The Fall Before Flight

by L. M. Halloran

  My head shakes automatically. “What? No. Someone would have heard something. Woken up. Nix never said…” I trail off, feeling more than a few cards short of a deck.

  Nora clears her throat daintily, glancing at Chastain. Without looking up, he nods brusquely.

  Nora says, “The cabins are soundproofed but wired for sound in case of situations like these. Some of the most profound therapy happens during these hours. Kinsey’s progress over the past months has been extraordinary.”

  Dots connect into lines in my head. “The only reason I heard something was because the door was open.”

  Nora turns scarlet. “My fault.”

  My gaze veers to the bed, to Kinsey’s blankly staring eyes and tortured expression. “She isn’t awake?”

  “No,” answers Chastain in a clipped tone. Icy eyes meet mine; beneath the ice, though, there’s a firestorm. “Are you satisfied? If so, please leave.”

  Shame curls through me, shadowed by a strange sense of loss.

  I accused him of rape.

  “I… I—”

  “Don’t bother apologizing,” he says coldly. “Go.”

  I go.

  I dream of the day I died. Or rather, the day I wish I’d died.

  The sky is a pale, washed-out blue typical of Los Angeles. The air is warm and heavy, smelling of smog and wasted lives.

  Two caskets sit side by side, poised above the dark cavities that will house them forever. One full-sized, one child-sized. Their matching mahogany surfaces are so polished they catch the sun through the trees and send glare periodically into my eyes.

  The weather is a mockery. This isn’t real.

  Nothing’s real.

  “What does it feel like?” Chastain asks.

  He sits in the uncomfortable wooden folding chair to my left, dressed in a dark suit with a crisp white shirt. He’s not wearing glasses and his hair is mussed and natural, like he just rolled out of bed. No razor-sharp part in sight.

  I know I’m dreaming. He’s not really here. Neither am I—at least, I’m not here as I was, a seven-year-old in an ill-fitting black dress and shoes that pinched my toes. Shoes that were dug out of my closet from where they’d been gathering dust since Christmas. There hadn’t been time or the desire to buy new ones.

  I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly, then wipe damp palms on my knees. “Like emptiness.”

  “Is that what you imagine death feels like?”

  I glance around, seeing only blurry faces. Apparently as a child I hadn’t paid much attention to the other attendees. I briefly wonder why the two chairs on the other side of me are empty—on this horrible day, they were occupied by my father and Jameson.

  “Amelia?”

  “I don’t know what death feels like,” I answer belatedly. “I mean, not really.”

  “You’ve come close before…”

  I think of the Cave of Swallows and my malfunctioning parachute. The moments in which my backup chute hadn’t responded to my desperate tugs.

  “Weightlessness, maybe.”

  He nods contemplatively. “Where are your brother and father?”

  “I don’t know,” I say crossly. “This is a dream.”

  “Don’t you think it’s interesting they’re not here?”

  I tell Dream-Chastain, “I think I hate you.”

  He smiles like I’ve only seen him smile once before, at Nix’s farewell party, giving me a glimpse of a younger, more carefree man. Leo, not Dr. Chastain.

  The knowledge hurts for some reason.

  When I don’t speak, he says musingly, “Perhaps they’re not here because in this difficult time, you were alone. Left to process your feelings without the support of loved ones.”

  I smile tightly at him. “This dream sucks. Can you at least take your shirt off or something?”

  He chuckles, deep and amused. “No.”

  I throw my hands up in a wordless plea. “Fine. You’re right. My grandparents were all dead by this point. My aunts and uncles tried to help, but I wasn’t exactly receptive to sympathy.”

  “Why not?” He pauses. “You think you should have died instead of your mother and brother?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know.”

  “The rational adult says no, the emotional child says yes.”

  “Whatever you say, Doc.”

  He smiles again. “It’s not me saying anything, Amelia. You’re speaking to yourself through me. Your guilt has driven you to become the adult you are today. With no one to tell you as a child that the accident wasn’t your fault, you’ve carried misplaced shame all your life.”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” I whisper unconvincingly.

  “And if you’d been at the swim lesson with them?”

  Searing pain slices my heart. Words pour from me, unbidden. “My mom wouldn’t have panicked and left early when Phillip swallowed some water. They wouldn’t have been on the road when that dickwad decided to take a joy ride.”

  Chastain is silent for a long time. Long enough that I watch the shadowy funeral guests file past the caskets and leave. Long enough that I see the caskets being cranked gently into their earthen beds.

  Finally, he says, “It’s not your fault. I’m sorry no one was there to tell you that then. But I’m here now. And I’ll tell you every day until you believe it.”

  “Why?” I breathe, not even knowing the real question I’m asking.

  Dream-Chastain knows, though. “Because we’re only as sick as our secrets. It’s time for you to let someone else take care of them for you.”

  I close my eyes against a swell of tears. “I don’t trust you,” I mumble.

  I can hear the smile in his next words.

  “Yes, you do.”

  12

  growing pains

  day 10

  I purposefully sleep through my standing appointment with Chastain. I’m honestly not ready to face him.

  Embarrassed? Check. Ashamed? Check.

  I’m also weirded out by his starring role in my dream last night. It’s making me question things I’d rather not question. Like, what if the dream means I do, in fact, trust him? What do I do about my attraction to him? And the biggest mind-fuck of the bunch: am I actually attracted to him, or have I manufactured my obsession in order to place distance between us?

  Groaning, I roll out of bed and stumble into the shower. The hot water is delicious; I imagine it rinsing off the taint of last night’s mortification. I wash my hair three times.

  After toweling off and dressing, I give my wan reflection a stare. The woman in the mirror doesn’t look young. Sure, her skin isn’t wrinkled, and the spattering of prematurely white strands of hair are camouflaged by varying shades of blond, but her eyes are dark and haunted.

  Hunted.

  I’m being stalked by an unnamed beast. Ghosts and memories, both those accessible and those hiding beneath the fog of forgetting.

  When I leave my cabin around noon, I almost trip over Tiffany, who’s sitting cross-legged on my stoop. Her black hair is pulled up into a stump of a ponytail. Strands cling with sweat to her neck and around her pale ears.

  She doesn’t turn around when I close the door behind me. “Uhh, hello?”

  “I ate a whole pizza once,” she says in a flat tone.

  I blink. “Say what?”

  “A whole pizza, a pint of ice cream, and a super-sized bag of potato chips.”

  Oh Lord.

  It doesn’t take a genius to figure out which end it all came out. She must be here for an eating disorder. A girl I went to high school with suffered from anorexia; she was hospitalized multiple times and nearly died. I briefly wonder what happened to her. If she made it past twenty-five.

  My limbs strangely heavy, I walk slowly around Tiffany to see her face. It’s streaked with tears, mascara streaks fanning from her lower lashes.

  “Why are you telling me this?” I ask, forcing the accusation from my tone.

  I’m not heartless.

  She snif
fs. “I don’t know. I heard you last night—I’m right next door to Kinsey and you were”—a watery smile appears—“really loud. I heard how you put yourself on the line for her. To defend her.”

  I shake my head. “I was an idiot. It wasn’t what I thought it was.”

  “I know. I’ve seen Dr. Chastain and Nora go in a bunch of times.” She glanced up at me. “I don’t sleep well. I go for night walks sometimes. Don’t tell anyone.”

  “I won’t,” I say before I can even process the secret. The impulse to use it as a weapon is nowhere to be felt.

  She shrugs. “So, anyway, I guess I just wanted to, you know, talk to you.”

  I sit down, leaving a foot or so of space between us, and squint at the labyrinth. “Is that Kinsey?” I ask in stupefaction.

  Tiffany snorts. “She’s been doing it for an hour. Walking in and out, in and out. Maybe she thinks it’s a magic portal back to Teacup.”

  I bite my lips on a laugh. Tiffany studies me from red-rimmed hazel eyes, her lips teasing up at the corners.

  “So everyone thinks you and Dr. C. have a thing.”

  My ears ring and I tense. “We don’t. Not even a little bit.”

  “Why’d you jump into the pool?”

  “Because I could. What is this, twenty questions?”

  Tiffany pushes a few stray hairs from her forehead, her eyes steady on mine. Searching. Hoping. “Mia? Will you tell me the truth?”

  I look away. “About what?”

  “For starters, the pool.”

  This conversation is going downhill fast without brakes. I can feel the cliff coming. The jumping off point.

  Do I trust Tiffany? Hell with a capital No.

  But does it matter?

  “He scares me. So I wanted to scare him back.”

  I don’t filter the words. Don’t think about them. I just let them free from the lockbox of my head.

  “Dr. C.? Why?”

  She sounds truly surprised. And I suppose she would be—everyone loves Chastain, after all. He’s a goddamn wizard.

  I feel the muscles in my neck and back quivering with tension, and I know I’m not capable of sharing more. Not with Tiffany. Not with Chastain.

  Barely with myself.

  He sees me.

  Rather than give a bullshit answer, I say, “I can’t tell you right now.”

  Tiffany puts a small, delicate hand on my knee. “It’s okay, I understand.”

  Beating back a reflex to hurt her takes so much effort I feel lightheaded. “Thanks,” I choke out. “Can we, uh, pick this up later?”

  Tiffany nods, all sympathy and camaraderie. Like I give a shit.

  Do I give a shit?

  “I need some coffee,” I tell her as I stand, “then I have to take a lashing from Chastain for not showing this morning.”

  “He’s not here.”

  I freeze. “What do you mean, he’s not here?”

  Tiffany stands, too, lifting her arms and sniffing her armpits. The Crazy House dissolves polite boundaries like that.

  “My session is at seven thirty, so I’m the first every day. There was a note on the door that said he’d be back tomorrow, but he’d be watching the group session remotely. Basically, don’t fuck up.”

  “Huh,” is all I can manage.

  Tiffany jumps off the stoop and heads toward her cabin.

  “Tiffany?” I call out and wait for her to turn around. “Why were you crying?”

  I can’t see her eyes, which are shaded by her hand, but I can see the small lift of her mouth.

  “I’m six months without a relapse. I was feeling emotional about it, but after talking to you I feel better.” She waves and saunters off.

  Greaaat. In my experience, there’s only one surefire way a person feels instantly better about their problems—talking to someone who they think has bigger ones.

  With a sour feeling in my belly, I head toward the Fish Tank. As I bypass the labyrinth, Kinsey waves at me.

  “Hey, Mia! Charlene wants to see you.” She glances at her Rolex. “Right now. Better hurry! That bitch is mean.”

  It takes my brain a minute to remember why I knew this was coming.

  The pool incident.

  Kinsey walks on, a bounce in her step I’ve never seen until now.

  “Seems like everyone’s getting better,” I grumble and head inside to face the music.

  Charlene doesn’t bother disguising her satisfaction at having me on the wrong end of a disciplinary hearing. She, Frank, and the third group moderator, Ruben, sit behind a long table, while I face them in an unbalanced plastic chair that squeaks threateningly every time I shift my weight. It’s a petty tactic, but I have to admit it’s working.

  I’m literally and figuratively on edge.

  “… not what you did, but that you involved another patient. Inciting rebellion is a serious offense.” Charlene glares at me with righteous indignation.

  Frank and Ruben exchange a glance. At least I’m not the only one who thinks this is ridiculous.

  I swallow back what I really want to say to her. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  Apparently an apology wasn’t the right move. Charlene’s face darkens with an angry flush. I kind of wish my father were here. Dodging accountability is his specialty.

  Frank speaks up, “Thank you for apologizing, Mia. That’s a great first step.”

  Ruben nods in agreement.

  Charlene smiles. Not a good sign.

  “Unfortunately, actions have more power than words. To make restitution for your offense, you’ll mop the Fish Tank and adjacent hallways tonight.”

  I merely smile. “Sure. Sounds fair.”

  Charlene is seconds from a meltdown, which gives me immense satisfaction. She expected me to throw a fit. She thinks I should be horrified at the prospect of doing menial chores. That mopping a floor is beneath me.

  Oh, she thinks she knows me.

  How fun.

  13

  group insanity

  day 10

  It’s incredible that Chastain hasn’t mysteriously disappeared before now. Seeing four to five crazies a day, I’d need a break for sure. I do have to give the guy some credit, if not a healthy dose of respect. His schedule is brutal, but he’s never seemed distracted or tired. Frustrated, yes, but I think I might bring out the worst in him.

  He sees Tiffany from 7:30 to 8:30. Nix’s slot, from 8:45 to 9:45, is currently empty. I torture the poor doc from 10:00 to 11:00, Preston’s session is from 11:15 to 12:15, and Callum’s is from 1:45 to 2:45. Kinsey’s therapy is from 3:00 to 4:00, which I’ll admit annoyed the crap out of me initially. I thought it indicated preferential treatment. Having seen what happens to her at night, though, the scheduling now makes sense. Clearly the woman doesn’t get much quality sleep.

  Breakfast hours are from 7:00 to 8:30, lunch is from 12:30 to 1:30, and dinner is from 6:00 to 7:30. I’ve never seen Chastain in the cafeteria, so I imagine he eats alone in his office, munching on sad sandwiches while regretting all his life choices.

  Group therapy, where I’m sitting now, is from 4:00 to 5:15. An hour and fifteen minutes of forced conversation and bonding. As Chastain normally watches the sessions from his office computer, that means the man works from around 6:30 or 7 a.m. to nearly 6 p.m.

  Definitely not a life I’d relish.

  I pick at a hangnail on my thumb, thinking about what Tiffany told me—that Chastain is watching remotely—while our moderator Ruben gives us today’s group focus.

  “We’re going to take a journey today from the book of somatic therapy, exploring the interaction between mind and body in the context of the past. I want each of you to think of an event that occurred in adolescence, roughly age ten to nineteen. I’ll give you a few minutes.”

  Tiffany’s hand shoots up. “Like, what type of event? Something good or bad?”

  Ruben shrugs, smiling. “Whatever you think of first.”

  It doesn’t take long for a
memory to surface, one that makes me drop my chin to hide my smirk. I was a terror in high school, the queen of pranks. But I only ever targeted those who deserved it. Bullies. Snobs. Misogynistic pricks.

  The rest of the group fidgets and sighs as they dredge through their formative years. When everyone finally settles, it’s with expressions of embarrassment or discomfort.

  “Okay, who wants to go first?”

  We all trade glances, and Tiffany eventually raises her hand. Defiant tilt to her chin. Embarrassed flush on her cheeks. Not a good omen for what’s about to come out of her mouth.

  Ruben nods, and Tiffany fiddles with the multitude of earrings marching up the lobe of her right ear. “Okay, so, when I was twelve I got my period for the first time. I called my best friend and told her, and she said her mom told her that periods make you fat.”

  Kinsey and I simultaneously grunt in disgust.

  “Go on,” urges Ruben.

  “I asked my friend what I was supposed to do. She said her mom made her drink these smoothies the entire time she’s bleeding. So I got the recipe and started drinking them the next day.” She pauses. “All I wanted was chocolate and pizza for a week. It was the first time I realized how much control food had in my life.”

  Shifting on my chair, I decide for the billionth time that I fucking hate group therapy. I look at Ruben, waiting for him to warn her not to divulge details too near to her particular diagnosis, but he merely smiles.

  In a flash of understanding, I realize why Oasis has that particular rule—it makes us develop bonds and trust each other before we spill our secrets. Which given enough time is apparently a foregone conclusion.

  Clever bastards.

  “Great, Tiffany. Now I want you to think about what you felt during that conversation.”

  She licks her lips. “Hungry.”

  Callum laughs, but Ruben shoots him a silencing glance. “Go on.”

  “And, um, scared. I had cramps, too, so I was in pain.”

  Ruben nods sagely, glancing at each of us in turn. “I want everyone to think about this phrase: neurons that fire together, wire together. What this means is that when uncomfortable or traumatic moments in childhood are linked to an action—say, smoking a cigarette or eating or taking a drug—your brain wires itself to always connect those emotions to the corresponding coping mechanism.”