Adrenaline Crush

by Laurie Boyle Crompton

  “And your one-word description?” Miss prods.

  “Oh, um, I guess … just … fine.”

  “Fine?”

  “Yes, like, I’m going to be fine.” Miss nods knowingly, and I get annoyed when she starts to write on her pad. “I mean, I’ll be okay,” I tell her.

  “Now your word is ‘okay’?” she challenges.

  I nod and curl my hands into my lap. I dropped from “the one and mighty” to “fine” and “okay” with one bad climb. I picture Jay and straighten my shoulders. Things could’ve been much worse. There is nothing wrong with being “okay.”

  The gray-haired lady introduces herself as Rita and explains that she broke her shoulder and collarbone a year ago when she fell during a cross-country skiing expedition. She points to a scar running down her upper arm and explains she’s repeating a session here at Ulysses in order to get back full use. She flips a braid behind her back and churns her arm in a way that is actually pretty darn agile for someone her age. “See,” she says, “I can’t quite make it all the way around.” In spite of her incomplete shoulder rotation, Rita’s one-word description is “blessed.”

  “Hi, I’m Frank.” The blond guy salutes us with his stump and then quickly tucks it back into his lap. “As you can see, I lost my left hand.” He chuckles. “Sucks for me, I used to be a lefty.” Nobody works up a laugh in return. “Really, I’m doing okay. Was my own fault, to be honest. Texting while driving.”

  His blond hair flops as he nods. “I was sending a ‘That’s what she said’ to my buddy and the next thing I knew my delivery truck was rolling down an embankment. It crushed my wrist.” He rubs his stump. “Turns out, FedEx gets pretty pissed when you total one of their trucks. I already had a few warnings for messing up: bent packages, late deliveries, that sort of thing, but this was a whole new level of damaged merchandise.” Frank grins. “I guess my word for the day is ‘unemployed.’ But at least I’m the only one who got hurt by my stupidity.”

  “You think you feel stupid?” the scarred black guy says. “I got messed up because I was out hiking on a mountain during a lightning storm.”

  “You were struck by lightning?” I burst out, and a harmony of “ohs” spreads through the circle.

  “Yeah, well, the storm came on kind of sudden. I figured it would pass by quick. In fact, when I got struck I was still on my way up the mountain.”

  I feel an instant connection with this young man as he rubs his arms. In his scars I see another bad experience I’ve been chasing after. I’ve certainly been out hiking during thunderstorms. I picture my parents crying in the hospital and swear I’ll never climb a mountain in a storm again.

  “The lightning trashed my nervous system and my arms are in constant pain. It’s already kept me from planting season.” He tells us he had to hire someone to take over the work on his small organic farm this summer.

  Lightning guy tells us his name is Sam and his word is “Sparky” because that’s what his friends have been calling him since he was struck. Miss pipes in. “Sparky it is then! A new nickname is a great way to acknowledge and embrace the impact your injury has had on your life.”

  “Excuse me, Miss,” says the Asian girl. “I’m impressed with your reputation and success rate, but I’d rather not embrace any part of this.” She points to her eye patch.

  I nod my agreement.

  “Here at Ulysses Inner Outer Healing Center we believe in something called the Struggle Factor. I want to share a little story.” Miss leans forward. “There was once a young girl who happened upon a butterfly just as it was breaking out of its cocoon. The girl felt compassion for the butterfly struggling to get free so she helped it along. Once freed, the butterfly slowly stretched its beautiful blue wings back and forth.”

  Miss looks meaningfully around the circle. “When the young girl’s father came to fetch her for lunch she explained that she’d just helped the butterfly and was waiting for it to fly away. The father told her, ‘I’m sorry, but that butterfly will never fly.’” Miss pauses for dramatic effect. “He told her, ‘It is the struggle to free itself from the cocoon that strengthens the butterfly for flight.’ Her attempt to help the butterfly had, in fact, doomed it to die.”

  With that, Miss lifts a large glass pendant from her broad chest. A blue butterfly is sealed inside. “That young girl was me,” she says. “My father had the butterfly preserved and it now represents the struggle that each and every one of you must endure in order to free yourselves.” She holds the bright pendant up high and announces dramatically, “It’s a Ulysses butterfly. I’ve named the center after it.”

  “I suppose that explains the lack of a handicap ramp,” I say half to myself, half to Frank. He gives a short laugh and Miss seems about to say something when her attention is drawn to a young man quietly limping up the stairs.

  As he rises into view, the first thing I notice is the way his light blue eyes flash from his otherwise dark features.

  He struggles a bit with the steps, but his determination makes pity impossible. Not that I’m in a position to pity him anyway. I had a hard time getting up them myself and I had crutches and a hovering mother helping me.

  It isn’t until he nears the top that I see the metal rod sticking out of the right side of his shorts where his leg should be. Oh.

  I’m waiting for Miss to tear into him for being late. Instead, she gives him a smile as if she’s a tween fangirl and he’s her favorite pop star.

  “Pierce!” She stands up to give him a bear hug. “I was afraid you’d changed your mind.”

  “I’m not sure how much help I can be,” he says. “But I’m grateful to get more time on that equipment. Thank you.”

  “Everyone, this is Pierce,” she tells the group. “He’ll be assisting me.” To him she adds, “How nice to have you and Rita both back together.”

  Pierce gives Rita a friendly grin, and I feel annoyed that I got such attitude for being late. It’s not like I wanted a hug from Miss or anything, but come on. She and Rita are practically blushing at this guy.

  Slumping down in my chair, I cross my arms. Sparky stands up and shakes Pierce’s hand. “I saw the article in the paper and just want to say it’s an honor.” I look at Pierce more carefully but have no idea what Sparky’s talking about.

  “Sorry to disrupt.” Pierce takes a chair from the corner and haltingly drags it to rest beside mine. He sits down more gracefully than I managed, gives me a quick wink, and whispers, “I just couldn’t sit through that dang butterfly story again.”

  Without meaning to, I smile.

  6

  Unfortunately, Pierce’s arrival only interrupts the sharing circle for a moment. Miss turns to the Asian girl with the eye patch and barks, “You’re up, Polly.”

  Polly calmly tells us she’s furious about getting her back messed up and losing her eye. In fact, her one-word description of herself is “pissed.” I notice a thin pink scar dividing her perfect eyebrows and sneaking under her bangs and in an odd way I think it emphasizes her beauty.

  “My boyfriend and I were camping together,” she says in an even tone. “He’d crawled out of the tent and was off in the woods taking a leak when I woke up in the jaws of this giant black bear.”

  We give a loud collective gasp and Rita says, “Lord Jesus,” and crosses herself briskly.

  Polly continues with a grimace. “He ripped into our tent because my boyfriend had a fu—” She looks around at the group. “A … lousy bag of corn chips inside.” She describes herself freaking out as the bear swung her in the air, sleeping bag and all. She’d screamed and punched and kicked, but the bear wouldn’t let go. Finally, she went with her insane instinct to just go limp.

  Apparently that was what did the trick. The bear figured she was dead and let her be, but not before he’d twisted her spine, rupturing two of her discs and cracking three ribs. Not to mention clawing her head and wrecking her eye. Without emotion, Polly tells us how staying still while she felt herself being eaten a
live was the hardest thing she’s ever had to do.

  “My boyfriend got back too late to save me,” she says. “And the worst part is, I’m pretty sure he’s my soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend.” She gestures to her patch with more emotion than she’s shown the whole time. “One-eyed girls aren’t too sexy.”

  That’s the worst part? The guy dumping her? I make a mental note to not expect too much from Polly.

  Rita reaches over and pats her hand. “Don’t need more than half an eye to see that you’re beautiful.” She leans in and tells Polly, “If he’s making you feel ugly, then give the guy a little Motörhead.” Her voice goes deep and gravelly and she squints her whole face. “Tell him, you can go to hell.”

  I see Pierce trying to stifle a laugh. “Is she for real?” I ask him under my breath.

  “She loves ’80s rock, and calls herself a Jesus freak,” he whispers. “But Rita’s the most real person I know.”

  Miss slowly looks around, making eye contact with each of us. “In order to master your inner healing, you will—each one of you—need to face that thing that led you here. So, Polly, you’ll obviously need to get back out there camping in the woods.”

  “You’re joking, right?” Polly crosses her arms and juts out her delicate chin. “My boyfriend’s the one who was into camping and he’s never going again.”

  “It is a radical approach, I know, but nobody gets a Ulysses Certificate of Healing without completing their recovery assignment,” Miss says. “And I choose each challenge. Rita gets a pass since she successfully overcame cross-country skiing with the last group.”

  Looking around the circle, I try to figure out why any of us should care about some meaningless certificate of healing from this flaky woman.

  Frank holds his palm up at Miss. “So, I’ll be learning how to text while driving?”

  A few of us laugh, but Miss seems to consider his question. “No, but you will need to get comfortable back in the driver’s seat Frank.”

  “I’m perfectly willing to go hiking again,” says Sparky. “But I’d like to think I learned my lesson about doing it during a lightning storm.”

  “What do you think the odds are you’ll be struck by lightning a second time?” Miss says. “All of you are statistically less likely to suffer another life-altering traumatic event.”

  “So you’re saying it’s only one accident per customer? You’ve clearly never met my brother.” I can’t wait for Mom to get me out of here. Leaning over, I whisper to Frank, “You’ve got two good legs. You should run.”

  He tries unsuccessfully to hold in a chuckle as Miss turns on me. “What’s the matter, sweet cheeks?” she mocks. “You afraid your cheerleading skirt won’t look good with a big ole scar on your leg?”

  I spit out the word “cheerleading” as if it’s a phlegm ball and rise out of my seat until Frankenfoot drags me back down.

  Miss positions her body in my direction. “You can get mad at me if you want, but I’m not your greatest struggle factor right now. That bum leg of yours is.”

  “I can’t believe you think I care about some stupid scar!” I’m furious. “You don’t know anything about me. I used to hike and bike and climb all over these mountains.” I gesture toward the Gunks. “These were my mountains. So, yeah, I’ll always have a wicked scar running up my shin, but that’s nothing compared to all the awesome stuff I can’t do anymore.”

  Frustration stings my eyes. “What’s the point of all this if I can’t have my mountains? Now all I see is the long fall from every steep cliff.” I lower my voice. “That’s what crushes me. Not some stupid scar.”

  Pierce is watching me with a strange look on his face. I glare at him as if to say “And what the hell is your problem?” But he doesn’t drop his gaze.

  “And there you have it.” Miss grins at me. “Your recovery challenge will need to help you overcome your fear of falling.”

  I stare at her. “I’m pretty sure my aversion to falling is permanent.”

  Miss just ignores me. “We must all commit to supporting each other in inner as well as outer healing. That means, Polly, we’ll all join you on your recovery challenge in the woods.” Polly gives a snort as I try to imagine this haphazard crew camping in the woods together.

  Miss crosses her arms with finality. “It is the Ulysses way.”

  Polly says, “You do realize Ulysses is the dude who took ten freaking years to get home from the Trojan War, right?” I reconsider Polly’s potential as we pack up our inner feelings and head inside for the outer healing part of our session. At least this freak show is half over.

  We’re led through the glass doors off the deck and I take in the giant open floor space. Equipment that looks like it could be from some elaborate gym in the future is lined up along the varnished walls, and soft trippy music streams around us. We’re greeted by a skinny blond woman wearing pink workout wear and a matching glossy pink smile.

  She gestures toward the massive space like a game show hostess and announces, “Welcome to the Ulysses Outer Healing Wellness Center.”

  The pink Barbie doll glides around demonstrating how all of the equipment works. I can’t imagine what sort of hospital mix-up led to her and Miss becoming sisters.

  Pierce heads directly for a cluster of exercise bikes and mounts one. I watch him clip his sneakers into the pedals and start riding as if the bike can take him someplace he’s in a rush to be.

  Workout Barbie guides me to lie down on the mat and shows me a series of leg lifts and stretches that I’m supposed to do three times a day. “Envision healing. Envision strength. Envision power,” she chants in my ear as I obligingly do cheater sit-ups and envision quitting.

  When she leans over to help me change position, I notice a shirt tag peeking out from the back of her collar. It makes me almost like her for a moment until she introduces me to these hateful things called toe crunches. Breathing through clenched teeth, I focus on seeing Jay this afternoon.

  Time runs so thick in this place I feel like I’m stuck in a Jell-O mold. Looking around I think, Suspended with all the other fruits.

  I practically knock Mom over with my hug when I spot her talking with Miss out on the deck. Miss is doing a very nice job of pretending to be professional.

  “So, how was it?” Mom asks as we climb into the car.

  “Oh, I’m not coming back,” I say matter-of-factly.

  “Um, I’m pretty sure you are. I’ve put twelve weeks down on the credit card, and even with insurance paying half this place is pricey, Dyna, believe me.”

  I groan. I can picture her and Dad arguing over the cost in our crowded kitchen. Dad’s shop, the Tattoo Guru, is the most successful tattoo parlor in town, and Mom does nicely selling her sewn creations, but our normal budget does not include therapy sessions run by insane people. “I’m sure you can get a refund, Mom. This really isn’t my thing.”

  “Well, obviously it hasn’t been your thing, Dyna,” Mom says, laughing. “It’s not as if a person wakes up one morning and decides, hey, I’ve got nothing better to do. I think I’ll give physical therapy a shot.” The image of Rita with her gray braids flashes in my mind.

  “It’s not the physical therapy part that sucks.” I rub at the soreness in my leg. “It’s all that touchy-feely sharing-circle crap. Actually, it’s not even touchy-feely. It’s just … twisted.”

  “Twisted?” Mom keeps her attention glued to the road.

  “The lady running the place is nuts. She called me a cheerleader.” Mom snickers and I go on, “She expects us to all go camping with the girl who got attacked by a bear.”

  “A girl got attacked by a bear?”

  “Yes, and Miss won’t be happy until we all get eaten in the forest.”

  “You used to love camping when you were younger. Maybe you should open yourself to their methods. The article said they get the absolute best results anywhere.” She looks at me. “Don’t you want to get back to normal?”

  “Trust me. This place is not a gateway
to normal.”

  I launch in about Workout Barbie’s pink assault on my vision and Mom holds up her hand to stop me. “You want to avoid getting your ankle fused, don’t you?”

  “Of course, but…”

  “This place is your best bet.” Her lips are set and I see a flash of her old temper. “Subject closed. New topic.”

  We ride in silence for a time until I realize something. “Wait a minute. School starts back up in another month. They won’t excuse me from classes for three hours a day. I’ll never graduate.”

  “Actually.” Mom glances at me. “I’ve looked into homeschooling for your senior year and I think it could be a reasonable solution.”

  I try to imagine never going back to New Paltz High School as Mom explains that nowadays everything’s done online. “It will give you time to really focus on your healing.”

  I have to admit, a free pass from senior year does sound sort of awesome. No dealing with crowded hallways on my crutches. No dealing with crowded hallways period.

  But then I’ll be stuck at the Ulysses Center with all their inner-outer healing crap. I imagine myself sealed in glass, as helplessly trapped as Miss’s doomed blue butterfly.

  “Did you notice Miss Brauhn’s pendant?” It’s the type of thing Mom loves.

  “God, yes,” she says wistfully, as if that’s what convinced her the center is legit. “It was a perfect Karner butterfly specimen.”

  “You mean Ulysses, right? It’s a Ulysses butterfly.”

  “I think I know a Karner when I see one, Dyna. I’ve sketched enough of them.” Mom laughs. “They’re common around here, and you’d have to go to Australia to find a Ulysses. They look a lot alike, but that was definitely a Karner.”

  “Oh. Great.”

  Any hope that the Ulysses Center might not be a total waste of time flies right out the open car window.