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“One more, then the torture’s over. I think you gave me some interesting moments, anyway.” As I sat up, Kai did, too, mirroring my position, knees knocked and toe to toe. Holden always took a different angle, he liked to keep an arm over my shoulder, protectively herding me into enclosures as he warded off all and any danger. But Kai met me as my equal.
Ever since my ordeal of recovery had begun, I’d had to hear the refrain about everyone’s confusion about that changeling self I was evolving into right before the accident. Holden, Rachel, my other friends, and my parents all spoke about it. How I’d been pushing them away. Leaving them behind. On this beach, with this guy, I knew that I must have been pushing in a new direction, toward another destination—and not just because I’d felt rebellious. I was acting on the impulse that Kai himself had spoken of, that evening when we’d huddled together in the cold-storage room. We both craved experience and variety and change. I, who’d been given so much, and Kai, who’d been given so little—we both needed something more, and we were going to figure out how to get it.
Kai had gotten me to remember that.
For a while we stayed out on the dunes, listening to the gulls, the tips of our ears and noses lightly frozen, the sea wind riffling over us until we were goose-pimpled and hungry again—and then at some point there was funnel cake and a burger that we inhaled with a shared bottle of water. I closed my eyes as Kai caught me and pulled me deep into the long grasses up the dunes. We knocked against each other, playful, then we quieted as we watched the sun burn off the end of the day.
The sea and sky looked like crumpled aluminum foil. I could feel my body’s familiar desire—insistence—for sleep pulling and enfolding me. It was only natural; I was healing, and it was safe here besides. I settled my cheek into the crook of Kai’s arm and stared out sleepily over the horizon. In my mind’s eye, the Volvo was a plastic toy pirouetting weightless over the bridge.
A moment of time, blink and gone. And yet nothing could have stopped it; the forward momentum of that car was its inexorable destiny, bridge to water, life to death. I let the icy what-if sweep through me, submerge me. I didn’t speak, didn’t move. Kai’s presence was indivisible from the air I breathed, and I couldn’t bear to say the wrong words, or any words at all. Not if it meant that I would break the spell.
24
A Fancy Way of Saying
I was home in time for dinner, though I wasn’t hungry. In the kitchen, I found a box of takeout pizza with two slices of plain cheese saved for me, plus a homemade three-bean salad. My parents were downstairs watching a movie.
When I joined them on the sectional, Dad scooted over and patted the space on the couch between them. “We just started, if you want to join,” Mom whispered with a tiny, hopeful smile.
As if everything was fine. As if they were completely relaxed that I’d taken the car out all day, and that I’d only answered their nervous, attempting-to-be-measured texts (such as Mom’s I hope you’re being careful, Sweetie) with the occasional one word (yep, ok, soon)—depending on the question.
I knew my parents better than that. They were in no way mellow about my falling off the radar. In my absence, they’d had discussions, they’d made a plan. And after the romantic comedy was over and I’d said my good-nights and retreated to my room and opened my email, I found my answer.
A note from Dr. P.
A note that had my parents’ agitated phone call to him all over it.
Hey, Ember—
Just checking in. Hadn’t heard from you in a bit. Happy to hear that you are continuing to make strides with rehabilitation. (Your mom keeps me posted.) And I wanted to congratulate you on getting behind the wheel again—that’s good forward initiative. I’m all for it!
At the same time, I wanted to take this opportunity to restate something we talked about in terms of maladaptive reaction. Which is just a fancy way of saying “not as easy as it seems.” Not that any of this is “easy” for you, but I think I should put you in touch with a wonderful cognitive behaviorist, who also happens to be a great pal of mine—Dr. Linda Applebaum.
Her office is right on Front Street, so that’s walking distance from you. She’s easy to chat with, and I think you’d truly benefit from a therapeutic alliance with her.
A professional analyst would be a constructive alternative to the well-meaning bias (hey, I’d even go so far as to say INTERFERENCE) of family and friends. I’ve spoken with Linda myself just this evening, and she’s got a great way of talking anyone down from a tree or out of a jam. She’s waiting for your email or call, so whenever you’re ready to do this on your own steam, she’s there.
Are you looking forward to Thanksgiving?
Best,
Dr. P
Dr. P strikes again. I could almost see him going through the first draft of this email, adding in all of those friendly parts, the “hey” and “pal” and those homey Lissa expressions “out of a tree” and “in a jam,” plus the end mention of Thanksgiving. The real question was: did my parents and Dr. P really think I needed a shrink, just because I’d borrowed the car?
I’d done therapy sessions three times a week at Addington. My psychiatrist there had been a really cool guy, Dr. Lawrence Lim. Everyone called him Laurie, which reminded me of Little Women. Who didn’t trust a guy named Laurie? And my Laurie was no different. We’d gone through some of my Anthony Travolo issues, my shock and guilt—though at some point I must have shut it down when I’d stopped talking about Anthony completely.
But now I pictured Laurie’s spotless office, his glass bowl of loose Starbursts, his comfy armchair that I always got to curl into with my handful of Starbursts and my daily troubles. I hadn’t thought much about any of that until now.
My parents were right. I was never going to talk with them about Anthony, or the night of the wreck. I’d always be rearing up and away from them. They didn’t know how to reach me, either, no matter how good their intentions.
“Sorry, just checking in. You need anything?” Dad might say, poking his head in my bedroom door. “Are you all right, Ember?” Or I’d wake to feel my mother’s papery hand on my forehead. Reassuring herself that her daughter was alive and breathing—and hadn’t slipped into another coma.
But I didn’t need a “therapeutic alliance,” either. I was doing all right. Didn’t today prove it? No speeding ticket, no fender bender, no side-of-the-road meltdown. Why would I need any more outside help than I already had? Sure, Rachel and I had hit a bump, but we’d repair. We always did. And Holden and I would never be less than friends.
