Arabel
On January first, I’d rushed to the hospital—champagne and embarrassment still bubbling in my veins—to see a patient. Dance was one of my hobbies, helping people untangle the mess in their psyches, hearts, and bodies, so they could find peace and lead their best life, was my career. I was a psychotherapist, same as Ben.
We graduated from the University of San Francisco and went to grad school together. Ben became a clinical psychologist, and I specialized in somatic and ecotherapy. It may sound like a bunch of hippie mumbo-jumbo, though it shouldn’t. I helped deal with the trauma trapped in our bodies. Cells store memories, which is why a war veteran panics when the ceiling fan resembles the combat helicopter that killed their friends.
Ecotherapy is healing through nature, which has an incredible effect on the mind and nervous system, the reason why many will spend a few days in the mountains, desert, or beach to de-stress. However, the beach was the opposite of relaxing for me. I despised it with every fiber of my being.
My biggest dream was to open a trauma healing retreat center in the middle of The Sierra Nevada Mountains of Northern California, where people could heal and rediscover themselves. Ben and I had shared a counseling practice for the past five years. The plan was for him to take over my clients in the city until his time came to join us in the mountains. Fiona and I grew up in Grass Valley, which was located in the foothills of The Sierras. Our parents still lived there, and we were moving back in with them until we found the perfect property for our plans. I got back from the hospital and glanced around the living room, filled with moving boxes and biodegradable packing peanuts. My heart wrinkled a bit. The truth was, although ready to move on, I was going to miss certain things about this beautiful city. I’d miss this house. Granted it wasn't the last time I’d visit since it was owned by our Granny and used by all of us, I’d still miss living in it with Fiona.
I’d miss El Cancun Taqueria in The Mission district, where we ate the most amazing tacos at two o’clock in the morning after stumbling out of the bar. The Circus Center, where I’d learned aerial dance and met some wonderful people. Every April twentieth—National Marihuana Day— at Hippie Hill in the Golden Gate Park. I never smoked but for one day every year I could say I was just passing through and it wasn't my fault the cloud of THC was so dense, I’d get a contact high that would last hours, in which I’d watch, for the millionth time—albeit with new perspective—my favorite childhood movies: The Labyrinth with an awesomely creepy David Bowie, The NeverEnding Story (I still cry when Atreyu’s horse dies in the swamp of sadness. How dare you Wolfgang Petersen!), and Legend (Where Tom Cruise risked his life to save unicorns, way before he started jumping on Oprah Winfrey’s couch). Hours later my altered state of mind would fade, and I’d be left utterly exhausted from my short stint as a couch potato, my fingers orange from the entire bag of Cheetos I’d just downed by myself.
Yes. I’d miss this city, but I was happy to move on to a new phase in life. A life filled with family, nature, professional success, new friends, and who knows, maybe a man who could love me despite the thorny tangles of my mind.
Dream on, Arabel.
Our childhood home looked almost exactly as it did all those years ago. At least on the outside. Fiona and I stood on the driveway, taking in the beige of the home’s façade. Stony columns propped the arched entryway that gave shade to a massive carved door flanked by sidelights and topped by a half-moon transom. Juniper, Holly, and Austrian evergreen shrubs hedged the front of the house, unmanicured yet pleasing to the eye. The crisp smell of winter revitalized my lungs.
“Did you ever think we’d be moving back home?” Fiona asked, a resigned look sketched on her face.
I laughed. Unlike my sister, I looked forward to this. My phase of wanting to be as far away from my parents had long passed. Perhaps Fiona was in that stage, or she just couldn’t fathom living with our idealistic and spontaneous mother again.
The front door flew open and Mom ran out, squealing like a little girl, our grounded and eccentric father following close behind. They were polar opposites yet complemented each other well.
“Girls! Welcome back home!” Mom screeched with arms outstretched. I mimicked her squeal, eager to nestle under my mother’s wing. Fiona grunted, muttering an apathetic “yay” but welcoming Mom’s embrace. Dad stood to the side, hands in his pockets, a warm smile curling his lips as he watched his three favorite ladies.
A loud yelp broke the maternal moment, and our heads swiveled to find Liam—my fluffy white Bichon Frise—pawing on the car’s window, desperate to get out and cover my parent’s faces with loving licks before running into the house in search of his animal friends.
We all laughed, basking in our familial bliss. Fi and I wrapped our arms around Dad while Mom ran up to my red Jeep Wrangler Rubicon to grab Liam, who leapt onto the snow-covered ground, hopping and lapping at the icy goodness, tail wagging like he’d just arrived in paradise.
Yes, it felt good to be home.
Ben had arrived with the moving truck, and we escaped the outdoor frigidness to catch up inside. We sat on comfortable couches and loveseats by the living room’s fireplace, sipping on Mom’s hot chocolate with a hint of sea salt. I told my parents about my performance at The Supper Club, choosing to omit my epic fail with Lorenzo.
“To friendship and new beginnings!” Ben lifted the warm mug in his hands, prompting the rest of us to follow suit.
“To family and ambitious endeavors,” I toasted with gratitude and hope for the future I was about to manifest.
“And to finding better dick in the mountains!” Fiona said with a smirk. “Maybe Arabel will find the man that could finally make her heart flutter and her panties wet.”
My cheeks reddened, and I covered my face with both palms. I couldn’t believe she’d said it in front of our parents. “Fiona!” I chided, giving her a warning. I pretended I was offended, when in reality, I was wishing for the same.
She ignored my indignation. “You know, you need some good loving in your life.”
I rolled my eyes and stuck my tongue out at her, like a little girl.
“Ain't that the truth,” Mom chimed in with a chuckle.
“I’m perfectly fine without a man, thank you very much,” I replied, back straight and head held high, trying to hide my true feelings.
Fiona let out a deep laugh. “So, you don’t want to meet a guy that will make you tingle just by glancing at you? A guy you could spend countless hours with talking about everything in life? A person you’d love so much, it would hurt to even think of ever living without him?”
“Or have his babies,” Mom added, gazing longingly at my father, the man who fulfilled all of that for her.
Damn.
My body tensed as everyone laughed at my mother’s remark. I froze, staring at them with a blended grimace, annoyed Mom had asked a question she knew the answer to and horrified to have this conversation in front of my father because I looked up to him so much. I risked a glance in his direction, my shoulders relaxing a tad at his cool attitude. He simply sipped on his hot chocolate, allowing the conversation to occur without his interference the way he always did. Dad was a quiet man. He was the fly on the wall everyone would forget was there, until he opened his mouth, silencing his audience with reflective and direct wisdom. I didn’t want to listen to his advice any more than I wanted to be put on the spot by the women in my family. I shot Ben a coy smile, grateful for his choice to stay out of it.