The Resistance Girl. Jina Bacarr

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      2

      Juliana

      A road not traveled… till now

      Los Angeles

      Present Day

      Rain splatters against the bay window echo my heavy pencil strokes.

      I grip the number 5B drawing pencil so tight, the point breaks off.

      I heave out a deep sigh that’s got me so coiled up inside. I can’t shake this unbearable loneliness that’s swept over me, like I’m alone in the world without her. Maman. She was my whole world these past two years, my life taking a detour to care for her. The end came all too quickly, and I’d give anything to have more precious time with her, but I can’t. I have to pick up the pieces and pretend I’m fine when I’m not.

      She never judged; she was always there for me.

      Now she isn’t.

      And it hurts. I was her round-the-clock caregiver but at the end when she looked into my eyes, she didn’t know I was her daughter. She told the nurse before she died, ‘She’s the pretty lady who takes care of me.’

      I denied the subtle changes in her personality for months. Maman (I always call her that since she was born in France) started showing signs two years ago, but I never expected the downward slide to happen so fast. I watched my kind, intelligent mother lose control of who she was, the blankness in her eyes, the unsteadiness in her walk. That was coupled with times of complete lucidity, brilliance almost, a portal in her mind opening for the briefest time to give me hope… then see it dashed when the door slammed in my face. Finally, my mother fell into a calm sleep… taking in oxygen through a tube from an ugly green tank I grew to hate because it was taking her from me… breathing slower… then slower… as if she knew the end was near.

       Maman, how I miss you…

      I want to tell her my news about my new job and I’m angry she’s not here. No wonder my mind is wandering this morning like a spool of thread come undone. I feel like a lost chord without a song.

      Sketching is my haven. A place I can call home, an anchor to find the road forward again.

      Which is why I’ve spent the past hour fidgeting with this retro costume for an upcoming sixties TV drama, Wings over Manhattan, working on the design for the blue and white flight attendant uniform. I spend a long time thinking about a design before I pick up my pencil then sketch it quickly, the curves and lines appearing almost magically like an animated film clip.

      My meet-up with the producer isn’t for another two weeks. Yet I’ve got it into my head that I have to finish the sketch right away. A penance, I suppose, when I should be trying to move on.

      I jam the pencil into the automatic sharpener, the eerie whir jarring my nerves. I could venture out into the rain to the art store and buy another one, but the idea of sloshing through LA streets that see rain twice a year isn’t inviting.

      Yet the longer I stare at the sketch, the more I need to share my feelings. I’m not into grief groups and I’m not close with the people from Maman’s life before she retired to move in with me. I walked through her funeral last week like a puppet on strings, picking up one foot then the next but feeling numb inside. I have no family and few friends I can count on in my crazy world designing costumes for TV.

      Apart from Ridge McCall who never left my side.

      I can’t help but smile, remembering how we met our first week of college when we bumped heads in the darkroom in photography class. I couldn’t believe this incredible guy with the gorgeous smile noticed me when the lights were on. He had a hot reputation since he’d already racked up movie credits as a stuntman and had every girl in class drooling over his muscular bod. Imagine my shock when he went out of his way to sit next to me in class, and then when he picked me for his partner for field trips, saying I had a good ‘eye’ for color and style and I should follow my dream to be a costume designer. (He caught me doodling costume sketches in class.)

      And then when he asked, would I mind riding on the back of his motorcycle?

      I liked him right away and we ended up getting amazing shots on film from the beach to the desert and cutting up doing it. We became great pals, pulling pranks on each other, like hiding canisters of film or shooting goofy poses to loosen up our creativity. I was so busy working and drawing and studying, I never thought about dating him. We had too much fun together to screw it up. He’d listen to me talk about my crushes, I’d comment on the long list of girls impressed by the stuntman in the stonewashed jeans and tight tee with James Dean eyes. Somewhere along the way, we eased into being a comfy twosome.

      We don’t talk about our dating lives anymore.

      I don’t have one, not since I started taking care of Maman. No regrets there.

      Ridge… I don’t know. Maybe he’s got a girl. If so, he doesn’t talk about it. Either way, I’m lucky to have him for a best friend.

      Maman always smiled when the handsome stuntman brought her fresh flowers and kept her mind busy extoling his exploits on film as a dashing swordsman or crashing a tank through a wall. I know she wondered about us, but I told her we decided long ago not to ruin a beautiful friendship by getting involved.

      I pick up my cell to text him, pour out my heart to him like I’ve done for years when I need a strong shoulder to lean on, then put it down. He’s already done so much, walking me through the steps of taking care of her affairs and sitting with me for a long while when we came back to the bungalow after the funeral so I wouldn’t have to be alone.