The Fall Before Flight

by L. M. Halloran

  I don’t feel the scrape of spiny desert brush on my ankles and calves. I don’t feel the burn in my muscles, working beyond the limits of their endurance. I don’t hear the footsteps racing after me, the voice calling my name.

  What stops me isn’t my protesting limbs, my wildly thrumming pulse, or the shoe I lost somewhere along the way. Not my screaming, gasping lungs. My burning, sand-scoured eyes.

  Not my breaking heart.

  It’s the chain-link fence around Oasis that brings me to an abrupt and painful halt.

  My fingers curl around metal links and my knees give out. I taste blood where I bit through my lip on impact.

  “Amelia!” An anguished, masculine yell.

  Sand flies up behind me as he skids to a stop. I feel the vibration of his knees hitting the earth. Fingers curl around my shoulders.

  “It’s okay,” he says between panting breaths. “I’ve got you.”

  The darkness funnels to dangerous density, spinning toward its target with poisoned tip. My body follows, a puppet to the primal demand. I register the blue of his eyes, tortured and red from the run. His handsome, flushed face. The perfect hair no longer perfect but sticking in all directions. The swipe of his tongue across a full lower lip.

  I lunge forward and kiss him. Hard enough that I feel the press of his teeth, the warm give of his dry lips. He gasps. I take advantage, driving forward, dipping my tongue into his mouth. Tasting him harshly, completely. Drinking him down.

  It’s seconds. A lifetime. Then his hands on my shoulders wrench me back.

  “No,” he says breathlessly.

  Another level of me breaks.

  I swing both arms, kick my legs, landing blows wherever I can reach as hard as I can. I’m screaming.

  “Liar! Fucking liar! Oh God, oh God. I wrote Daddy on his cup. I hadn’t even taken the test yet, but I knew. Goddammit!”

  Chastain finally subdues me by hogtying me with his arms and legs. I’m flooded with his scent. Hot, clean skin. The tantalizing musk of sweat.

  “Let it go, Amelia. Let it out.”

  I’m tumbling.

  Freefall.

  No parachute.

  I was on my way to my favorite gelateria, a couple of freeway exits away from Jameson’s. The night before, he’d joked I should name the baby Gelato or Gelata because I couldn’t go a day without the stuff.

  I was in a good mood. Singing along to a popular song on the radio. The windows were down, the sun shining.

  Brake lights. A chorus of honks. Screeching tires. Time slowing to a crawl. A white wall swinging across the highway several cars ahead of me.

  Nowhere to turn. Slamming on the brakes while cranking the steering wheel as hard as I could to the left. Spinning.

  Drifting.

  Impact.

  Pain. Both indistinct and sharp.

  “The only reason you’re alive today is because you turned,” Chastain says into my ringing ear. “That split-second decision caused you to hit the guardrail instead of the semi head-on.”

  “I should have died.” My voice is scratchy from abuse. Broken, just like me.

  “If you should have died, you would have. But you didn’t. You’re here. And you’re safe.”

  I laugh. A horrible, wretched sound. Leaning back—slowly, so he doesn’t think I’m going to attack him again—I find his eyes with mine.

  “Take it back, Leo.”

  He shakes his head, tears glistening in his eyes. Fire melting ice. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t.”

  This time the darkness is gentle, a sweep of silken feathers. Calm filters through me. And resolve.

  “Are we done for the day?” I ask blankly.

  He frowns concernedly. “Amelia—”

  “I said, are we done for the day?”

  He hesitates, torn, then nods and releases me. I reach for the fence and pull myself up, not feeling the bite of sharp metal links. When I’m standing, I look down at the man on his knees before me.

  “Congratulations, Dr. Chastain. You’ve won.”

  His brows pinch together. “Please, Amelia—”

  I cut him off. “Eleven days until you leave. Eight more days of therapy. Tomorrow we can talk about my stay in the hospital and what happened there. Then we can spend a few days discussing all the reasons why I shouldn’t blame myself. And finally, we’ll end on an uplifting note. The life I can rebuild when I get out of here.” I tilt my head. “Isn’t that your agenda?”

  He reaches for me, but I sidestep. His hand falls and he looks down.

  As I begin the long trek back to the facility, I call over my shoulder, “Don’t forget to make that appointment for surfing lessons. And for fuck’s sake, man up and ask the mother of your child to marry you.”

  Funny thing, the power of the mind to protect itself. Even funnier—the machinations of the heart. Between those two forces, how and where can the Self exist?

  My roommate in college was a meditation junkie, always going to retreats in the mountains and listening to podcasts from gurus around the world. I went to a retreat with her once at one of those campsites for the rich, with cabins and a full-service spa and a community hall for listening to lectures from highly paid speakers.

  Only one memory sticks out from that weekend, a few words spoken by a guest speaker. A Tibetan Buddhist, I remember his eyes most of all. Fathomless, dark. A calm lake under moonlight.

  After the lecture, I stood in line with fifty others to thank him. When it was my turn, I asked, “Where do I find myself?”

  He smiled and said, “Wherever you’re not looking.”

  At the time, the answer annoyed me. Why did spiritual people always have to be so fucking vague, smiling like they have a secret they’re not willing to share?

  I don’t have any answers now, even less than I had before. But at least I finally understand what he meant. Because now, right now—as I lie in the dirt behind my cabin watching the stars, as my mind sews itself back together—I’m not looking. I’m nothing.

  And I can feel it. What the Buddhist called No-Self. The acknowledgement that if all things change, and change is a constant, it follows that there can be no permanent, unchanging Self.

  I understand.

  I am changed.

  It hits me at 4:00 a.m. when I’m curled on my side in bed. My arms, tucked over my stomach, begin to shake. Then my legs, my shoulders. A soul-quake, tectonic plates of Self ripping apart.

  I’m only dimly aware of Tiffany and Kinsey on the bed with me, holding me between them and murmuring words of comfort. I hear Callum’s voice, too, threaded with worry.

  What’s happening to her?

  Should we get the doc?

  What if she’s having a seizure?

  “It’s not a seizure,” snaps Kinsey. There’s a gravity in her voice I’ve never heard. “She’s grieving.”

  Grieving.

  Such a small word. Such a commonplace emotion. We grieve everything, don’t we? Death. Time’s passage. The loss of an animal or person. The end of a favorite TV drama.

  But grief is a process. There are stages and adjustments and gradual acceptance. I robbed myself of the natural cycle. The rhythmic wave of loss—the pound, the push, and finally the soothing caress—is instead a tsunami blotting out the sky, tearing apart everything in its path. I can’t see anything; I feel everything.

  Scars rip open, and there, in the deepest part of my psyche, I see them. My mother and brother. Spaghetti crowning Phillip’s head because it was more fun to play with it than eat it. My mom’s laughter, bright and sunny, floating across the backyard as Jameson and I tried to teach Phillip how to do a somersault. A thousand moments, a thousand memories.

  Flashing lights.

  Caskets.

  My father’s hoarse cry.

  Jameson’s sobs.

  And now mine.

  The tsunami passes, taking parts of me with it.

  17

  the labyrinth

  day 12

  I do
n’t know whether Dr. Chastain expects me to show up to therapy today, but I do. I’m running on hate for the world and an hour’s worth of shitty sleep, but I have to see him. Need to see him.

  I shuffle into his office and fall into my chair. “Morning, Doc.”

  Concerned blue eyes scan my face. “If you want to take today off—”

  “Nope, I’m good,” I say quickly.

  I’m not good and probably look worse. Wrinkled pajama pants, a threadbare T-shirt and bedhead to the max. I can only imagine the dark circles under my eyes since I didn’t bother with a mirror.

  When Chastain doesn’t immediately speak, I ask, “What’s on the agenda today? More revelations? Hmm, let me guess—this whole place is really a smokescreen for a government-funded social experiment to determine…” I frown. “Ah, forget it, I can’t think of anything. My head hurts.”

  Chastain shifts, adjusting his glasses. “Would you like to go for a walk?”

  I tilt my head, considering. “Interesting tactic, Doc. I like it. Change of scenery to combat my present, negative associations with this office.”

  He’s silent. Watching me. Expression as gentle as I’ve seen it, without any expectations for my behavior. Today, I can do or say anything I want and he’ll let me. Well… almost anything. If I told him all the things I want to do to him, how I burn with the need for him to make me forget, he’d probably have me sedated.

  I drag myself to my feet. “Okay, let’s go. But I need to change.”

  Chastain stands as well, his gaze lowering to my feet. “I didn’t take you for a fuzzy-slipper kind of woman.”

  I snort. “Every woman is a fuzzy-slipper kind of woman.”

  Infinitesimal curve of lips. “Duly noted. After you, Amelia.”

  We walk side by side to my cabin, not speaking. Chastain waits outside as I trade pajama pants for cut-off shorts and slippers for sneakers. After tugging a baseball hat onto my head and grabbing sunglasses, I join him on the stoop.

  “Do you want to change, too?” I ask skeptically, eyeing his dark slacks, Italian loafers, and pristine white dress shirt.

  He glances at me. “I’ll be fine.” He nods toward the labyrinth. “Have you tried it yet?”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Walking in circles, going nowhere? Yeah, I’m pretty well versed in that practice.”

  He smiles softly. “I’ll take that as a no. Come on.”

  At the entrance to the labyrinth, he shocks the hell out of me by taking my hand. His grip is warm and dry; mine, I’m sure, is the opposite. In fact, I’m suddenly cold and clammy everywhere.

  “I don’t think—”

  “Labyrinths have been constructed and used since ancient times,” he says, tugging me forward. Since not following means releasing his hand, I let him guide me through the entrance. A brief squeeze of my fingers conveys his approval.

  As our footsteps find a matching rhythm, he continues, “They’re often confused with mazes, but a labyrinth is different. There is only one path—the one leading in is the same one that leads out. The inherent purpose of a labyrinth is to mirror and enhance a journey inward to the deepest parts of ourselves. Once there, we reflect, then travel outward with greater understanding of who we are.”

  “Sounds like New Age bullshit,” I quip, but I’m nevertheless seduced by his deep, calm voice and the steady press of his palm on mine.

  The labyrinth itself isn’t much to look at, basically a bunch of dirt molded into low borders around the curving path. In the center, there’s a single stone bench shaded by a massive Joshua tree. In spite of myself, the farther we walk the calmer I feel. Our progress inward slowly becomes less about the destination.

  “You feel it,” he says softly. “Your breathing is deeper and your shoulders have relaxed.”

  I angle a surprised glance at his profile, the small smile on his lips. Because I’m an ornery bitch, I say, “You know that exercise lowers blood pressure and produces endorphins, right?”

  His smile only grows. “Walking a labyrinth is symbolic. Yes, your body is responding to fresh air and exercise, but your mind is responding as well. It’s the mind that travels inward more so than the body.” Blue eyes flash to my face. “If you can, describe to me what you’re feeling right now.”

  Unable to summon a pithy response, I look down at the path under our feet. Small pebbles crunch under our shoes, and a delicate breeze combats the pressing heat of the sun. We’re alone out here. Alone in the world but together. His hand no longer feels separate from mine but like an extension of my body.

  “I feel…” I swallow hard. “Insulated. Like there’s a fog protecting me from how broken my heart is. It’s still there, this pounding ache in my chest, but I’m not overwhelmed by it.”

  “Good.”

  “All that can be explained by how little sleep I got last night,” I grumble.

  “Maybe, but does it matter? Why not simply embrace the feeling? You’re safe here, Amelia. There’s no judgement, no need for pretenses. Moving inward, toward the pain, might seem counterintuitive, but when we do we find that even the deepest grief holds a kernel of light. There is always the possibility of healing. Always.”

  We finally reach the center. Chastain leads me to the bench and we sit in the shade, unspeaking for long minutes. At length, he asks, “How do you feel now?”

  “Like I could sit here for the rest of my life,” I say honestly.

  He smiles, his gaze fixed in the distance. Our still joined hands rest on my bare knee. He hasn’t tried to release me and even if he did, I’m not sure I’d let him. His presence is the only force keeping me afloat.

  “Will you tell me a secret?” I ask, the words escaping of their own volition.

  Silence reigns for so long I almost take back the request.

  “I often think about what my brother would be like today if he were alive. If he’d gotten the help he needed. Sometimes, I have dreams about him so vivid that when I wake up, for a few minutes I think he’s still here.”

  The words filter through me like new snowfall, soft and delicate. “Another,” I whisper.

  “Most days, I have no idea what to say to you. None of my usual techniques have worked, which has been incredibly difficult for me to adjust to. I’ve never treated someone so completely impermeable and at the same time so transparent. And I’m deeply afraid it was too soon for you to remember. That I’ve caused you irreparable harm.”

  I lick my lips and taste the first wave of silent, salty tears. “If it were a girl, I was going to name her Julia, after my mother. A boy would have been Jackson. I never told Jameson because I… I had this feeling. This fear. I can’t explain it. Maybe it’s something all women feel when they have life inside them—this vague dread that something bad is right around the corner. I don’t know. But now, I wonder if that feeling was because I knew deep down I didn’t deserve something so amazing in my life. That it was going to be taken away.”

  The tears come harder. Silent heaves convulsing my torso. Chastain shifts, his fingers leaving mine, but before I can feel the loss, his arms come around me. I tuck my head beneath his chin and melt into him. The only safe place in my world.

  “I’m sorry, Amelia,” he murmurs. “I’m so very, very sorry. But you’re wrong. What happened was a terrible accident. You deserved that child, just as you deserve every happiness life has to offer. Someday, you’ll have it. I promise.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I rasp.

  “You will.”

  18

  cool waters

  day 15

  Two weeks after the accident, I woke up in the hospital. My multiple injuries on their own hadn’t been life-threatening, but I’d been kept heavily sedated until then. Apparently whenever they’d roused me before, I’d been extremely confused, easily agitated—read: prone to violence—and in general a pain in the ass.

  When I was lucid and mellow for a solid twenty-four hours, a kind-faced grief counselor told me the news of my miscarriage. Irreparable t
rauma. No heartbeat.

  I told her I had no idea what she was talking about—I hadn’t been pregnant.

  Afterward, Jameson came in and tried again to tell me what happened. He was crying. Sobbing really. So sorry for me because he knew how much I wanted the baby, even if it was douchebag Kevin’s. He wished he’d bought me extra gelato the night before the accident, when I’d made him run out to appease my craving. He felt responsible.

  Which was silly—I’d never been pregnant.

  There were times during my sojourn in the hospital that I doubted my sanity. The grief counsellor kept coming back. Every day, she’d sit quietly beside my bed. Every day, she’d tell me she was there to listen if I wanted to talk.

  If it hadn’t been such a deranged proposition, I might have decided I was the victim of an elaborate prank. Except broken bones aren’t funny. Neither is being told you miscarried your baby at eleven weeks.

  I really didn’t remember.

  When I was released, Jameson took me back to his condo. Now, I have a vague recollection of a bottle of pain pills. I took a lot of them. Too many. Mainly because I felt like I was dreaming and needed to wake up. Because everyone believed the same lie. I was sick of being treated like porcelain and I needed an out. Escape from this bad drama.

  Oops.

  “A suicide attempt isn’t an oops,” says Leo softly.

  Leo.

  I can’t think of him as Chastain anymore. Not since losing myself and finding myself and kissing him. He tasted like cool water on hot rocks. Burning stars in a freezing firmament. I can’t get the taste of him out of my head. Know I won’t—not for a long, long time.

  Nor will I forget the experience in the labyrinth yesterday. The exchange of secrets, the long walk into them and into him. My tears on his shirt and the imprint of his hand in mine. The long walk out, the pure exhaustion of having purged poison from a deep wound.

  I slept for fourteen hours straight.