Final Room

04 | ellen ripley

CHAPTER FOUR | ELLEN RIPLEY

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          I haven't seen Xavier in so long I don't even know how to behave around him or even how to greet him.

          I stand in front of him, on his front step, like an idiot, arms hanging limp by my sides, while Sidney glances between the two of us like she's watching a particularly interesting tennis match. She behaves well enough to stay put instead of jumping on him, like other dogs usually do, and I'm secretly glad I don't have to pull her back and make this reunion more awkward than it already is.

          He takes a good look at the sheer number of suitcases I'm carrying and then, finally, his eyes land on Sidney. Her ears perk up, tail wagging violently against my ankle as she waits for his undivided attention and a good head scratch, while he quirks an eyebrow.

          "You brought a dog," he comments.

          "I'm guessing Mom didn't tell you," I reply, setting a hand on her head, and she happily leans into the pet. He gives me a one-shoulder shrug in response. "This is Sidney. She's a psychiatric service dog. Mom got her for me because she thought my old therapist wasn't helping me much. She's not wrong, but it was all very sudden."

          My chest is so tight I can barely get a breath out.

          I'm quickly overwhelmed by the notion that I haven't seen or heard of him for so long that there are many things I no longer know about him and others that I haven't had a chance to find out about. I don't know—or genuinely cannot remember—whether he's allergic to dogs or not; if he is, things here will be far harder than they have to be. I've already prepared myself mentally for this new environment—or tried to, at least—but I understand if he needs me to turn around on my heel and go home.

          I can fly home. That's not an issue. My pride and my feelings will take a heavy blow, certainly, and I'm not entirely sure I'm mentally strong enough to take it and walk away with my head held high. Xavier isn't purposefully malicious and not everything in my life has some secret evil agenda behind it, but his hesitation isn't ideal.

          It's me, isn't it? I'm the problem.

          "She's very big," he says, crouching to be on eye level with her. Her tongue is out now, body shaking with excitement, and I wipe a stray tear from my cheek with the back of my free hand. "How old is she?"

          "I'm not sure, but she's young. A few months old, maybe six or seven. She's big for her age, but deep down she's just a little baby. Right, girl? You can pet her, if you'd like."

          He tentatively reaches out a hand towards her so she can sniff him, determine if he's trustworthy, and ultimately gets a nose bop from her. His lips curve into a gentle smile and I'm amazed by Sidney's self-control and how she doesn't immediately lie on her back to have her stomach scratched like she usually does with me. I'm assuming she can sense Xavier is not nearly as much of a lost cause as I am, that he doesn't need nearly as much external support as I do.

          This past month and a half, I've been trying to come to terms with the notion that it's okay to need help, that it's okay to not have the resources to handle all these emotions, feelings, and thoughts on my own. The intellectualization of my trauma is easy, but it doesn't help me much. It distances me from what happened, reminds me I'm not allowed to forget about it because I'd have to forget about my friends and my boyfriend, and then people tell me this is supposed to make me stronger.