The Fall Before Flight

by L. M. Halloran

  There’s no sign today of the uncertainty he revealed about my treatment. We’re back to business. At least on his end.

  When I don’t answer his leading statement, he eventually asks, “What do you remember next?”

  I sigh. “You.”

  He nods. “Do you remember where you were?”

  “UCLA. Psychiatric Unit.”

  Leo waits for me to continue, but I don’t. I know now why I felt an inexplicable bond between us. Not a magical connection or simply attraction, after all, but buried memory.

  We have a history, Leo and I. He was the Psychiatric Fellow in charge of my case at UCLA. Diagnosed me within hours. Discharged me three days later. Met with Jameson and my father and explained what was happening. That they shouldn’t push me to remember. That I needed support and normalcy. That the mind had a way of healing itself.

  Or, in my case, breaking itself.

  “Though it’s not unheard of for a patient to have both retrograde and anterograde amnesia post-trauma, your situation was unique. In most cases, memory of events prior to the trauma come back, while those after the trauma rarely do.”

  I understand what he’s getting at even though I don’t want to. “So you think I had some crazy form of denial, not amnesia.”

  “Yes, in a sense. The phenomenon is called confabulation. The accident triggered an exaggerated stress response. Coupled with your head injury, it’s likely your memory retrieval was blocked by an adaptive response to avoid stress.”

  “I love it when you talk smart to me.”

  His lips quirk. A tiny twitch. I hate that the sight of it warms the cold place inside me. Hate hate hate how his effect on me keeps growing day by day.

  “You lied to me,” I say mildly, staring out the window behind his desk.

  “You weren’t ready to hear the truth.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I pause, chewing my lip. “I still don’t understand why I blacked you out, too.”

  He shrugs. “The mind is a mysterious domain. It could be because you associated me with the trauma of taking the pain pills.”

  I frown and shift in my chair.

  “It makes you uncomfortable thinking about the attempt, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, yes,” I snap. “I really didn’t want to die. I didn’t think of it like that. I just wanted to wake up. I really thought that was the solution. Shit… I sound crazy.”

  “You shouldn’t have been discharged from the hospital,” he says gravely. “I’m sorry you weren’t properly diagnosed, Amelia.”

  I shake my head. “It’s not their fault. I probably looked and sounded normal. I’m good at hiding the crazy.”

  “You’re not crazy,” he says, then pauses. “Well, maybe ten percent or so.”

  I glance sharply at him. His eyes twinkle at me. Fuck. A smile teases my lips, the first genuine one in days.

  His eyebrows lift. “Now that that’s out of the way, let’s talk about why the accident wasn’t your fault, shall we?”

  I groan.

  Then I laugh.

  Smartass.

  “Did you hear?” asks Kinsey.

  “Hear what?”

  She glances over her shoulder, footsteps never faltering on the path of the labyrinth. We’ve been at it for an hour. I’m counting the seconds until she has to leave for her three o’clock therapy session.

  “We’re getting new blood today. They’re intaking him right now. Apparently he’s a real mess.”

  “Great.”

  She stops and I almost careen into her back. “You could at least try to sound excited.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “Why should I be excited? Whoever he is, he’s probably in a world of pain. None of us want to be here—you do realize that, right?”

  She glares. “If I didn’t like you so much, I’d think you’re a bitch.”

  “Ditto.”

  Kinsey laughs and gives me an impromptu hug. She’s a lot stronger than she looks, and I wheeze for air until she releases me. It’s almost painful to admit, but I actually do like her. She’s unabashedly… Kinsey. I still don’t know why exactly she’s here; I’m the last person who would try to pry it out of her, which is probably why she won’t leave me alone.

  “Oh! Gotta go! I want to grab a coffee before my alone time with Dr. Hotness.” With a giggle, she scurries past me in her espadrille wedges that likely cost more than I made in wages last year.

  Relieved to have an excuse to get out of the sun, I head toward my cabin. I veer aside at the last second when I see Callum and Preston playing checkers on the small stoop next door.

  Standing over them, I put my hands on my hips. “Seriously, you two? You’re stalking the new guy, aren’t you?”

  Preston grins sheepishly. Callum frowns at the checkerboard. “You bastard, you’re going to win again.”

  Preston laughs. “I write complex computer code for a living. Did you think I wouldn’t kick your ass at checkers?”

  Callum grunts. “I figured I’d at least have a chance.”

  I kick Callum’s boot and he snorts, then swings an arm out, grabbing my legs. I topple, screeching, but moments later end up neatly deposited beside him.

  “Shhh,” he hisses. “Here he comes.”

  I turn and see Leo and Ruth, the other nurse, escorting a man out of the Fish Tank. Longish brown hair hangs around his downturned face, concealing his features. He’s almost as tall as Leo and walks with the confident gait of a mature man. One who knows how to swagger without looking like he’s trying.

  “Not a model,” whispers Callum.

  Judging by the tattoos covering most of the skin of his arms, I have to agree.

  “Why does it matter who he is?” I gripe, though I’ll admit, I’m intrigued.

  My gaze veers to Leo, his profile teasing me as he speaks softly to the man. The group passes the meditation garden, making their way around the labyrinth, and finally moves onto the path leading directly past us.

  “Definitely a musician,” murmurs Preston when they’re about ten feet away.

  Like he heard the words, the man looks up. Dark eyes land on Preston, snap to Callum, then zero in on me. They widen, then narrow.

  My ribs squeeze my next breath.

  “Uh-oh,” I whisper.

  “Mia?” he barks.

  “What the fuck?” whispers Callum, his arm tightening around me. “You know this guy?”

  I’m caught in the dark, angry stare, frozen with my eyes blown wide. Shame prickles down my spine.

  “Um, yeah,” I whisper. “His name is Declan Foster. We were… friends in college.”

  Leo saves the day, his hold on Declan’s tattooed arm firming as he guides Oasis’ newest addition past us and into the next cabin. Icy blue eyes spear mine, then disappear.

  When the door closes with a thump, Callum sighs. “It’s never dull with you around, Goldie.”

  “Har har.” I turn my head to meet his stare; something in my expression kills his humor. “Did the universe put a target on the back of my head or something? Time’s up, Mia, here comes Karma!”

  Preston’s soft, slightly awed voice interjects, “I remember who he is now. The guitarist of Amy Falls.” His eyes find mine over Callum’s shoulder. “Amy… Amelia…”

  I wince. “It’s a coincidence.”

  It has to be. Who names their band after someone they dated—in the loosest sense—for three weeks? Ridiculous.

  “Ridiculous,” I say aloud, just to confirm it.

  The majority of those three weeks were spent in a drug-fueled sex fest. Ten years later, I remember only the haziest details. Sure, I’ve thought about him occasionally over the years. Mainly when I heard one of his songs on the radio.

  “Whatever happened, he’s got a grudge,” Callum mutters.

  “We were kids,” I retort, but it only sounds like I’m trying to convince myself.

  Callum gives me a squeeze. “At least you’ve only got two weeks left.”

  Two weeks is a long goddamn t
ime.

  19

  smokescreens

  day 16

  “Do we have to talk about it?”

  “Yes, Amelia. It’s important.”

  My knee starts to bounce. I press my hand into the bare skin, driving my heel to the floor. “Fine. It hurts, Doc. It’s a cornucopia of fucked-up feelings. I want to cry and never stop, and at the same time I feel like I don’t deserve to cry.”

  “Why’s that?”

  I find his eyes. They anchor me; allow me to take a deep breath. Despite the chaos in my mind and heart, I do trust him. I might be a little in love with him, but I’ve come to terms with it. I’m likely not his first patient, or the last, to have these confusing feelings.

  “I made myself forget the baby to avoid the pain of losing…” I swallow thickly, “him or her. I feel guilty, like I gave up my right to mourn. It’s been almost two years.”

  “Why do you think time matters?”

  “It matters.”

  “What if I told you the pain of my brother’s death is still very much real for me? That you will always mourn, and miss, your mother and brother?”

  My shoulders tense. “I’d probably say it’s time to jump out of an airplane.”

  “Do you want to jump out of an airplane?”

  I sigh. “Leo, come on. Just because you cracked the nut that is my head doesn’t mean I’m a completely different person. Ten percent crazy still, remember?”

  He doesn’t smile. “Who said I wanted you to be different?”

  The dim bulb in my heart flickers, then dies on his next question.

  “Did Declan Foster want you to be different?”

  My knee stops bouncing. “I figured we had another day or two before he came up,” I mutter.

  He pauses, removing his glasses. I can’t believe he’s never realized that pulling off his glasses is his tell. Almost, I want to let him know. Maybe I’ll divulge the intel on our last day, when I don’t have to see him ever again.

  The thought hurts, throbbing dully somewhere in the vicinity of my dead heart.

  “It’s relevant now,” he says with a snap to his voice. “The monitors caught him coming out of your cabin in the middle of the night.”

  “Doc, are you jealous?” I ask, forcing levity.

  Frigid eyes narrow. “Do I really need to tell you how disruptive a sexual relationship can be to rehabilitation—both yours and Declan’s?”

  A familiar excitement courses through my veins. This is a game I know how to play, one that will hopefully take my mind off my own baggage for a little while. Leo thinks he doesn’t have any weaknesses for me to exploit? Bullshit. His weakness is that he cares.

  I shrug, smiling blandly. “What’s the harm in letting off a little steam? Declan isn’t like Callum. Sex won’t hurt him.”

  Leo sits utterly still, lips in a thin line. Finally, he releases a slow breath. The spark in his eyes fades. His shoulders relax.

  Dammit.

  I slump in my chair, defeated. “You’re a fucking fortress, Doc,” I grumble.

  He taps his lower lip with his pen, eyeing me. “I know you didn’t have sex, Amelia.”

  I huff. “No, you don’t.”

  “Declan told me this morning what happened. That he confronted you about what you did.”

  Jerk.

  Yeah, it hadn’t been pretty. The man carried a serious grudge about me disappearing after our fling. And disappear I had—giving him a fake number and skipping town. I’d just graduated and nothing was keeping me in the Bay Area anymore. But if our middle-of-the-night reunion was any indication, Declan and I have about as much potential as Kinsey’s failed acting career.

  We’ve both been through a lot in the last decade, and the sex-crazed maniacs we were in our early twenties are dead and buried—or at least whatever chemistry we had certainly is. He didn’t tell me why he’s in the Funny Farm except for a break from everyone. The yellow tint to the whites of his eyes nevertheless points to an addiction to drinks of the adult variety. He certainly wouldn’t be the first rock star to cross the line from parties to dependence.

  After he tore me a new one for disappearing on him all those years ago and I apologized, he cooled off enough to thank me for inspiring several songs. I didn’t bother asking what they were about—not hard to guess they weren’t the flattering kind.

  All in all, he was in my cabin for maybe a half hour. Once the past was out of the way, it became quickly apparent we had nothing to talk about.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache coming on. “I use people. You know this. I know this. What do you want me to say?”

  “You avoid emotional intimacy. Why?”

  My jaw clenches. “Oh, I don’t know… lack of examples in my life of healthy adult relationships. Romance books that offer unrealistic ideals. The media. My dad jumping in the sack with an endless stream of bimbos after Mom. Losing my virginity to a nobody, being cheated on, et cetera.” I jerk forward, jabbing a finger in his direction. “Or maybe I’m just a liberated woman. Why does sex have to be some big, emotional investment? Maybe you’re living in the wrong century, Doc. Slut-shaming is passé.”

  Leo regards me a long moment with something akin to tenderness in his eyes. Or maybe it’s pity.

  “Have you ever had sex with someone you love, Amelia?”

  “Yes. It was appropriately mind-shattering. Emotionally orgasmic.”

  He keeps staring, waiting.

  I glare back.

  Hooking the pen to his pad of paper, he drops both to the floor. The glasses follow, though more gently.

  “Can I tell you a story?” he asks softly.

  Bemused by the abrupt shift, I nod. When he starts talking, though, I immediately wish I could retract my assent.

  “When I was in graduate school, there was a woman in one of my classes. Beautiful and bright. She smiled all the time and every day had a different flower in her hair. I finally found the courage to ask her on a date. We fell in love. It was the best year and a half of my life until she dumped me.”

  I blink. “She dumped you?”

  He smiles wryly. “As I’m sure you realize by now, I’m not the most flexible or easygoing man. She was a self-professed bohemian. She’d decided to drop out of grad school and pursue a longtime passion for sculpting. And women. I was devastated.”

  I shake my head, dumbfounded. “Wait—women? Holy shit, that’s some serious drama.”

  He just smiles. “As far as breakups go, ours was amicable. How was I supposed to fault her for following her dreams? Or for that matter, realizing she preferred having long-term relationships with women?”

  I wince. “Ouch.”

  “Yes, well, I didn’t hear from her for close to a year. And when I did…” He falls silent, eyelashes dropping to shadow his eyes. “It was her partner, Celia, who made Marianne call me.”

  Celia… Marianne…

  I shoot straight in my chair. “She had your kid? Vince?”

  Leo nods.

  “She was pregnant when you broke up and didn’t tell you? That’s…” I pause, considering. As far as I know, Kevin still doesn’t have a clue I was pregnant with his child, however briefly. Before the accident, I was even seriously considering how I could prevent him from ever knowing.

  I finally admit, “I guess I can’t throw stones, can I?”

  Leo regards me knowingly. “Ask me if I regret having my heart torn out by Marianne. If I regret one moment of that relationship.”

  “I get it,” I say sourly. “You don’t regret opening yourself up to love and you scored an awesome kid out of it. Good on you, Doc. You’re emotionally stable. I bet you love after-sex cuddling and giving your lady foot massages, too.”

  “Amelia,” he says chidingly. “My point—as you know—is that I healed. Having my heart broken was the worst pain I’d experienced since losing my brother. But I healed. You can heal, too.”

  I can’t help but chirp, “Are you offering to heal me?”
r />   I almost miss it. But I don’t. The heated glimmer in his eyes. The sharp rise of his chest. The brief glance at my mouth.

  I really don’t know why I keep torturing myself. Or him. Or maybe I do—he’s my distraction. A fantasy rarely entertained and certainly unrealistic. Stability. Family. Love.

  Leo glances at his watch.

  I speak before he can. “Time’s up.”

  Nodding, he stands. I follow, my arm brushing the sleeve of his suit jacket as I pass him. My skin ripples at the intersection of our two worlds.

  Worlds that will never fully overlap.

  “Amelia.”

  I stop with my hand on the doorknob. “Yes?”

  “There’s nothing scarier in the world than intimacy. If you really want to conquer fear, show someone all of yourself.”

  I leave without answering.

  I already have.

  20

  basophobia

  day 18

  Friday afternoon in group, we’re told there’s going to be a special, surprise event that evening. Frank excitedly informs us it’s a tradition held every year on August 18. Why the specific date? Why, it’s Dr. Leo Chastain’s birthday. And what are we doing, you wonder? We’re going camping.

  Woo-freaking-hoo!

  Kinsey is horrified, Callum is stoked, Declan and Preston are indifferent. Tiffany asks for specifics like she’s plotting a bank robbery. I’m… eh. I actually enjoy camping, and given the money this place generates, I doubt we’ll be sleeping in tumbleweeds.

  Maybe if I didn’t think there’d be chaperones up our asses, I’d enjoy the idea a bit more. Roasting marshmallows around a campfire with Charlene the Shark monitoring our every word doesn’t sound anything like a good time, even if Chastain is there sans suit, looking all sexy and outdoorsy.

  “There’s a short hike, about three miles, to the campsite,” Frank continues, enthusiasm undimmed by our collective lack of it. “You’ll need to pack necessities for two nights in the wilderness. Prepare for high nineties during the day and potentially mid-fifties at night.”