The Fall Before Flight

by L. M. Halloran

  I frown as his words drop in the dark, deep well of my memory, and wonder if this explains why I hate rain and don’t associate sex with emotional intimacy. After all, it was raining when my mother and brother died and I lost my virginity to a stranger.

  What a mind-fuck.

  “Mia, why don’t you go next?”

  My head jerks up, my mind completely blank. I can’t remember what memory I was going to share.

  “What are you thinking about?” urges Ruben.

  I cross my legs. Then uncross them and bounce my knees. “The first time I ate kielbasa sausage. I got the stomach flu that night. To this day I can’t stand the sight of the stuff.”

  There are soft chuffs of laughter around me. Ruben’s dark eyes regard me knowingly; they don’t have the piercing power of Chastain’s icy blues, but they’re in the ballpark.

  “And what were you feeling the night you jumped into the pool after-hours with Preston?”

  I chew my lip. “Antsy. Hot.”

  “And?”

  I glance at Callum, who gives me a little nod of encouragement.

  I mutter, “Annoyed.”

  What I don’t say—can’t—is that I was out of my head with jealousy after seeing Nora blushing at a smiling Chastain.

  Stupid, Mia. So stupid.

  “Do you see any parallels in your life of similar occurrences?”

  I sigh, resigned. Of course I do. I’ve never been accused of lacking brain cells. Every time I’ve done something reckless, it’s because I’m feeling something I don’t want to feel. I don’t skydive when I’m happy.

  “Yes,” I answer, not elaborating.

  Ruben, either sensing my unease or that he’s not going to get more from me, shifts his attention to Preston.

  I listen to the rest of the stories with half an ear. Preston was caught jerking off in the shower by his dad, who told him he’d never fuck a real woman. Kinsey fell on her face during her first red carpet walk as a teenager and had to deal with weeks of tabloids exploiting the images. Callum was bullied at school for being too tall and skinny.

  Very different lives, same story. Shame, secrets, and humiliations that shaped our self-identities. That led us to starvation, self-harm—Preston showed me his arms—and love addiction.

  My personal poison doesn’t fit in any of the standard boxes, but it’s nevertheless real. A corrupt seed was planted in me on that rainy night when instead of crying from loss, I’d jumped off the roof and felt, for brief seconds, close to my mother and brother.

  Escaping reality is my ultimate high—chasing that elusive feeling until I achieve my goal. Freedom from memory. From pain.

  Do I want to die? No.

  Do I want to live?

  That’s harder to answer.

  By the time group therapy wraps up, a bad idea is firmly embedded in my mind.

  14

  scouring

  day 10

  At 9:00 p.m. on the dot, the head of the cleaning staff, Margaret, meets me in the Fish Tank. She’s a no-nonsense woman with dark hair slicked back in a tight bun and frown lines bracketing her mouth.

  Having clearly played this part in a resident’s punishment before, she gives me perfunctory instructions. Where to dump and refill the water—in a back room she unlocks for me—how much time I should spend in each area—twenty minutes—and a warning—she’ll be inspecting my work in the morning. She finally looks me up and down, huffs, and saunters away with the keyring at her waist jingling.

  I actually don’t mind the labor. It soothes the burn in my bones, though doesn’t entirely suppress it. By the time one hallway is done, and the Fish Tank’s floors gleam, I’m sweating, my hair curling damply against my temples.

  I’ve saved the final hallway for last. When I’ve mopped all the way from the locked door at the end—presumably the security monitoring station—to Chastain’s door, I stop and lean against a wall to rest. And, if I’m honest, to rethink my plan to pick the lock and find my file.

  My fingers toy with a set of hairpins in my pocket. Maybe I won’t be able to get in, my skills too rusty. Maybe the lock is too complex, its simplistic design merely camouflage to lure deviants like me.

  The desire to know the truth of my missing months battles an equally potent desire to leave whatever memories I’ve buried where they are.

  I stare at the door until the itch returns, driving me forward to press my ear against the wood. There’s no light on inside, but I’m not stupid. And thank fuck, because my plan turns to smoke when I hear his voice.

  “… I know it’s hard, Marianne… I’m sorry… Yes, of course, I’d love to talk to him.”

  There’s a long silence wherein I hear his muted footsteps pacing. When he speaks again, he’s so close to the door that I jump, my heart leaping to my throat.

  “Hey there, buddy… I miss you, too! How’s school?” Whatever is said makes him chuckle. I melt into the door as the rich sound flows through the wood.

  “You did? That’s awesome, Vince! I can’t wait to see you in action.” Another laugh. “I’ll get on a surfboard if you get on ice skates… Really? Okay, it’s a deal… I love you, too, and miss you so much, but I’ll be home soon, okay? Will you put your mom back on the phone?”

  My breathing is shallow and uneven. I screw my eyes shut, searching for a loophole, something to prove that what I’m hearing isn’t true. That Leo Chastain isn’t married with a child. But there’s no relief. Of course he named his son Vince, after his brother.

  “Hey,” he says softly. Intimately. He laughs. “Yes, I told him that. I’ll have to take surfing lessons so I don’t make a fool of myself in front of my kid… You think so? Well, I’d like to see you on a surfboard, too. It’s a date… Okay, give my love to Vince and Celia. I’ll see you guys soon. Love you, too. Bye.”

  My eyes are still closed, all of my attention focused on the piercing ache in my chest, when the wood beneath my ear disappears.

  I yelp, grabbing for the doorframe and missing, and land hard on my knees before Chastain.

  “Fuck!” he hollers. “You scared the shit out of me, Amelia! What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Kill me, I beg the universe.

  I’m ignored.

  I hazard a look up. “Do you know any cuss words besides fuck and shit? I can teach you a few if you’d like.”

  He grabs my bare arm and hauls me to my feet. I yank my arm away, and there’s a moment that he doesn’t let go, that we’re stretched apart like dancers.

  He releases me with a grunt, taking a step backward. The only light on in the room is the lamp on his desk, which wreathes his hair while shadowing his expression.

  “I’m going to ask you one more time: what are you doing here? Were you trying to get into my office?”

  “No need to shout,” I snap, moving to the side so he can see the mop and bucket. “I’m serving out my sentence for the crime of jumping into the pool.”

  His gaze dissects my flushed face, my damp hair, and my bare legs and sneakers.

  “Where did you go today?” I ask, when what I really want to ask is, Who were you talking to? Why don’t you wear a wedding ring?

  “None of your business,” he says, just like I knew he would.

  I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Okay, well, sorry for surprising you. I was just leaning against your door taking a break. No harm no foul.”

  My legs are half-numb as I move to collect the mop bucket. I make it two steps before his voice freezes me.

  “Amelia. Do you remember what I told you about lying?”

  I turn around slowly. It takes every ounce of control I have to merely raise my eyebrows. “That I shouldn’t bother because you’re a better liar than I am?”

  His frame fills the doorway, his face and eyes becoming clear in the hallway’s lights. I can’t decipher his expression, but his gaze is unnervingly intent.

  This man. This fucking man. Why does he have to be so goddamn beautiful?

  �
��I still haven’t forgiven you for your assumptions about Kinsey and myself.”

  I blink in surprise. “Okay.”

  Still with his eyes trained on mine, he asks, “Is your fascination with me due to the fact you can’t read me? That you can’t find any weaknesses to exploit?”

  I laugh to disguise my spiking blood pressure. “Good Lord, are you high?”

  “Answer the question, Amelia.”

  I glance down the hallway. Where the fuck is a bystander when you need one?

  I’m unravelling, on shifting earth. He’s too close to the truth. A truth I haven’t even admitted to myself yet.

  “I’m not comfortable with this conversation,” I say stiffly.

  “I’m not comfortable with you,” he snaps, then goes rigid, mouth thinned and jaw clenched.

  My eyes fly to his face. “What? What the hell does that mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  Anger is a hot, bright blessing, soothing away the rough edges of my emotions. I point a shaking finger at his chest. “Fuck that. Fuck you. I haven’t done anything to you. And trust me, there are about a million things I want—and could—do to you!”

  “Like what?” he bites out.

  I step right up to him, my face tilted just inches from his and my accusing finger wedged between us. “I want to ruin your fucking life!”

  His gaze flies over my face. “Why?” he asks mutedly, as though he really wants to know.

  Because I want you.

  Because I trust you.

  Because you see me.

  I take a shaky step back, then another, until a safe three feet separate us. Only then do I notice his hands clenched at his sides. The rapid rise and fall of his chest.

  Finally, I confront his eyes. And in them, my worst nightmare is confirmed. No longer ice, but fire—desire.

  “You don’t wear a wedding ring!” I blurt.

  He frowns. “I’m not married.” Then his expression clears. “You were listening at the door.”

  “Yes, dumbass,” I say belligerently.

  He shakes his head. When he looks at me again the fire is gone, and he’s once again the cool and collected Dr. Chastain.

  “This conversation is over. My personal life is none of your business, nor will it ever be. Please refrain in the future from eavesdropping on my private conversations.”

  The words are a bucket of cold water on my face and heart. Nor will it ever be. I can’t decide whether his proclamation makes me hate him or respect him even more.

  I nod rigidly. “Good night, Dr. Chastain.”

  With a final, searing glance, he kicks the door closed between us.

  15

  here comes the ground

  day 11

  Nineteen more days. Four hundred and fifty-six more hours. Seventeen sessions of therapy to go. Eleven of them with Dr. Chastain.

  For the first time since arriving at Oasis, I’m not sure I’m going to make it the full thirty days. I can’t shake a feeling of impending doom. It lurks around me, hiding just outside my peripheral vision. Biding its time before unleashing disaster.

  I can no longer clearly envision my life in the real world, though I suppose I wasn’t really living, merely sustaining the impression of life. I had fun in college, I think. Wild days bled into wilder nights. Concerts and festivals. Traveling in vans clouded with pot smoke. Dying my hair blue and piercing my navel.

  Drifting… Jameson my only anchor in the world.

  Empty inside.

  Alone.

  After college, I remember holding two or three odd jobs at a time to avoid asking my father or Jameson for money. Dingy apartments with peeling paint on the cabinetry. Then the craftsman Kevin and I had shared, before cheating and record-burning. After, homeless and crashing in Jameson’s spare bedroom. Feeling sick all the time, both physically and emotionally. Watching reruns of Battlestar Galactica and eating frozen waffles by the box.

  A human train wreck.

  What happened to me?

  “Can you share with me the last memory you have prior to March 3, 2016?”

  I pick at the frayed edges of my shorts, not looking up. Avoiding his X-ray eyes. Memory comes begrudgingly. Polluted. Distorted. Dug with pain from unyielding ground.

  “I woke up at Jameson’s. But I… I don’t know why I was there. I think I had my own apartment by then—it had been a few months since the breakup. I remember Jameson was getting ready for work. He made me toast. It had lots of nuts and too much butter. The smell made me sick.”

  Pen scratches paper. “You mentioned you’d been feeling sick after leaving Kevin. Did you ever see a doctor?”

  “No. It wasn’t anything, really. Dizziness. Fatigue.” I shrug. “Just… life catching up, I guess.”

  There’s a long beat of silence.

  “You look tired, Amelia. Did you sleep all right?”

  I’m so fogged, I can’t even muster anger. Of course I’m tired. Our confrontation last night is surreal in the light of day, but I hadn’t fallen asleep until four in the morning.

  I no longer know if the heat I saw in his eyes was real or not. For the last thirty minutes, there’s been no sign of it. Not that I’m looking—I haven’t looked at him once.

  “More bad dreams,” I answer noncommittally.

  “Anything specific?”

  I massage my temples. “Swimming in the middle of the ocean. Feeling tired, about to give up. In another one I was stranded on the side of a cliff with no rope. I must have been thrashing around or something, because my muscles were sore this morning. Oh, and eating an ice cream cone, only every time I tried to taste it, the single scoop fell into a dirty sidewalk gutter.”

  “What’s your favorite ice cream?”

  I blink, my eyes flickering up. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “Pistachio gelato.”

  Expensive fabric rustles as he shifts in his chair. “When was the last time you had it?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. A couple of years, maybe.”

  “Why so long? Why deny yourself something you love?”

  “I’m watching my figure,” I snap, though without heat. “Jesus, Doc, where is this conversation going?”

  Chastain sighs. “All right. Let’s refocus. Tell me a little more about Kevin. How did you two meet?”

  I groan. “This guy again?”

  “Humor me.”

  I inspect my fingernails, bare of polish and short. “He plays recreational ice hockey with my brother. Jameson was always inviting me to come watch their games. I always had excuses because who wants to watch a bunch of grown men reliving their college years?”

  Chastain makes a sound of amusement. “Go on.”

  “Anyway, I was bored one Sunday night and went.”

  “Do you have a weakness for hockey players?” he asks dryly.

  I look up, confused and startled, then remember telling him about Kyle, the Canadian hockey player I’d had a brief affair with.

  A wan smile cracks my lips. “I guess. Something about the aggression. And those big shoulder pads.”

  Chastain’s eyes flare with laughter. “So you met Kevin after the game?”

  “Yes. He asked me out. I said no.”

  “You said no?”

  I narrow my eyes. “Is there an echo in here?”

  He smiles slightly, conceding with a nod. “So I’ll assume he got your number, probably from Jameson.” At my nod, he continues, “And after going on a date with him, you refused his calls for a few weeks before finally answering.”

  I look away, ignoring the disquiet I feel at how well he has me pegged. Waving a hand nonchalantly, I motion for him to continue.

  “You gave him another shot. He wooed you. Chased you. You enjoyed being the object of his obsession. Were you planning on hurting him?”

  “Initially,” I admit quietly. “But he… we… everything about it was so normal, you know? I got used to it. Used to
how he treated me.”

  “Did you stop skydiving? Base jumping? Pushing your body to limits?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “Did you talk about starting a family?”

  I screw my eyes shut. “Yes.”

  “How did you feel about that?”

  “Excited.” The word comes out half-strangled.

  Chastain is silent for so long, I open my eyes to see if he’s still there. He is—watching me with patient, surprisingly kind eyes.

  “Had you stopped using birth control?”

  The question rocks me back in my chair. Memories clamor for attention, creating a collage of confusion in my mind. Leaving a drugstore with a brown bag. Stopping by Kevin’s favorite espresso bar to grab his preferred drink and a couple of pastries.

  Walking through the house with his drink, looking for him. Hearing the sounds no woman wants to hear. From our bedroom. In our bed. Running for the nearest bathroom. Vomiting up the bagel I’d had for breakfast.

  Darkness falls through me, snaking tendrils that dim my vision.

  “Oh, Jesus,” I whisper. “Oh, God, no. No.”

  “I think it’s time, Amelia.”

  His voice resonates oddly. My skin flutters, panic skating along my nerves.

  “I don’t… don’t remember.”

  “Yes, you do. You’re safe here. You’re with me.”

  With me.

  Inside me.

  Everything explodes. My mind. My heart. My life. I rock forward, clutching my head with my fingers.

  “I was… I…”

  “Yes,” he says gently. “You were pregnant.”

  16

  run run run

  day 11 - 12