She always explained it as the product of being from a big family. You had to be loud—be dramatic to really get noticed, she explained, and she wasn’t kidding. We met when we were ten, and the first time I went over to her house, the noise, the chaos, the life overwhelmed me, especially compared to the tense quiet of my own childhood home.
Annie’s parents shouted at each other across the house—questions, jokes, requests, anything at all—while my own parents simply despised each other in silence, a silence that wound me tighter and tighter with anxiety, until I could hardly breathe or speak. And as I spent more of my time at Annie’s house, I realized that the endless noise and friendly clutter of six kids filled a hole inside me that I hadn’t even known was empty.
My parents finally—finally split up when I was twelve, and I spent even more time with Annie’s family after that. And as an adult, with the benefit of time and perspective, I knew that while my parents raised me, loved me, took care of my needs, Annie’s house was where I learned to love completely, with a full and open heart.
Annie always said that friendship with me gave her some quiet space to think when she needed it. That when she was with me, she felt listened to. But when I spent time with Annie, with her family, I felt filled up. Recharged by the joyful cacophony of it all.
“Sorry to disappoint,” I replied wryly as I took a quick sip of my iced cold brew. “As far as I can tell, I just kind of crumpled back on the exam table. No theatrics at all.”
Annie sipped her newly sweetened coffee thoughtfully, then grabbed another packet of sugar. “Story’s not as good that way. Anyway, I thought you took anxiety medicine. Doesn’t that help with stuff like this?”
I eyed the growing pile of sugar packets on her side of the table. Disgusting—I didn’t know how she could stand to ruin such a noble beverage with so much sweetness. Give me the bitter black stuff any day, I thought with another sip of cold brew, sighing with pleasure as I set it down. Perfection.
“Anxiety meds don’t work like that,” I explained. “I take the meds to keep from running out of the room and screaming whenever things get a little bit stressful.” I picked up my chicken salad croissant. “Takes the edge off and keeps me even-keeled and calm.”
Annie rolled her eyes. “Anyway,” she said, swirling her spoon in the cup again to mix in her—fourth? fifth?—packet of sugar. “What happened after that?”
Around a mouthful of egg salad, I said, “They made me lay down for a few minutes, and then they tried to talk me into an ER visit, but I refused the offer.”
“Maybe you should have gone.”
“No.” I sliced a hand—the non-croissant-holding one—through the air, a decisive I-think-the-hell-not. “Absolutely not. I was already about to die of embarrassment. I waited until I felt fine again, dodged the nurse while she tried to force me to stay put, and then I came here to meet you. And after this, I’m going home.”
Annie slurped her coffee—loudly, of course—and put it down in the saucer with a loud clink and a grimace. “Too sweet,” she said, and it was my turn to roll my eyes. “Anyway, if you’re going home, tell my dog that I love her and miss her.”
“Marge is my dog, not your dog,” I said automatically. “Just because you like my dog doesn’t mean you can claim her.”
With an indignant sniff, Annie picked up her own ham-and-cheese sandwich and took a big, vicious bite while glaring at me.
“You’re just jealous of what we have,” she said after she swallowed. “Marge loves me. She tells me all the time that she wants to come and live with me.”
I held back a grin. “Do you want to come visit her tonight? I’ll be busy on the loom, but you two can keep me company, and she’ll appreciate the scratches.”
Annie nodded vigorously and took another slurp of coffee. “Snuggle time with your dog? Absolutely.”
Then, she put the mug down and cocked her head as she regarded me curiously. My insane best friend, I thought affectionately. Annie was brilliant, complicated, and stubbornly marched to the beat of her own drum. Always had, always would. It was the thing I liked best about her.
“Haven’t seen you use the loom in a while,” Annie finally said. “You taking a break from teaching?”
I shrugged. “I’m honestly about to pick up some more classes, just to keep the money coming in. But I’ve got some commissioned work on my plate too, so I’m doing just fine. This one’s for me, though.”
I was a fiber artist, which mostly translated into teaching fiber arts to other people. Weaving, beading, macrame—whatever people wanted to learn and would pay me to teach, I did, while I created my own work on the side. I didn’t mind teaching, really—it kept the bills paid, and I got a lot of satisfaction out of it. But a little bit more time to weave rugs and do abstract embroidery—well, it would have been nice.
Speaking of teaching—shit. I looked at my watch. I had to hit the craft store to get some supplies for my knitting class at the senior center. Nothing fancy—some cheap yarn to demonstrate the knit-one-purl-two thing for older folks who were more interested in keeping their brains sharp and their social lives hopping than they were in knitting anything truly complex. It was one of my favorite classes, honestly. Almost no prep work required and a sizeable cut of the enrollment fees went straight into my pocket.
“I gotta get to the craft store,” I told Annie, who was midway through pouring another packet of sugar into her coffee. I popped the last buttery piece of croissant into my mouth. “Need some supplies for the senior center class. You want to come?”
She shook her head. “Nah. Lunch break’s just about over, and I need to head into the office.”
For all her weirdness, Annie had a surprisingly staid job managing a veterinary practice. She was brilliant and could have done anything she wanted—and she chose doing the books for the neighborhood small animal guy. Not that I looked down on it—I made my living teaching seniors how to knit, after all.
“I like numbers and I like dogs,” she’d said with a shrug when I asked her why she had stayed for so long. “This way, I can enjoy both my interests.”
I dug my phone out of my bag and did a quick e-mail check. A new student for tomorrow’s class, so I’d need to make a copy of the instructional materials for them, too.
“All right, time for me to go,” I said, tucking my phone back into my bag and rising to my feet. I picked a croissant crumb off my cardigan. “Lots to do. Will you be over for dinner?”
Annie lifted her cup in a salute. “You know it. Ask Marge what she’s in the mood for.”
Laughing, I turned to leave. “You’re making my dog fat with all your luxury dog treats.”
“She’s entitled to a few extra pounds in her old age!” Annie called as I headed out the door.
I turned back with a smile and a wave, and headed out, belly full of chicken salad, unaffected by any lingering faintness or nausea, and attacked the rest of my day.