Before You Go

TWENTY-SEVEN

I miss you.

Noah’s text comes in at two in the morning, less than an hour after he’s left my apartment.

It hasn’t even been an hour, I respond.

That’s too f*cking long.

I miss you, too.

I can’t get the image of you out of my head when you…you know.

Oh, God. Please do! I add, mortified.

Not a chance. You are so f*cking sexy.

Stop!

It is my mission in life to see that look again.

My cheeks burn. I’m actually blushing reading his text.

And again, he adds, in another message.

I giggle. What this guy does to me.

###

Noah doesn’t hide his disappointment when I tell him I have plans with Jules the following night. In fact, he demands all my remaining free time over the next week.

Of course, I comply.

Jules picks me up in her old boat, a beater really. I smile thinking what Mom would’ve said if one of my friends picked me up in a car like this in Illinois.

Priceless.

Jules waves when I meet her in the parking lot and clears a stack of papers off the seat. I open the passenger side door, but it’s a little sticky and it takes me a minute to get in. I shut the door and prepare for the stink of stale cigarettes and the clouds of smoke that usually accompany Jules. I’m pleasantly surprised when all I smell is citrus. Must be the lemon air freshener hanging off a knob on the dash.

“What?” I ask. “No smokes?”

“God, no,” she says. “Not in Stella.” She pats the steering wheel.

“Funny you care more about Stella than your own lungs,” I tease. “Now tell me where we’re going.”

“Well,” she says. “I think it’ll be easier to show you.”

She revs the engine and yells, “Hold on.”

I tell her I don’t like surprises, but she laughs me off before she floors it. The poor beater doesn’t respond. It jerks us forward and back trying to find a gear it likes before it can accelerate. When it does, I do hold on, gripping the door handle to keep from being tossed into the dashboard.

We’re silent the rest of the drive as we race cross the Mississippi before finally slowing to a cruise along the mansion-lined streets of Summit Avenue in St. Paul. We pass the governor’s house, weave through quaint little neighborhoods, and go by a bunch of mom-and-pop restaurants until Jules pulls in front of a place called Mud Puddle.

I eye the brick building dripping icicle lights. Through the windows I see a counter filled with coffee pots and espresso machines and people holding huge blue mugs. “So a coffee shop is what you were so secretive about?” I ask, a little disappointed. I guess I was hoping for a bit more excitement.

“Not really,” she says slowly. “It’s what’s inside the coffee house.”

Getting impatient now, I snap, “Spill it. What’s inside?”

“A support group for people with issues,” Jules confesses.

“What?” I feel blindsided. She is supposed to be taking my mind off my issues, not exposing them to a bunch of strangers.

“Tabby, please trust me,” she says.

There’s that word again.

“This might help. Give it a try, that’s all I ask. It’s not your typical group therapy.”

“Did you come here after the accident?” I ask.

“Ah, so he finally told you. I’m glad. And yes, this place—the people—helped a lot. Lord knows I couldn’t talk to Jenna. Foster was worthless. And Noah took her side.”

“I wish I could’ve been there for you,” I tell her, sad that she was all alone for so long.

“You’re here now.” She smiles.

“So, is anyone from school in this support group?” The last thing I need is to start the whole psycho-girl image on campus.

“No, but it wouldn’t matter if there were. What happens inside, stays there. I’d trust these people with my life. I have the same fears as you do, Tabby. I don’t want people from school to know about my problems. But I also know I can’t always deal with things on my own.”

I hate it, but I know she’s right.

“I thought these meetings were usually held in smelly church basements or community centers,” I say.

“Told ya, this is not your typical group environment.” She cracks open her car door. “Ready?”

I don’t answer. She doesn’t deserve an answer after this bait-and-switch. But I do follow her in.

Jules chats with the barista and orders two lattes. We hang our coats on the pegs in the corner while we’re waiting for the drinks. I scan the room for any group-type people, but don’t find anyone who fits the description.

“Two lattes, Ms. Jules,” the barista flirts.

Jules winks at the guy behind the counter and picks up the mugs. She hands one to me and says, “This way.”

We pass the chairs and couches, and walk down a corridor that takes us to another room. The back room. A guy greets us at the door, says hello to Jules and raises his eyebrows to me.

“PTSD,” Jules says pointing at me. Then she grabs my arm and pulls me in.

I will kill her.

“What the hell, Jules!” I say in a whisper shout, not wanting to create more of a scene. My teeth clamp together and my jaw is so tight it begins to pulse.

“Calm down,” she says, with her hands rubbing my shoulders. “It’s kinda hard core in here. I had to prove you belong. Look around. There are no doctors, shrinks, or professionals of any kind.”

She moves me away from the door as I survey the crowd.

I stare at a ghostly white girl in a black dress and penciled in eyebrows.

Jules whispers, “Hair puller.”

Then my eyes move to a super thin guy with a Superman belt buckle.

“Homeless,” she says, keeping her voice low so nobody else can hear them.

Next, I focus on a beautiful girl that could be my stepmother’s daughter, cocoa skin and big brown eyes.

“Pill popper.”

A redheaded guy with a mass of freckles.

“Bone breaker. Not someone to meet on your first day.”

A blonde pixie.

“Battered girlfriend.”

A tall jock girl.

“Sex addict.”

We continue all the way around the room.

The group is divided into three sections. The guys and the pixie huddle around a computer at the far end of the room, talking and pointing at the screen; a group of girls are on a couch watching TV; some of the others—the self-injury sect—are sitting at a table comparing what looks to be tattoos on their arms.

We join the tattoo fashion show.

Jules introduces me to the two girls, Becca and Reece, and one guy, Morgan, sitting around the table.

“We’ve decided to do The Butterfly Project,” Becca says. “Wanna do it with us, Jules?”

“Explain the rules of that one again,” Jules says.

“It’s pretty cool,” Becca says.

“First, you get a Sharpie.” She waves one in front of us. “Then when you feel like you want to cut, burn, take drugs, whatever your vice, you take that Sharpie and draw a butterfly on your arm like this,” she says showing us her arm. It’s decorated with two blue drawings of butterflies that sit on top of a mass of pink scars. “You’re supposed to name the butterfly after someone you love or someone who really wants you to get better. Then you let it live. You can’t wash it off; it has to fade on its own. If you do any bad behavior before it’s gone, you’ve killed it.”

“Ooooooh,” Morgan interrupts but everyone ignores him.

“If you don’t, it lives,” Becca goes on. “But if you have a bunch of butterflies, any bad act will kill all of them at once.”

“Massacre!” Morgan shouts.

“What do you guys think?” Becca asks looking hopeful.

“I’m in,” Reece says.

“Lame,” Morgan sings.

“Stop being such an a*shole, Morgan,” Jules says. “This is a no judgment zone. What could it hurt?”

Morgan shrugs.

“Okay, I’m in,” Jules says. “But instead of a butterfly, can I draw a dragonfly?”

“That’s the beauty,” Becca says. “You can draw whatever you want.”

Jules pulls up her sleeve and gets to work with the Sharpie and that’s when I see her burns.

I feel like the wind just got knocked out of me as I stare at her arm.

“My coping mechanism,” she answers my silent question. “We all have our secrets, Tabby.” She shrugs.

My heart hurts for her, but I understand.

Yes, we do all have our secrets.

“What about a piece of cheese?” Morgan asks. “Then when I cut, I’ll be cutting the cheese.” He laughs at his own stupid joke.

He’s the only one.

I don’t understand how he can be so nonchalant about the whole thing. Then again, it’s a little refreshing in an odd, deranged sort of way.

“Go ahead and make fun, Morg,” Reece says. “But this has worked for thousands of people, and it’s better than snapping those stupid bracelets all day. They do nothing but itch and trigger. Some of my worst times have been coming off those damn things.”

“I’m just not sure I want to stop,” Morgan says. “I was on this pro-SI site the other day, and they really had some good points, like—”

“Wait a minute,” Becca jumps in. “Pro-SI, like the pro-ana, pro-mia sites? As in, pro self-injury?”

“Kinda,” he says. “But listen, it’s not about competing with each other like those pro-ana freaks.”

“Do you realize you’re being a total hypocrite right now?” Becca asks. “The whole reason we’re here is to support and not judge other people’s shit.”

“Hold up. You are the one who jumped on my shit when I mentioned a pro-SI site.” Morgan gets in Becca’s face and they continue to argue. Jules looks over to the tall redheaded guy for assistance. They make eye contact and she waves him over.

“Guys, what’s the problem?” the redhead says, walking over to our table. “This is getting a little heated, wouldn’t you say? Don’t make me go all ‘Kumbaya’ on your asses.”

He looks at Morgan and Becca and tilts his head to the corner of the room; the three of them move away from the rest of us and talk it out.

I continue to watch, soaking it all in. Jules wasn’t kidding. This was not your typical group.

“Well, I think that’s good for your first time,” Jules says after we mingle awhile. “My whole point in bringing you here is so you know that you’re not alone. And if you want to get better, you need to have a safe place to go, people you can confide in. At least that’s how it is for me.”

“I’m glad I came,” I say, truly meaning it.

“Ready to go?”

“Just one second,” I tell her.

I walk over to Becca. “I’d like to do The Butterfly Project too,” I say.

“Yay,” she claps. “Welcome to our little dysfunctional group, Tabby.”

###

I thank Jules when she drops me off. I think she was right, I think this group could help me. All those broken people are bound to make a whole. And I think I’d like to be part of it.

When I get to my door, I’m greeted by a small gift bag that hangs from the knob.

I snatch it and look inside. There I find microwave popcorn, candy, and a DVD of Dirty Dancing.

Noah.

I hold the DVD to my chest and close my eyes. “This guy deserves a medal,” I whisper.

I flip my keys, wanting nothing more than to get inside and settle in to my favorite movie, when my favorite voice buzzes in my ear.

“I don’t think I need a medal,” Noah whispers. “But I know of many other ways you could show your appreciation.”

I turn to him, lingering in his warm gaze.

“Anything,” I say. “Just name it.”

“Better watch it.” Noah grins. “Or there will be no movie for you.”

I drag Noah inside and he busies himself with making popcorn while I set up the movie. Then he cuddles in beside me on the couch, placing the popcorn and candy in my lap.

It’s curious.

“How did you know I love Mike and Ikes?” I ask.

“From that first night,” he smiles, his eyes glossy, as if lost in the memory. “When I made you tea. There were like three empty boxes of them in the trash.”

Oh, this man. This beautiful, thoughtful, relentless, amazing man.

We watch the movie, eat popcorn and candy, and Noah patiently waits for the “nobody puts baby in the corner” scene.

Too bad we never make it to the end of the movie.

TWENTY-SEVEN

After my trip with Jules to the coffee shop of the down and out, I spend some time thinking about my own PTSD—it’s been a long road of being scared shitless, major depression, triggers at every turn, and completely mental behavior. I have to be getting to recovery soon. I don’t think I’m completely there yet, but I feel close. I feel the tear in my heart starting to scab over and heal. And though Noah is a big part of that recovery, Dad is the one truly responsible. The day Dad pulled me out of New Beginnings was the day he saved my life.

“Tabitha, honey, I’m here,” Dad said that day. His voice cracked and something inside me broke. We were sitting in my room at New Beginnings, my own little cocoon. I wanted so badly to reach out and tell him it was going to be okay.

I just couldn’t.

I don’t know if it was my brain or my body, but physically, mentally, I couldn’t. I was floating. In a fog. It almost felt good, almost like my world didn’t come crashing down a few months before.

Dad’s hand covered mine, but I couldn’t squeeze it. I looked at him, but didn’t quite reach him with my eyes. He talked to me in his gentle voice.

“Tab, you should really move your chair to the window,” he said. “The gardens outside are in full bloom now.” He moved to the ledge.

“Let’s open the window; I bet we can smell the flowers. It’d be good to get some fresh air in here.”

He tried opening it before he noticed the bolts. For a minute, he forgot. This wasn’t a hotel. It was the suicide ward for God’s sake, and there was no way they’d overlook the possibility of someone jumping out a window to finish the job.

“Okay, I have a better idea,” he said, completely struggling. The worry in his eyes slowly built to anger. “Let’s go for a walk.”

He no longer waited for a response from me. Instead, he grabbed my hands and pulled me to a standing position. The force upright gave me a rush. My knees buckled and soon I was sinking back into my chair.

“Goddammit,” Dad said under his breath before he left.

And I remember thinking, another one bites the dust.

Then I heard him.

“I want a complete list of the drugs she’s on and the schedule of when they’re administered,” Dad yelled. He was back. He didn’t leave. He was still there, screaming in the hall. Odd. Dad never raised his voice. The only other time I’ve ever heard a rise in his octave was when he found out about the scandal last year.

Outside my door I heard mumbles and shuffling, and then silence.

I was fascinated by the change in events, but I couldn’t stay awake. I closed my eyes and floated, waking on and off. Dad was still there. I heard his voice. It was comforting. Then I heard Mom’s too.

“Rach, what kind of backwards ass place is this?” Dad asked accusingly.

“New Beginnings came highly recommended,” Mom said. “We needed a place where she could have her privacy. There weren’t a lot of options.”

“Privacy for her or for you?”

“That’s not fair, Jake. You have no idea what it’s been like.”

“Maybe not, but this isn’t working. She’s so drugged up she can’t even stand. The windows are bolted shut; she doesn’t get any fresh air. She’s not healing, Rach. She’s slipping further away from us.”

“Well, what’s your bright idea? Because I am out of options. I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Mom’s voice was shaking.

“Everything I do is wrong. I’ve screwed her up so bad. I—”

My eyes started to get heavy again. I wanted so badly to stay awake.

“I’m not blaming you, Rachel,” Dad’s voice was kind again. “We just have to get Tabby out of here. I want to bring her home with me.”

The fog was too much to take, it swept in and pulled me under.

When I woke, a warm breeze washed over my face. I heard the squirrels running up trees. Leaves rustling. Birds talking. Cars moving. And the wheels of my chair squeaking as they rolled over the pavement.

I opened my eyes to a fuzzy rainbow imbedded in a sunray. I closed them immediately. It was bright and loud and real. I wasn’t floating anymore and I didn’t like it.

The ache came back so quickly and with so much force that it took my breath away.

“Stop,” I tried to yell, but it came out all wrong. There was no force behind my word—the first one I uttered in a month. My voice was rough. My throat was on fire. I ignored the heat and tried again.

“Stop, I have to go back,” I said.

Dad bent down in front of me. He held my hands. Kissed my cheeks.

I looked at him. Really looked at him, without the fog. The pain was back in his eyes. I struggled, trying to get out of the chair. Trying to get back to safety. I was too weak. Pain ripped through my body and landed in my heart. Pain I hadn’t felt in months. I couldn’t bear it.

“Honey, it’s the drugs,” Dad said. “It’s going to get better after we get everything out of your system, but it’s going to take a few days.”

He helped me into the car and buckled my seat belt.

“Amy’s putting your room together right now and getting everything you’ll need. Mom brought a lot of your stuff from home. She doesn’t want to be away from you, Tab, but she knows this is best. She’ll visit as often as she can.”

I was shivering and couldn’t stop. It was 85 degrees and I couldn’t get warm. Dad grabbed an old coat from the back seat and tucked it around me. He held a water bottle to my lips and told me to drink. That I could do, I knew how to follow directions.

I had a hard time comprehending his words. I couldn’t follow. It was the most I had to think in months. The most I had to feel. I focused on breathing and worked through the pain.

It hurt.

It hurt so bad I was sure I wouldn’t make the drive.

Dad jumped into the driver’s seat and pulled out of the parking lot.

And I threw up.