IF THERE WAS ONE THING Rhiannon liked, it was routine. There was something rhythmic about her days, wholly the same day in and day out. She woke up at six am on the dot every morning, went through the same routine — the same breakfast, cooked the same way. She took medicine with the same cup of coffee, always in the same mug, and hopped on her bike to go into work at eight. She stayed until three, mind-numbing clerical work keeping her occupied and away from hobbies that ran her emotions dry, and ate the same lunch at exactly twelve-thirty. When the second desk shift came in, she rode her bike around and did some kind of errand. Laundry at the laundromat ( her father STILL hadn’t fixed their machine ), groceries at the store, dropping off mail at the post office, her therapist’s office … each was designated a specific day, and any deviance from it would send her straight into PANIC mode. She went to the library, after, and stayed there until closing, absorbed entirely in taking notebooks full of notes and sketches. Words and paragraphs repeated themselves over weeks, copying down the same passages with different amendments to them. Papers spilled out of her messenger bag, and ink stained her hands — and she went home and went to bed. DAY IN, DAY OUT. It was cathartic, soothing. With that level of consistency, panicked phone calls to Dr. Thompson or her father were lessened substantially. Until she saw Katherine, or something that reminded her of her mother or time spent locked away — and then, speed dial was reached for, hands shaking and waves of fear oncoming. THEN: there were situations like this, where there was a glimpse of past of happiness and being care-free and life that felt less like scheduled blocks of time in PRISON … and it was almost worse than seeing ghosts and witches and demons. Almost. “ Mr. Maxwell, ” She says shakily, eyes cast on linoleum tile as she bends down to pick up her own items that had fallen. Breathe, breathe, one…two…three…in … she looks at him with wide eyes and stands, twisting around the ring on her finger that always rubbed them red and raw when she was nervous. “ I’m — uh, ” There’s a trickle of shame in her that she hadn’t finished college, after rushing to her favorite teacher so excitedly when she’d been accepted. The look of concentration in her eyes fades, and she can feel herself slipping backwards. She can feel her palm sweating and her stomach churning with nausea, the ringing beginning in her ears. She grips the handle of the cart tightly, her uncomfortable nature evident even if she doesn’t want it to be. She swallows hard. “ How are Elodie and Remi? ”
teachers aren’t supposed to pick favorites, and jimmy, for the most part, didn’t. sure, he enjoyed the students who actually did their work and participated more than the ones who chose to snore during his lessons ( they were few and far between, luckily, as jimmy had always been decent at engaging kids ), but no favorites. rhiannon, though - yeah, she’d been his favorite. there’d been a period of time in jimmy’s life full of storm clouds and heavy shoulders, and rhiannon had been there: a tiny, hopeful light when jimmy couldn’t see anything but darkness. losing his wife had been hard, but he’d found solace in the eager kindness of rhiannon wu keeping him company on his miserable lunch breaks. it’d been years, though, since she’d graduated, and he hadn’t heard from her since. it’d been a little disappointing, as there were other students who kept in touch and filled him in on all their accomplishments, but rhiannon had simply dropped off the face of the map. and yet, here she stood, looking just as awkward as he felt. “ who - oh ! they’re great. elodie’s finishing up her first year in middle school and remi’s just now hitting third grade. they’re growing like weeds. ” he hesitates, the hand on his cart fidgeting with the loose plastic on the handle. rhiannon’s clearly avoiding questions about herself, and there’s a sadness that weighs on her expression, but he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to ask about it anymore. there’s a part of him that wants to smile wide and pull her in for a hug, ask about the adventures she must have had since starting college, to speak only in french like they’d used to on his lunch breaks. instead, he just offers a small, warm, tentative smile. “ i’m sure they’d love to see you sometime. you were always their favorite sitter. ” and mine.
