The Fall Before Flight

by L. M. Halloran

  The Fall Before Flight

  L.M. Halloran

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2018 by L.M. Halloran

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 978-1720108191

  Cover photography from Shutterstock.com

  Editing by Emily A. Lawrence, Lawrence Editing

  Proofreading by Judy’s Proofreading

  lmhalloran.com

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  I. The Fall

  1. Preface

  2. the stories we tell

  3. the mystery of glaciers

  4. puzzle pieces

  5. nuts for the farm

  6. rabbit hole

  7. drowning, not waving

  8. sacrifices

  9. memory lane

  10. love and war

  11. smoke and mirrors

  12. growing pains

  13. group insanity

  14. scouring

  15. here comes the ground

  16. run run run

  17. the labyrinth

  18. cool waters

  19. smokescreens

  20. basophobia

  21. moon-light

  22. moon-bright

  23. rise and shine

  24. thunderstorms

  25. step to the edge

  26. countdown to freedom

  27. goodbye

  II. the flight

  28. new world

  29. cotton candy

  30. implosion

  31. walk the plank

  32. grey matter

  33. barn burner

  34. careful what you wish for

  35. glow so bright

  36. consequences

  37. acceleration

  38. discombobulation

  39. the elephant

  40. island escape

  41. embrace the wind

  42. sparkle

  43. a perfect wave

  44. bird’s-eye view

  45. find the stars

  46. one step forward

  47. green flash

  Epilogue

  ★ Stay Connected ★

  Also by L.M. Halloran

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  To my readers—I can’t do this without you. You have my unending gratitude for sticking with me on this wild ride. And in no particular order, for their support, encouragement, honesty, and general awesomeness:

  Danielle Rairigh, Katy Ames, Monica Robinson, Rachel Childers, Saffron A. Kent, Nicole French, Jenny Aspinall, and Gitte Doherty.

  Emily Lawrence and Judy Zweifel, for immaculate editing and proofing. Any remaining errors are my own (because I just had to tweak that one little thing).

  My alpha and beta goddesses: Steph Poe, Dawn Walsh, Anna Fay, Sarah Leal, Brianne St. Germain, Haley McGraw Smith, Amy Lutz, Lee Allen, Chery-ann Townsend, Lisa Curro, and Sheila Marie.

  And to my husband—thank you for being my partner, my cheerleader, my sounding board and port in life’s storm. I choose you, always.

  This is love: to fly toward a secret sky, to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment. First to let go of life. Finally, to take a step without feet.”

  Rumi

  For Cece and Marika

  &

  anyone who has felt

  the limitations of gravity

  Soundtrack

  “Middle Fingers”—MISSIO

  “Youth”—Daughter

  “Astronaut”—Mansionair

  “Sweater Weather”—The Neighbourhood

  “Don’t Move”—Phantogram

  “Stressed Out”—Twenty One Pilots

  “Skinny Love”—Bon Iver

  “Cleopatra”—The Lumineers

  “Genghis Khan”—Miike Snow

  and more…

  Listen on Spotify

  I

  The Fall

  1

  Preface

  day 0

  I didn’t try to kill myself. It was an accident. No—more than an accident. A natural disaster, unanticipated and sudden. Fate’s fickle lightning strike. Unseen forces joining in cataclysm. No stopping it. No way to prepare.

  Et cetera.

  No one believes me, of course. Try explaining to your binary-minded father that it wasn’t intent, but bad luck, that propelled the car off the cliff. It wasn’t even a cliff, really. I’ve seen cliffs. I’ve flung my body from them more times than I can count, lips in a rictus of glee, arms arrowed with cutting purpose toward roiling waters.

  Not a cliff. Just a little hill. Grassy and rocky, with a mellow incline beyond a short, dinged guardrail. There’s no guardrail anymore, at least not where the impact of my car tore a section free, where pressure pushed sparks of defiance from rusted bolts that were no match for a luxury coup going forty-six miles per hour.

  “It’s for the best, Mia.”

  Blinking away residual thoughts of sparks and smoke, I look at my twin brother. Jameson’s haggard face bespeaks his sleepless worry, his eyes rimmed with red and underscored with shadow. The stress of my accident has triggered his insomnia.

  Our demons exact different prices.

  “I’m sorry,” my voice whispers between us, a vibration divorced from meaning. I don’t feel remorse, and he knows it.

  Cold fingers descend onto mine, which clamp harder on the padded armrest.

  “This place comes highly recommended. Secure and private. You’ll be well cared for.”

  His voice, unlike mine, holds some semblance of emotion. Pleading, perhaps. A thin veil of grief. Or is it relief?

  I don’t know why I bother, but I try again. “It was an accident. My shoe—”

  “It’s all right.”

  I swallow the words on my tongue. Choke on the spike of disgruntlement. No one believes me. And I have no one to blame but myself—I’ve been courting danger with increasing brazenness since I was seven years old, when I broke my arm jumping off the roof.

  But the memory of the pain, even the initial searing jolt, has always placed a distant second to the transcendent feeling of weightlessness. For mere moments, I’d been free.

  There’s a soft knock on the door. An empty platitude, for it swings inwardly without delay. Jameson straightens from his crouch beside my chair, running fingers through his disheveled brown locks.

  “Time for a trim, J,” I murmur.

  He glances at me, eyes reproachful and amused at once, before facing our visitor. “Car’s here?”

  My father nods, gaze darting to me and away. His evasiveness doesn’t bother me—it isn’t anything new. He clears his throat, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob beneath his square chin.

  “Are you sure this place is better than… than a…” He doesn’t finish, but the words hang heavily in the air.

  Psychiatric hospital.

  Funny farm. Looney bin. Nuthouse.

  I almost laugh.

  Almost.

  “Yes,” answers my brother. His fingers twitch toward his head, but he stills the urge by tucking his hands into his pockets. “Their program has a ninety-four percent success rate.”

  I snort.

  Jameson scowls at me. He, at least, isn’t afraid of my stare. “It was a fucking nightmare getting you into this pl
ace, Mia. You have no idea the convincing I had to—”

  “Jameson,” snaps our father.

  My brother’s lips compress to a white line. At length, he expels a heavy sigh, tension unraveling from his shoulders. His eyes, though, remain fixed on mine, the blue depths clouded gray with emotion. Fear. Resentment. Hope.

  I look away first.

  Gripping both armrests, I propel myself to my feet. Dull pain radiates from my bruised shoulder down my spine, and my muscles blare a sharper reminder of my infirmities. The limitations of my flesh and bones.

  The constraints of gravity.

  Jameson reaches for my arm, but I jerk away, wincing as my shoulder protests.

  “Don’t be such a brat,” he says, but his lips are twitching.

  Fighting the familiar lure of our shared, twisted humor, I smirk. “At least tell me this place has good drugs.”

  He laughs, but it has an edge. “If by drugs you mean therapy, then yes. The best drugs on the West Coast.”

  I open my mouth for a waspish retort, but what comes out instead is a broken plea. “I swear, J, on Mom and Phillip, it was an accident.”

  My father makes a small noise. From the corner of my eye, I see him lumber from the room. Jameson stiffens beneath my words as if each one is a blow. His jaw clenches and unclenches as he struggles. He wants to believe me. It’s something.

  Just not enough.

  His shoulders sag. His eyes—so tired, the left eyelid twitching—find mine. “Do this for me, Meerkat,” he says softly.

  He has me.

  My molars grinding, I nod. “For you, Jaybird.”

  My gaze swings around the sterile guest bedroom a final time. My meager wardrobe is already packed, the single suitcase outside. The only remaining evidence of my stay is my cell phone sitting on the nightstand. The small fissures of its cracked, lifeless screen momentarily hypnotize me. A memory of the spiderwebbed cracks of a car windshield drift through my mind.

  Jameson takes two steps and snatches the phone, tucking it into the breast pocket of his blazer. My trance broken, I sigh. Now there truly is no trace of me left in my father’s Malibu house. Not that there’s ever been; his home isn’t mine.

  “Let’s go, Mia.”

  I wordlessly follow my brother from the room, down an airy hallway, across a tiled foyer, and into the golden, afternoon sunlight. Lifting a hand to shade my eyes, I pause on a terracotta step to stare at the heavily tinted town car. My suitcase is already in the trunk. The back door is open, held by the gloved fingers of a suited man. He’s nondescript in every way, his individuality no match for the crushing gears of wealth.

  I wonder if he knows I’m a fellow prisoner, or if he cares.

  Smiling tightly, I ask my brother, “Will the padded walls be fur-lined, too? Caviar and champagne before my daily shock treatment?”

  Jameson snorts, snaking forward to drop a kiss on the top of my head. I bat him away with my good arm, then walk toward the shadowed portal of the car’s back seat. I’m not scared, my steps even and steady. Just another day, another disaster.

  Nothing scares me anymore. Very seldom does something move me. Not beauty. Not death. Not pain. Not joy.

  I’m fairly positive my father thinks I’m a sociopath. The first diagnosis came from a psychiatrist who treated me at thirteen, after an incident wherein I nearly drowned. The second was screamed by a terrified maid after she found me juggling knives in the kitchen. The third and final judgement came from my ex-fiancé after I made a bonfire of his priceless record collection.

  Maybe I am a sociopath, but I don’t think so. I have feelings aplenty, just not fear. I love my twin, robust red wines, blueberry pancakes, and eighties flicks. And I even love my father.

  I loathe my ex and the dumb cow he screwed in our bed. I abhor the smell, texture, and taste of pickles. Baby animals make me cry, and there’s nothing funnier than crass jokes.

  See? Feelings.

  And I have a conscience. I don’t willfully hurt or manipulate others, unless they deserve it. I’m not crazy.

  Then again, crazy people rarely think they are.

  Sliding onto the smooth leather back seat, I duck to see my brother one last time. Shadows blanket me while sunlight highlights his handsome, weary face.

  Apropos.

  “Catch ya later, Alligator,” I taunt.

  His lips curve in a small smile. “In a while, Crocodile.”

  The door slams closed.

  2

  the stories we tell

  day 6

  There isn’t much to the story. My story.

  My mother and younger brother died in a car accident when Jameson and I were seven. Their deaths broke something fundamental in my father and he hasn’t been the same since. It’s nothing external. If anything, his career as a defense attorney took off in the years following the accident. But we lost both parents that day.

  Jameson and I are fraternal twins. It’s not as bad for him—he resembles my father. But I’m a spitting image of my mother, which is why my father can’t stand to look at me.

  Yeah, it’s fucked up that my father checked out emotionally from his remaining children after the death of his wife and son. It hurt as a kid, and occasionally still does. But as an adult, at least I understand where he’s coming from. He’s only human.

  My teenage years were tumultuous. I didn’t have an outlet for channeling my frustration and grief, not like my father did with work and Jameson with sports. So I ended up in a lot of trouble. Misdemeanor stuff and reckless stunts.

  My record, though, is squeaky clean. Special thanks go to Harrison T. Sloan, dad-of-the-year, and one of the state’s top defense attorneys.

  “And that’s it in a nutshell.” I end my spiel with a sigh. “Just a misspent youth that’s finally caught up with me. Sorry to waste your time.”

  I’m not actually sorry—I’m annoyed.

  This is the sixth day, my sixth private therapy session in which I’ve repeated the same damn story. Thank God there’s no therapy on Sundays; I might lose my shit.

  This time, there’s a ten-second pause, then the figure sitting in a leather armchair opposite me says, “Tell me more about your mother.”

  I uncross my legs, then recross them. The voice, dark and deep, ripples through the following silence. It’s not a voice easily ignored; neither is the attached body. I’ve always had a thing for men who wear glasses.

  I blow out a breath, wisps of hair riding the draft and tickling my cheek. “Look,” I begin, staring at my knees, “I already told you, I barely remember her. She sang a lot. Braided my hair. Read me bedtime stories. She died. It’s sad. There’s no drama there.”

  “Amelia—”

  “Mia,” I correct.

  Dr. Chastain is a consummate professional. His voice lacks any trace of irritation as he asks, “And what about your father’s second wife? Can we talk about her?”

  My startled eyes snap to his face. “How the hell do you know about Jill? What did that bitch say?”

  He’s unaffected by my outburst. An ocean of unflappability. “Ms. Richmond declined to speak with me, but their marriage and subsequent divorce is public record.”

  Pale blue eyes lower briefly to the notepad in his lap. I breathe a little easier without their attention.

  “I did find a picture of her just prior to the divorce.”

  Uh-oh.

  Long, elegant fingers lift a single sheet of paper, angling the printed image in my direction. It’s Jill, all right—with no eyebrows, her visible skin a mottled orange.

  I bite my lips.

  Dr. Chastain’s eyes narrow, flaring with something I can’t identify. If he wasn’t a robot, I might think it’s amusement. The image descends back to his lap. Rolling my eyes to the ceiling, I wait for the urge to cackle to recede.

  “You don’t deny you’re responsible for her transformation?”

  I shrug, lowering my gaze to his chest. Even under the disguise of suit and tie, I can tell he’
s extremely fit. Promiscuity has never been my drug of choice, but I’m still a red-blooded, twenty-eight-year-old female. And Dr. Chastain is a visual treat.

  Allowing my gaze to dip lower, I entertain the fantasy of riding him right in his weathered leather armchair.

  “Amelia.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Stop.”

  The command cracks like a whip. Heat sizzles up my neck and face. I turn quickly to look out the nearest window.

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  He sighs, leather creaking as he shifts in his seat. “Let’s stop for today.”

  I leap to my feet and am halfway across the office before he even stands. “Thanks, Doc. See you tomorrow.”

  The door closes on his reply.

  Releasing a full-body shudder of nerves, I pace down the elegant hallway toward the Fish Tank, the central hub of the U-shaped facility. The moniker derives from the floor-to-ceiling windows that dominate the northern and southern walls, as well as the multitude of discreet-ish cameras mounted across the beamed ceiling.

  Aesthetically, the space looks much like the lobby of a swank mountain resort, all rustic wood, low tables, and squat, understated furniture. But instead of trees and mountains outside the windows, there’s desert.