Liza’s crazy hermit daughter is kin

Liza’s crazy hermit daughter is kind of a bitch. And really, “kind of” is generous. I went in there trying to be nice. I mean, I don’t know what’s happened to her, and her mom is not exactly soft and fuzzy and comforting, even if she is rather hot. I wanted to show Stella some things, maybe help her express whatever’s going on inside her. Best of intentions.
But apparently what’s inside the girl is acid and broken glass, because man. I’ve been there every day for a week, and each hour is worse than the last. It’s been a while since I’ve come across someone so mean. Like, rabid, constipated wolverine mean.
I park my car in front of my apartment building and hike the two blocks to the co-op. It’s a twenty-minute ride from the northside mansion where Stella’s building her empire of misery, and I’m still not cooled down yet. Liza’s paying me two hundred an hour, I remind myself. I can tolerate a lot for two hundred an hour. I sit in that glass-enclosed porch, draw, and leave, because Stella refuses to do anything but take shots at me. I’m trying to wear her down, but she’s stubborn as hell.
I let out a breath and grab my sketchpad and toolbox, then hike up the street, into the co-op, and up the stairs to my studio. I need to burn off some serious steam. The studio space is this long, cavernous room lined with artists’ stalls, which each of us rent by the month. I’ve had mine for the past two years, ever since I graduated from college, and I spend more time here than at my apartment. When I reach my ten-by-ten space, I hear giggles and gasps from the stall at the end of the room. Caleb’s studio. He’s got company in there.
“Hey,” I call out. “Keep it clean.” Not that I care. I’ve had more than a few dirty flings right here in my studio, after all, so I won’t begrudge anyone else. “Or if that’s not possible, I’ve got rubbers in my toolbox if you need ‘em.”
“Hey, Daniel,” answers Romy. She appears in my stall a moment later, her cheeks flushed, her short, reddish brown hair a bit mussed. “You’re in early.”
Caleb comes up behind her and smoothes her hair down, looking simultaneously happy and sheepish. He doesn’t seem to have realized that his own hair is hanging loose; the elastic he uses to pull it back now hangs crookedly off one lock on the side of his head. “How are those private lessons going?”
I laugh, even though it’s not funny. “Swimmingly.”
Romy looks over her shoulder at Caleb and notices his hair. She runs her fingers through it and snags the elastic, then hands it to him before turning back to me. “You look like you want to punch something,” she says. 
“Have you ever done therapy with someone who would rather claw your eyes out than sit in a room with you?” I ask her.
Caleb’s eyebrows rise. “That bad?”
“Good thing I’m being paid enough that I can count the money in my head instead of focusing on how miserable it is.” Really, though … that’s not how I spend my time with Stella. While she hurls her bombs over the castle wall, I watch her. She’s always got white spots on the dark shirts she wears, and after passing the kitchen yesterday and seeing a fresh-baked loaf of bread on the counter, I’m thinking they must be flour, even though I never would have pegged her for the domestic type—her mom certainly isn’t.
But that’s not the only thing I’ve noticed. I’m fascinated by the way Stella moves: quick and sharp and feral sometimes, especially when she darts up from her chair like she wants to run from the room; slow and melty at other times, like when she sinks into that same chair and curls in on herself, hiding from everything. It’s fucking sad and still I can’t stop looking. I wish I could draw pictures that move. It’s the only way to do it justice.
Romy frowns. “Why are you giving lessons to someone who doesn’t want them?”
“Because her mom was willing to pay cash up front?”
“Why, though?” She sinks to the floor and gives me a you can tell me anything kind of look that probably works magic on her patients. Romy’s in grad school to be a therapist, and she’s clearly found her calling. “Why would a mom pay so much if it’s something her child doesn’t want?”
“She’s not a child,” says Caleb, dropping down next to her. “You said she’s a college student, right?”
“She was,” I say, opening my toolbox and pulling out some oil pastels. “A junior. I guess she dropped out or something. She refuses to go back for the spring semester, and her parents are freaked.”
“So they hired you to give her private art lessons that she doesn’t want?” Romy tilts her head like something’s not adding up.
“I don’t know why she’s so dead-set against them, especially since she doesn’t seem to have anything else to do. But hey, she’s dead-set against everything, so maybe I shouldn’t take it personally.”
“What are you talking about?” Caleb asks.
“She refuses to go back to college. She refuses to leave the house. I don’t know what’s wrong with her, but—”
“She won’t leave the house?” asks Romy. “Like, not at all? Why?”
I shrug. “She just won’t.” I think back, to the one moment where she opened up. I stayed quiet, hoping that we could break through that thick wall around her and get on with the lessons, but she clammed up quickly. Before she did, though … “She said something about dying? Like, it feels like she’s dying?”
Caleb’s eyes grow wide. “Does she have a terminal illness or something?”
“No, that’s not what it was,” I say, trying to remember exactly what she said. “It was more … she said that every time, it feels like she’s going to die, or that she’s going crazy. And she can’t go through it again.”
Romy’s brow is furrowed in thought. “I wonder if it’s panic.”
“Huh?”
Her green eyes meet mine. “People who have panic attacks often say it feels like they’re having a heart attack. Like they’re dying. And she said ‘every time’?”
I nod. “‘Every time it happens.’”
“Maybe she refuses to go out because she’s afraid she’s going to have a panic attack, then.”
Caleb looks down at her. “That seems kind of extreme.”
“It’s a thing, though. It’s called agoraphobia,” she says.
He gives Romy a bemused smile, like she’s the most brilliant creature on the face of the planet and he has no idea how he got so lucky. I’ve never seen Caleb like this, and it’s comical but nice at the same time. “Whataphobia?” he says softly.
“Agoraphobia. It’s a mental disorder where people have crippling fear of crowds or social situations or … well, generally being away from places where they feel safest. I’ll have to look it up, but I’m pretty sure that’s how it is.”
“Do they do it because something’s happened to them? Like a trauma thing?”
Romy shrugs. “Could be, but I also think it’s one of those disorders that just happens to people, and no one really knows exactly why. A lot of them emerge for the first time in early adulthood, and most anxiety disorders aren’t caused by some terrible, scary event.  With agoraphobia, people usually withdraw because they want to avoid having a panic attack. That’s what they’re most scared of.”
Sounds like it might fit. “So that’s it? They get hit with this anxiety disorder and live like hermits because they’re afraid of … being afraid?”
Romy gives me a look. “Panic is a bit more extreme than simply being afraid, Daniel. And if that’s what’s going on with this girl, it must be confusing and terrifying at best.”
“Okay, but can’t she just … I don’t know, push through it?” It seems crazy to give up your whole life for something like that.
She smiles. “I’m sure she gets that all the time. That’s probably what her parents said to her. Get over it. Why can’t you just … why don’t you just … it’s only …”
I blink at her. “I said something like that to Stella, too.”
“Pretty damn dismissive of you.” Her voice is soft, but she doesn’t need volume to wield that wrecking ball. Suddenly I feel like the biggest jerk on the planet. I told Stella she was having a pity party. I told her she was putting on an “invalid act.” I said she was just doing it for attention.
I’ve been almost as mean as she has.
Caleb sighs. “It’s hard not to push back when someone’s hurling insults, though.” He would know. His sister Katie has done that to him for years, lashing out because she suffered so much abuse at the hands of their stepfather, taking it out on Caleb for reasons he never talks about.
Romy scoots closer to Caleb like she knows he needs it. “Definitely. But it’s not the way to get her to lay down her weapons.” She kisses his shoulder, and I look away, busying myself with my sketchpad and pastels.
“What do I do, then?” I ask. “Liza’s paid me for two more weeks of daily lessons, and I want that money.” But … I’d also like not to be at war with Stella. I liked that first moment we talked, when we met in the hallway and joked about her book. I was hoping that’s how it would be, and instead I got this feral creature who seems to hate me with every cell in her body.
“What are you doing now?” Caleb asks.
“I go in there with my pad and charcoals, and she either curls up catatonic on her chair or stands across the room from me, saying whatever she thinks will get me to leave.”
“What are you doing now?” he asks again.
“I draw her.”
Romy’s eyes soften. “You do? Do you show her?”
“Yeah, but … it’s probably only making her more angry, now that I think about it. I draw her while she’s snapping at me.”
Caleb lets out a huff of laughter. “So she gets to see herself at her worst every time?”
I rip my beanie off my head and rake my hand through my hair. Jerk. I’m a jerk. “Basically.”
Romy touches my arm. “I bet you can figure out something better to do with that time. And when you do, you’ll be more able to reach her. Maybe you can make a connection with her, and then you can help.”
“I do art, not therapy!” I say helplessly.

Hasil (Bahasa Indonesia) 1:

Liza's gila pertapa putri adalah jenis menyebalkan. Dan sungguh, "semacam" murah hati. Aku pergi di sana mencoba untuk bersikap baik. Maksudku, aku tidak tahu apa yang terjadi padanya, dan ibunya tidak benar-benar lembut dan fuzzy dan menghibur, bahkan jika ia agak panas. Aku ingin menunjukkan Stella beberapa hal, mungkin membantu nya Check apa pun yang terjadi di dalam dirinya. Terbaik dari niat.Tapi rupanya dalam gadis kaca asam dan rusak, karena manusia. Aku berada di sana setiap hari selama seminggu, dan setiap jam lebih buruk daripada yang terakhir. Sudah lama sejak aku datang di seseorang begitu berarti. Seperti, fanatik, sembelit wolverine berarti.Aku memarkir mobil saya di depan gedung apartemen saya dan mendaki dua blok ke co-op. Ini adalah dua puluh menit dari mansion northside yang mana Stella yang membangun kerajaan nya kesengsaraan, dan aku 'm masih tidak didinginkan belum. Liza yang membayar saya dua ratus satu jam, aku mengingatkan diriku. Aku bisa mentolerir a lot untuk dua ratus jam. Aku duduk di teras tertutup kaca itu, menarik, dan pergi, karena Stella menolak untuk apa pun tetapi mengambil tembakan pada saya. Saya mencoba untuk memakai dia, tapi dia keras kepala sebagai neraka.Aku mengeluarkan napas dan ambil sketsa dan kotak peralatan saya, kemudian mendaki jalan, ke co-op, dan menaiki tangga ke studio saya. Saya perlu untuk membakar beberapa serius Uap. Ruang studio adalah ruangan ini panjang, gua yang dipenuhi dengan kios-kios seniman, yang masing-masing dari kita menyewa oleh bulan. Aku sudah tambang selama dua tahun, sejak saya lulus dari perguruan tinggi, dan saya menghabiskan lebih banyak waktu di sini daripada di apartemen saya. Ketika aku mencapai ruang sepuluh-oleh-sepuluh saya, saya mendengar cekikikan dan napas dari kios di ujung Ruangan. Studio Kaleb. Dia punya perusahaan di sana."Hei," saya memanggil. "Tetap bersih." Bukan berarti aku peduli. Aku sudah lebih dari beberapa gebetan kotor di sini di studio saya, setelah semua, jadi saya tidak akan iri orang lain. "Atau jika itu tidak mungkin, aku punya karet di kotak peralatan saya jika Anda membutuhkan 'em.""Hei, Daniel," jawaban Romy. Dia muncul di warung saya sesaat kemudian, pipinya memerah, nya pendek, rambut cokelat kemerahan yang sedikit mussed. "Kau di awal."Kaleb muncul di belakang dia dan menghaluskan rambutnya itu, melihat secara bersamaan bahagia dan bintang. Dia tampaknya tidak menyadari bahwa rambut sendiri menggantung longgar; elastis dia menggunakan untuk menariknya kembali sekarang Hang crookedly dari satu kunci di kepalanya. "Bagaimana pelajaran pribadi mereka pergi?"Aku tertawa, meskipun itu tidak lucu. "Dgn."Romy terlihat atas bahunya di Kaleb dan pemberitahuan rambutnya. Ia menjalankan jari-jarinya melalui itu dan snags elastis, maka tangan kepadanya sebelum berbalik kembali ke saya. "Anda terlihat seperti Anda ingin meninju sesuatu," katanya. "Pernahkah Anda melakukan terapi dengan seseorang yang suka akan cakar mata Anda keluar daripada duduk di sebuah ruangan dengan Anda?" Aku bertanya padanya.Caleb alis meningkat. "Yang buruk?""Hal baik yang saya sedang dibayar cukup bahwa aku dapat menghitung uang di kepala saya tidak berfokus pada bagaimana menyedihkan memang." Benar-benar, meskipun... itu adalah tidak bagaimana saya menghabiskan waktu saya dengan Stella. Sementara dia melemparkan bom Nya atas dinding Kastil, saya menonton nya. Dia selalu punya bintik-bintik putih pada kemeja hitam yang dikenakannya, dan setelah melewati dapur hari dan melihat sebuah dipanggang roti di meja, aku berpikir mereka harus menjadi tepung, meskipun saya tidak pernah akan telah dipatok nya untuk tipe domestik — ibunya tentu tidak.Tetapi itu bukanlah satu-satunya hal yang saya perhatikan. Saya terpesona dengan cara Stella bergerak: cepat dan tajam dan liar kadang-kadang, terutama ketika dia Permainan Anak Panah dari kursinya seperti dia ingin menjalankan dari ruang; lambat dan melty di lain waktu, seperti ketika ia tenggelam ke dalam kursi yang sama dan ikal di pada dirinya sendiri, bersembunyi dari segala sesuatu. Fucking sedih dan masih tidak dapat berhenti mencari. Saya berharap saya bisa menggambar gambar yang bergerak. Ini adalah satu-satunya cara untuk melakukannya keadilan.Romy mengerutkan kening. "Mengapa Anda memberikan pelajaran kepada seseorang yang tidak ingin mereka?""Karena ibunya bersedia membayar tunai depan?"“Why, though?” She sinks to the floor and gives me a you can tell me anything kind of look that probably works magic on her patients. Romy’s in grad school to be a therapist, and she’s clearly found her calling. “Why would a mom pay so much if it’s something her child doesn’t want?”“She’s not a child,” says Caleb, dropping down next to her. “You said she’s a college student, right?”“She was,” I say, opening my toolbox and pulling out some oil pastels. “A junior. I guess she dropped out or something. She refuses to go back for the spring semester, and her parents are freaked.”“So they hired you to give her private art lessons that she doesn’t want?” Romy tilts her head like something’s not adding up.“I don’t know why she’s so dead-set against them, especially since she doesn’t seem to have anything else to do. But hey, she’s dead-set against everything, so maybe I shouldn’t take it personally.”“What are you talking about?” Caleb asks.“She refuses to go back to college. She refuses to leave the house. I don’t know what’s wrong with her, but—”“She won’t leave the house?” asks Romy. “Like, not at all? Why?”I shrug. “She just won’t.” I think back, to the one moment where she opened up. I stayed quiet, hoping that we could break through that thick wall around her and get on with the lessons, but she clammed up quickly. Before she did, though … “She said something about dying? Like, it feels like she’s dying?”Caleb’s eyes grow wide. “Does she have a terminal illness or something?”“No, that’s not what it was,” I say, trying to remember exactly what she said. “It was more … she said that every time, it feels like she’s going to die, or that she’s going crazy. And she can’t go through it again.”Romy’s brow is furrowed in thought. “I wonder if it’s panic.”“Huh?”Her green eyes meet mine. “People who have panic attacks often say it feels like they’re having a heart attack. Like they’re dying. And she said ‘every time’?”I nod. “‘Every time it happens.’”“Maybe she refuses to go out because she’s afraid she’s going to have a panic attack, then.”Caleb looks down at her. “That seems kind of extreme.”“It’s a thing, though. It’s called agoraphobia,” she says.He gives Romy a bemused smile, like she’s the most brilliant creature on the face of the planet and he has no idea how he got so lucky. I’ve never seen Caleb like this, and it’s comical but nice at the same time. “Whataphobia?” he says softly.“Agoraphobia. It’s a mental disorder where people have crippling fear of crowds or social situations or … well, generally being away from places where they feel safest. I’ll have to look it up, but I’m pretty sure that’s how it is.”“Do they do it because something’s happened to them? Like a trauma thing?”Romy shrugs. “Could be, but I also think it’s one of those disorders that just happens to people, and no one really knows exactly why. A lot of them emerge for the first time in early adulthood, and most anxiety disorders aren’t caused by some terrible, scary event. With agoraphobia, people usually withdraw because they want to avoid having a panic attack. That’s what they’re most scared of.”Sounds like it might fit. “So that’s it? They get hit with this anxiety disorder and live like hermits because they’re afraid of … being afraid?”Romy gives me a look. “Panic is a bit more extreme than simply being afraid, Daniel. And if that’s what’s going on with this girl, it must be confusing and terrifying at best.”“Okay, but can’t she just … I don’t know, push through it?” It seems crazy to give up your whole life for something like that.She smiles. “I’m sure she gets that all the time. That’s probably what her parents said to her. Get over it. Why can’t you just … why don’t you just … it’s only …”I blink at her. “I said something like that to Stella, too.”“Pretty damn dismissive of you.” Her voice is soft, but she doesn’t need volume to wield that wrecking ball. Suddenly I feel like the biggest jerk on the planet. I told Stella she was having a pity party. I told her she was putting on an “invalid act.” I said she was just doing it for attention.I’ve been almost as mean as she has.Caleb sighs. “It’s hard not to push back when someone’s hurling insults, though.” He would know. His sister Katie has done that to him for years, lashing out because she suffered so much abuse at the hands of their stepfather, taking it out on Caleb for reasons he never talks about.Romy scoots closer to Caleb like she knows he needs it. “Definitely. But it’s not the way to get her to lay down her weapons.” She kisses his shoulder, and I look away, busying myself with my sketchpad and pastels.“What do I do, then?” I ask. “Liza’s paid me for two more weeks of daily lessons, and I want that money.” But … I’d also like not to be at war with Stella. I liked that first moment we talked, when we met in the hallway and joked about her book. I was hoping that’s how it would be, and instead I got this feral creature who seems to hate me with every cell in her body.“What are you doing now?” Caleb asks.“I go in there with my pad and charcoals, and she either curls up catatonic on her chair or stands across the room from me, saying whatever she thinks will get me to leave.”“What are you doing now?” he asks again.“I draw her.”Romy’s eyes soften. “You do? Do you show her?”“Yeah, but … it’s probably only making her more angry, now that I think about it. I draw her while she’s snapping at me.”Caleb lets out a huff of laughter. “So she gets to see herself at her worst every time?”I rip my beanie off my head and rake my hand through my hair. Jerk. I’m a jerk. “Basically.”Romy touches my arm. “I bet you can figure out something better to do with that time. And when you do, you’ll be more able to reach her. Maybe you can make a connection with her, and then you can help.”“I do art, not therapy!” I say helplessly.