skin, which meant the glove remained necessary. All I had to do was leave them alone for a few more weeks and they would disappear completely, freeing me from this disgusting bad habit. As long as I couldn’t see or feel them, I wouldn’t have the compulsive urge to pick.

There was one though, near the bottom, that hadn’t healed quite as nicely as the others. The corner was black, which I assumed was dried blood I hadn’t wiped away from the last time I was picking at it. I was positive the black and crusted part would be pink underneath, it just had to be removed so it could heal smoothly. So it could heal perfectly. I gently rubbed the scab, careful not to go too fast. Speed usually resulted in accidentally pricking my skin too hard and causing it to bleed.

“Maya, come down!”

I ignored her and slipped my nail underneath the scab slowly. I washed my hands, satisfied with the result, until I noticed the stream running red in the sink.

It was bleeding. I must have nicked my skin without noticing.

I ran my hand under the water to stop the flow, ignoring the tender sensation––

“Maya!”

I turned the water off and put my gloves back on, letting out a shaky breath. It was gross and weird, and after every picking session, or episode, or whatever the fuck, I would tell myself that it was the last time. But then after a few minutes, or days, or––if I was lucky––weeks, my brain would go into overdrive and my fingers would absently go searching and prodding for a fresh scab or bump or scratch on my skin to pick, pick, pick.

“Sorry, Mama. I was in the bathroom,” I told her, taking my usual seat at the table. They had already started eating which meant our family dinner would end quicker. I still hadn’t set my eyes on Mikhail or acknowledged his presence in any way, but I knew he was sitting across from me because I could feel his gaze. They followed my hands as I reached for my spoon, and kept watching as I scooped up some rice and brought it to my mouth. I swallowed forcefully––my hunger had vanished and was replaced with nausea.

“How was work today?” Mama asked.

“Good,” I responded, my voice monotone. He was still trying to get me to look at him. He wanted me to address his existence. He wanted to see the fear embedded in my eyes and confirm that I was still scared of him. That the panic he instilled in me all those years ago had never left. That, even though he’d been gone for almost five years, I was still haunted by the mere mention of his name. He could stare all he wanted. I was never going to give his sick and twisted mind the satisfaction it craved.

“Did you call the university yet to make sure your enrollment deferral is still active?” Baba asked.

Did he mean fake enrollment?

“Yeah, they said it’s fine. I have two years, Baba,” I replied, pushing food around my plate to make it look like I’d eaten more than one bite.

“I don’t know why you differed anyway,” he said disapprovingly. “You’re just going to be behind. Everyone has got it figured out except for you.”

My resolve slipped for a moment and I scraped my spoon harshly against my plate. My father was a prideful man, but this? Letting his wounded dignity speak to me like I was burdening him with my existence. Like I wasn’t reminded every day that I was behind in life.

“Honey, you know she’s helping us out,” Mama told him quietly, but he kept eating without giving her a response.

I bit my tongue and swallowed the burning sensation starting to grow deep in my chest at his unjust disappointment. I put my whole life on hold for them. I sacrificed my happiness and well-being for them. I would have left ages ago. I would have run away from this nightmare they called a family but I didn’t. I stayed. I stayed and they still weren’t satisfied. Nothing I ever did was good enough.

My mom stood up an eternity later and gathered my dad and Mikhail’s plates. I got up quickly and took my plate to the kitchen as well.

“I’ll do them, Mama, go sit down,” I insisted, taking the plates from her. I covered the sponge with soap and started scrubbing the dishes clean. I was almost done rinsing when I felt him walk up behind me and my movements instantly halted. He reached over to grab a glass from the drying rack, his arm brushing my shoulder gently and I jumped back, dropping the plate. It hit the ground between us and shattered loudly, glass flying everywhere––

The vase shattered against the wall less than a millimeter away from my head. Shards of glass sliced through my cheek.

“Why are you running away, huh?” Mikhail goaded––

“Are you okay?” he asked, grabbing my arm.

He grabbed my arm tightly and shoved me into the wall––

“Let go of me,” I demanded, yanking my arm out of his grasp.

“Maya, I just––”

“Get away from me!” I was screaming now, backing into the counter, but he was blocking my only exit so I couldn’t escape. I slowly slid down the cabinets and onto the floor.

“Please, leave me alone,” I pleaded, covering my ears so I couldn’t hear his yelling. “Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone . . .”

I put my head down on my knees, praying for it to be quick. After several minutes I shifted my hands away from my ears, checking to see if he was done yelling but there was only silence.

Was he gone? Did he change his mind? Did I black out again and not notice him leaving? I lifted my head slightly and opened my eyes.

My mom, dad, and Mikhail were all standing in the kitchen, staring at me with shocked expressions. My mom had tears in her eyes, and my dad held her hand, regarding me apprehensively. Why were they just standing there? Didn’t they see what he did to me just now? Weren’t they going to––?

And then it dawned on me.

My memories had mixed in with reality.

Nothing was real.

I stood up quickly, and everyone took a step back like . . . they were afraid of me.

“I’m fine,” I told them. “I just thought . . .”

Thought what? That Mikhail was attacking you?

“Maya, what’s going on with you?” Mama whispered with the same frightened look on her face.

“Nothing, I’m fine. I just got startled––”

“Startled?” Baba repeated. “You had a psychotic breakdown!”

A psychotic breakdown? A laugh slipped through my lips before I could stop myself. There was no way they were being serious.

“Maya, if you need . . . help again, that’s okay. There’s no shame in struggling . . . mentally. Let us get you some help, honey.”

My humor quickly disappeared as I realized they were serious. So it was normal when he did it, but as soon as I took a step out of line I needed psychiatric help? Again?

“Yes, Maya,” Mikhail said suddenly. “Please, let us help you.”

All my efforts to avoid looking at him flew out the window, and my eyes flickered to his at the sound of his voice. My mom said he’d changed, but he still looked exactly like I remembered. Even his smug look was the same.

Disgust pooled in my mouth. I was going to be sick.

I ran out of the kitchen and up to my room, slamming the door behind me. I could still see their expressions judging me through the closed door, Mikhail’s standing out over the rest, and before I could stop myself my fist rose and struck the door once, twice, a third time. Each bang harder than the next as I desperately tried to break the images out of my mind. I pulled my arm back to swing again, when I caught a glimpse of myself in my full-length mirror and paused.

Wild, knotted hair. Tear-stained cheeks. Lips pulled back into an animalistic sneer as I destroyed my door. Spots of blood leaking through the glove covering my right hand. Blood from my own neurotic doing.

I dropped my fist to my side. They were right to look at me that way. They were right to be terrified by my presence. Everyone should be terrified of me. I was terrified of me. Who was I? When had I become this person? I didn’t slam doors and get consumed with so much fury I could only see red. That was Mikhail’s role in this family . . . wasn’t it?

I’d been constantly aware of my genetics for my entire life. I took numerous biology and psychology courses because I needed to know and understand what made up our brains and our minds, and how they both connected to make up who we were as individuals. Did we have a say in how we turned out as humans or did our genes and brain chemicals call all the shots? How much of who we were and what we were capable of was predetermined? Inescapable? Unpreventable? I didn’t need to know because I was interested in the subject. I needed to know if there was even the slightest possibility I could end up just as fucked up as Mikhail.

I tried so hard not to be like him. I tried so hard to smother every ounce of anger that ever raged through me. I told myself over and over again that my brain was different. That I was different. But trying to fight science was useless. Trying to fight my genetics was useless. We were both created and marinated within the same womb, so it was highly likely the mutation that dominated his mind would dominate mine as well, no matter how hard I tried to deny it.

As I continued to stare at myself, I suddenly couldn’t tell if it was me or Mikhail standing there, and pure revulsion filled my core up to the brim. I was slowly turning into everything I hated about him. Whoever said the apple didn’t fall far from the lunatic tree was right . . . I was truly my brother’s sister.

Quicker than seemingly possible, I grabbed my bottle of cleanser from the shelf behind me and hurled it at my mirror. I watched, satisfied, as it hit my reflection’s face perfectly and shattered my image into a pile of glass on the carpet. The only thing facing me now was a half-empty wooden frame with sharp fragments clinging on for life. Even without the mirror, it was still accurately mirroring the person standing in front of it.

I flicked my light switch off without bothering to clean up the mess and curled into a ball of misery under my covers. I held my phone in my hand, the need to let everything out before I rotted from the inside out was strong, but who could I talk to? Who would understand?

And then almost like it was planned, almost like he sensed it, Noah texted me.

My lips twisted into a watery smile at his name lighting up my phone. Poor boy. He thought he knew me. He thought he had me all figured out, but he was wrong. He only saw what he wanted to see. I couldn’t even bring myself to be upset about it because who would want to know the real me? I brought destruction with me everywhere I went.

It was supposed to be easy, Noah and I, that’s why I kept seeing him. But after one simple interaction Mikhail reminded me why I couldn’t have easy. After one simple interaction, Mikhail torpedoed the charade I had managed to uphold since December. The play I’d been putting on where I starred as a girl who had coffee dates with a boy, and Noah fell for it because Noah was a believer and I was a liar. He didn’t deserve this. No one did. Which was why I had to do the right thing and . . . let him go.

I could physically feel her heart and my mind cracking at the thought. Two parts of two different people writhing in synchronized pain. This was it. This was my life. There was no one I could text about my day. No one to see after work. Nothing in the next week, or the next month, or the next year to look forward to. I was entirely alone. But not the kind of alone people loved to romanticize. No, there was nothing poetic about this. I was living inside a body that was forcing me to survive when my soul didn’t want to, and I didn’t even have it in me to do anything about it. I couldn’t live and I couldn’t die. I couldn’t fight and I couldn’t give up. I was just stuck here, sinking in the quicksand, standing still and patient and silent so it didn’t suck me under because that was how you survived the deathly quicksand, but it was still pulling me under anyway and I was starting to suspect there was no bottom.

I was starting to suspect this was forever.

My phone beeped again and I reluctantly opened his message.

You sidetracked me with your anti-men/anti-love speech, and I forgot to ask…will I see you tomorrow? -Noah

I swiped left and deleted our chat.

“No,” I said. “You’ll never see me again. Pinky promise”

I chuckled. Promises . . . they were like threads. One hard yank from both directions and it would break in half. In this case, I was holding both ends.