“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go home.”
Kathy’s PT Cruiser, fueled by the smooth tunes of Stevie Wonder, rolls between perfectly angled magnolias. From behind the aviators, my good eye dares the bright sun to finish what it started, to take the rest of my sight. But the sun doesn’t, because I don’t mean it, not really.
On a whim, I dig around in my bag for the Abilitol, pull it out, study it. For the first time, I notice the corner of the label is starting to peel back. I pull it off the rest of the way, revealing a slew of warnings, including the risks associated with taking the drug.
“. . . common side effects reported by users of Aripapilazone may include headache, fatigue, inner sense of restlessness, extreme nausea . . .”
Extreme nausea.
A dark corner of my brain shakes off its thick coat of dust and comes alive in the hopes of redemption. Could it be? Could my misplaced epiglottis be no more than a misprescribed drug? I see another list, this one related to the side effects of withdrawal.
“. . . possible symptoms of sudden discontinuation of Aripapilazone may include emesis, lightheadedness, extreme nausea, diaphoresis . . .”
Extreme nausea: a side effect of both taking the pill and not taking the pill. Like the virtuous villain, or the blemished hero, Abilitol is just another in a long line of grays.
I stare ahead, and, admiring the well-kept lawn, consider the madness of the world. Beck and Dad both blame themselves for what happened to their sisters. And they’ve spent years trying not to make the same mistake twice. But Dad is searching for something inside of me that may not have been there to begin with. And if he’s right—if there is some dark thing down there—I need someone on my team who understands the fictional side of life. Someone who understands the difference between suites and concertos. I need a bear in the office, not a snake in the grass.
I need a Makundi.
I unscrew the childproof lid, roll down my window, and hold out the bottle. I’m sure there are people out there who rely on Abilitol to get through the day. Hell, it’s probably saved lives. But thinking back to the last place I swallowed a full dose, bowing to the kings of habit on that empty bus in Jackson, I’ll say this: I’m seeing things much more clearly these days.
Slowly, surely, I tip the bottle upside down, emptying the pills right there in front of the militant magnolias. It may be difficult for a while; I may even go through withdrawal. I may need to call the Irish-in-hiding himself, the good Dr. Makundi, for a referral. But it’ll be worth it. Because this is my life, the only one I get. And if it’s a choice between a life Abilitoled, or a life full of Life . . . well, that’s really not a choice at all.
At the end of the long driveway, Kathy turns on the blinker and looks out her window. “Let me know when it’s clear on your end, Mim.”
God, that sky is a perfect cobalt blue. A natural, pure, new blue. I’ve never noticed how beautiful that blue is until now.
“Is it clear?” asks Kathy, still staring out the driver-side window.
I turn sideways in my seat, look at the back of her head, and realize—my stepmother is a complete stranger. I don’t know the first thing about her, not really. And I’ve never told her anything about myself, for that matter.
“Mim? We clear?”
I am Mary Iris Malone, and I see all things new.
“I’m blind,” I whisper. “In my right eye.”
Because sometimes a thing’s not a thing until you say it out loud.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Mom and Dad, for, among other things, showing me a functional family well enough to write a dysfunctional one. To the entire Arnold and Wingate clan—I would be lost without your patience and support all these years. I have the best family in the history of families.
Heartfelt thanks to my agent, Dan Lazar, whose editorial eye and literary prowess are unrivaled. To Torie Doherty Munro, Cecilia de la Campa, Angharad Kowal, Chelsey Heller, and my entire family at Writers House, I am forever indebted to you for breathing life into Mim.