Car Tissues

After being plagued with anxiety for years about who I would become and where I’d end up, I can confidently say I’ve finally made it. Everything is in place: I have a car, a stable job, a home, loving partner, and man’s best friend —my dog. So why is it that deep down, it doesn’t really feel like it?

This is the third time this week that I’ve braced myself just to step foot into the building. I am a stellar employee and borderline workaholic, but that’s only if I muster up enough courage to leave my car. Something about the office lights has me seeing stars, while the constant sounds of busybodies and telephones have me seeking refuge behind closed doors.

“Good morning! Ready to tackle the big day?”

That’s Mike. He’s always very friendly to me but in the most ‘work’ way possible.

The supposed ‘big day’ that Mike is referring to is my presentation to the board. If they so graciously accept my proposal, then my ideas will make it all the way to the regional head of corporate. Although this somewhat terrifies me, so I’m trying not to think about it. 

Sifting through my desk drawer, I finally find the answer to all my problems: Tums. ‘One fruity tablet a day makes the corporate anxiety go away’ is the phrase I have unwillingly chosen to live by. To the right of my Tums lies my personal notes for today’s presentation. However, the notes have nothing to do with my actual slides; rather, they are filled with character assessments of each board member—ranging from ‘Grumpy Gerald’ to ‘Fake Fiona’. Each one has an assigned nickname, a relatable talking point, and a potential impression of me. Currently, the person most likely to disfavor my proposal is none other than ‘Judgmental Jude’. His real name is actually Justin, but he looks like how I’d imagine Jude Law would look in 10 years. Nevertheless, not all nicknames in my book have a negative connotation. There’s ’Kind Karen’, ‘Encouraging Ed’, and ‘Happy-go-lucky Henry’, but they’re not the ones I need to impress. I choke down another Tums just thinking about ‘Judgy Jude’ and how he’s going to devour me alive with a single glare. His face always looks like he’s eating something sour, yet he refuses to spit it out.

Five minutes until the board meeting.

I turn on one of those serene guided meditations to rid myself of these nerves. Sounds of white noise flood my headphones as I drift into a much better headspace than four seconds ago. Slowly, the white noise transitions into gentle waves crashing against rocks on a beach. I imagine myself reading a cozy book, fingers leafing through the pages, not caring if I accidentally doze off. There are no rules on this beach—no deadlines, no projects, and most importantly, no presentations.

Ding.

My peaceful paradise slips from beneath my feet. A message from my boss reads:

“Where are you? Did you get yesterday’s email? We started 10 minutes ago.”

Oh. Oh no. This is…no, no, no. This can’t be happening.

My notes scatter across the ground as I clumsily sort through what I absolutely need versus what I can live without. That being said, I end up walking away with the whole pile. 

Before bursting through the door, I pause, re-collect myself, self-administer another Tums, and take a deep breath. It’s not the end of the world, right? Worse things have happened and I’ve survived. This is a mantra my aunt has instilled in me since my first panic attack as a child. I am hoping it still rings true for today’s presentation.

**

The blinding lights from when I first entered the building seem to have gotten annoyingly brighter on my way out. With sweaty hands, I fumble through the contact list in my phone and accidentally ring up my brother. Finally, on the second try, I manage to call my aunt.

“They hated it, I could see the disgust in their eyes Aunty Ann!” I cried.

Aunty Ann patiently held her tongue as she waited for me to finish my sobbing tirade. She listened as I detailed how much I think my boss hates me, as I berated myself for being late, and as I relived the hurt I felt from their stinging glares. I reach for my ‘car tissues’, tissues I conveniently store in the glovebox of my car, for times like this. Needless to say, I am running very low on my stash. As I soak up my tears, Aunty Ann repeats her mantra and just like that, my racing mind is soothed. I wish I could reach through the phone and embrace her, letting her know how thankful I am that she willingly accepts these ‘crisis’ calls.

The following Monday I receive an email.

I’ve been promoted.

“See, it was all in your head!” Yells an excited Aunty Ann through the phone. Of course it was all in my head, it always is, and I can never make heads or tails of it. Regardless, being promoted comes with new responsibilities, many of which come partnered with imposter syndrome. It was only natural for Aunty Ann to receive a multitude of phone calls this week, considering how things were playing out at work. For the first time in months, I received harsh criticism disguised as ‘constructive feedback’. For most people this is fine, but for me, it means another Tums is going down the hatch.

“Feedback in general is difficult for everybody, honey. Nobody likes to hear that they could’ve done better—especially a perfectionist like you. But ya know what? It’s not all that bad. Think about what you’re doin’ right. Think about things outside of work. Come on over, let’s go for a walk and talk about it, what do ya say?”

Aunty Ann’s words patched me up, but only as much as a bandaid would to a broken leg. Work has instilled in me a very familiar routine. They say routine is good, but what if it consists of a small panic attack in the car, popping another Tums, and crying in the office bathroom each morning? My habits were my only defenses to fall back on, but it seems bad habits die hard—and so could I.

**

My first day off from work is spent in a hospital waiting room, pending the results of various tests. An informative video plays on the tiny TV in the corner, detailing how ulcers can occur on the stomach lining and worsen due to chronic stress—an infliction I am well versed in. As a nurse explains the causes and their potential to lead to stomach cancer, my Tums beckon me to have ‘just one more’ so I can get through this medical nightmare.

“You have exactly three peptic ulcers, which is not ideal, but —“

She pauses as she watches me whip out a travel-size pack of Tums.

“How many of those do you consume in a day?”

To which I respond, “However many mental breakdowns I have in a day”.

She completely disregards my humor and narrows her eyes, warning me that I should lay off the Tums for now.

Later, I stare at the doctor’s note meant for my boss, describing how I should reduce my stress levels. Included with the note is a packet of self-help tips on stress management, clean eating, and exercise routines. It also mentions to ‘take it easy’ at work. Just thinking about going back to work right now has me slumped over in the seat of my car.

“Maybe I should ask my boss for the day off…”

I entertain the idea for a moment, but then remember all the deadlines waiting to be met. The corner of the medical packet flicks up, as I turn the dial of the A/C to combat this sweltering heat. I let out a long sigh as I debate on calling Aunty Ann about my medical dilemma. As fate would have it, my phone screen immediately lights up with her caller ID before I can even press the call button.

“Aunty Ann! How’d you know I was just about to call you?”

A brief silence makes me believe she called by mistake. However, before I could say ‘Hello?’, a voice calls out to me.

“Hey there…it’s me. Where are you right now?”

The voice echoing through my speaker does not belong to Aunty Ann. Rather, it is the hoarse voice of my brother.

**

They say she passed peacefully in her sleep. It has only been a few days since I found out, but now and then I like to close my eyes and imagine she fell asleep that night with a smile. I look at my doctor’s note and feel thankful that I did not burden her with this information in her last days.

That day when my brother called to tell me Aunty Ann was gone, I didn’t believe him. I laughed as though he had told the worst joke ever. “Why would I joke with you about something like this?”, he refuted. Why? Because Aunty Ann dying has never been a possibility to me. Every time I would call her, I was confident she would once again pick up my call and help me navigate my newfound crisis. In denial, I hung up on my brother and anxiously searched again for Aunty Ann’s contact profile, as if it would make a difference. Each time, my brother answered the phone and each time I angrily scolded him to give it back to Aunty Ann. I called a total of 27 times before the realization finally set in. On the 27th call, I simply sobbed into the phone as my brother sat in silence. At this point, I was all out of ‘car tissues’ and resorted to using my shirt sleeve while listening to Aunty Ann’s voicemails on repeat.

**

Aunty Ann supposedly left a large plot of land in my name. However, it’s the last thing on my mind as today is the day of her funeral. There are many faces I recognize, but none that I want to socialize with. They knew Aunty Ann, but they were never good to her the way she was to them. A part of me wonders if they are here out of guilt, while the other part feels at fault for even doubting them.

I manage to keep my eyes dry, that is until Aunty Ann’s husband takes the podium. He is her second husband, but in my opinion—her one true love. The way he speaks so fondly of her reignites the pain I have been trying to suppress. He describes how she always held his hand, even when upset with him; how she always knew exactly the right words to say; and how she looked upon everyone with a kindness that not everyone deserved. He cries about how much he loves her and how badly he now misses her. He complains that he has no clue how to live these next years without her when only a few weeks have destroyed him completely. He worries that he will forget her warmth when he goes to bed tonight. He wishes to pick one final argument with her just to hear her voice one last time.

**

Everything is going smoothly, or as smoothly as things can be for a funeral all things considered. We shift around the room, shaking hands and exchanging condolences, some half-hearted and some undeniably genuine. One half-hearted interaction leaves me speechless. Standing before me is ‘Fake Fiona’, my work colleague. Her eyes well with forced tears as she quickly clasps my hands in hers. She proceeds to tell me how amazing my aunt was and how this world is now missing a gentle, kind soul. It instantly becomes very clear to me that she has never met my aunt—not even once. Aunty Ann was anything but gentle. She was a firm believer in tough love, despite how sweet her voice was during our calls. She would lecture me to no end, but always made sure that I knew she still loved me when all was said and done. 

With piercing eyes, I make it obvious that I see right through her schemes. She averts her eyes and continues to speak sympathetically about someone she’s never known. Despite this, I continue to provoke her and ultimately question why she’s here in the first place. Fiona is stubbornly fake, but at least she’s consistent. She pridefully remarks that she is here to support her friend who is going through a difficult time. I cock my head to the side in confusion, wondering who this mysterious friend is. Her eyes widen momentarily, hinting that it is me—I’m the friend.

Desperate to end this awkward encounter, I offer a meaningless shoulder pat and thank her for coming. 

“Oh wait!” A clammy hand tugs at my arm.

“Do you happen to know when you’ll return to the office? The team is kind of struggling with one less person.”

My disappointment must be written all over my face. Instant regret washes over her, yet she does not retract her question, in fact, she doubles down.

“The moment you feel better, give me a call, ‘kay?”

As she exits the building, she turns to me and makes a hand gesture in the shape of a phone. I return the favor once she turns back around…only mine isn’t in the shape of a phone.

**

A few more days pass until I finally decide to explore this plot of land left in my name. To be honest, I have been purposely procrastinating this visit. I have only ever seen the plot once before and it was as a child, building what are now precious core memories with my aunt. A large part of me worries I’ll be reminded of the person I miss most when looking at this empty dirt field. However, I nearly pass up the plot, as it is unrecognizable compared to my distant memories. A once desolate field is now teeming with wildflowers, tall grass, and dancing butterflies. Its landscape is decorated with an upscale barndominium at one end and a peaceful koi pond at the other. To my right, the next-door neighbor appears hard at work tending to his garden vegetables. However, his attention is soon directed toward me as he dusts off his knees and limps in my direction.

“You Ann’s daughter?”, he smiles while greeting me.

“I guess that’s me”, I smile back, knowing full well that Aunty Ann never had any children.

He begins to tell me how she would talk about me all the time, and always with this huge grin on her face. I soon learn that his name is Richard, but that I can call him Rick or ‘Hey old man’.

Rick’s recollection of Aunty Ann makes my heart burst with emotion. Soon enough, these same emotions betray me as salty tears trickle down my face in front of the old man.

“Y’know what will make you feel better? Some good ol’ hard work”, he chuckles.

Flashes of my desk job fill my mind as I cringe at his recommendation. However, the hard work Rick is referencing is rather different from what I was expecting. We spend the afternoon tilling the soil to prepare for planting an assortment of seeds: okra, cucumbers, tomatoes, melons, squash—you name it. Rick offers up some gloves but insists that I get a feel for everything with my bare hands. I hesitantly agree, trying to fend off intrusive thoughts about ‘creepy crawlies’. The soil breaks apart so easily between my fingers, molding into any shape I desire. A gentle breeze sweeps my bangs to the side as I then exhale all of my worries. At this moment, I remember that there are still small things in life worth living for. Rick plucks a cherry tomato from a nearby stalk, rubbing it against his shirt to brush off any specks of dirt.

“Try it. Best one you’ll ever eat, guaranteed.” 

He smirks, raising his eyebrows as a signal for me to dig in. Needless to say, it was the juiciest, sweetest cherry tomato known to man and I would mindlessly consume several for the rest of the night. After hours of ‘hard work’, Rick hobbles over to the sink to pour me some tap water and rinse off a few more tomatoes. Inspecting his leg, I praise him for being such a capable farmer; however, his usual jolly expression drops as he claims he ‘used to be a better one’. I insist that he hires a helping hand to tend to his crops, or at least to handle deliveries. My comment is met with a snort as the old man recognizes that ‘help is not easy to come by in this part of town’.

He jokes, “Hell, I’d be better off just hirin’ you”.

**

The night at Rick’s ends in laughter and me leaving with a bucket full of cherry tomatoes. Once in my car, I place the bucket on top of the passenger seat, crumpling the doctor’s note underneath. A small chuckle escapes as I recount the day’s activities. Did Aunty Ann expect for this to happen?

My phone screen illuminates the interior of my Honda Civic as I draft up the most unnerving email of my life. At 8 AM the next morning, I promptly press ‘send’.

**

I need Aunty Ann’s courageous mantra now more than ever. For the umpteenth time, the bright office lights blind me on the way to my desk. I immediately fling my drawer open and toss my beloved Tums in the trash bin before rushing up to my boss’s cubicle. His eyes glance up at me from his screen without moving his head even an inch. Pulled up on his monitor is my email from this morning, outlining my two weeks' notice.

END.