Before You Go

FIVE

The morning sunlight feels like it’s burning a hole through the window in my room and forces me to get up. My head throbs and I swear I can feel acid swirling in my stomach. That’s what I get for faking sickness. Now I have a real hangover to contend with.

I shuffle to my bathroom, cursing the mojitos that sounded like such a good idea last night. I should be used to it by now; I’ve been waking up like this on a regular basis ever since I moved into my new place. Still, my body refuses to get used to the booze and late hours. In the bathroom, I notice my belly is adorned with imprints from the button and stitching of my jeans. Something that tends to happen when you sleep in your clothes. My tank top still smells like stale beer and there are three little marks—hickeys!—running across my chest. A parting gift from…

Noah.

I mean…what’s his name.

There, that’s better. Names just make everything messy.

Though I push his name out of my head, it’s not as easy to push away the images of last night. The way he linked our hands together, and touched my skin, and kissed me so desperately I thought we might both die if we parted.

I put my cheery, yellow teakettle on the stove and sit down in the kitchen when more practical matters pull me out of my schoolgirl daydream. A pile of papers on the kitchen table calls my name, so I get to work. I start school on Monday and need to go through my class schedules, buy books, and get a jump-start on some of the coursework.

My hands go clammy just thinking about starting classes at the university—where my father just happens to be a professor—but I will myself back to work. Dad thinks I’m getting better and I need to play along or it’s back to lockup for me. So I’ve made a deal with myself, complete with goals and objectives. My shrink would be so proud. D-Day is this Monday. No more depression, or drinking, or men. And absolutely no more acting like a total head case. It will be the first day of my new life, and I don’t think it can come soon enough for my dad or for Amy.

Amy has been my stepmom forever. We’ve spent summer vacations and holidays together since I was eight, but living in the same city has made things a little awkward between us. She doesn’t quite know what to do with a full-time stepdaughter hanging around all the time. It’s like she’s secretly waiting for me to pack up my things and go back home like I’ve always done after my visits. Still, I think she’s amazing and as juvenile as it sounds, I’ve always wanted to be just like her.

If I was more like Amy, I could take responsibility for my actions and not apologize for them. I could make my own decisions and not be haunted by my mistakes. If I was more like Amy, I would not let a bunch of ignorant a*sholes rule my life and surely wouldn’t have let them chase me out of my home in Chicago. But let’s face it, I’m not Amy. I’m Tabitha Kelly, my mother’s daughter, and both Amy and Dad are afraid to do anything that might put Tabitha over the edge. So, they remain on suicide watch: hourly calls, daily check-ins, and regular inquiries into my therapy. I moved here more than six months ago and nothing’s changed.

It’s not all bad. I do have my own place now. The shrink gave me the okay two months ago. I was tired of putting Dad and Amy out. Plus, I need my own space for my…extracurriculars. Or so I thought. What was supposed to be my summer of sleepovers with random boys turned out to be a bunch of near misses—even with Holden.

Of course, Mom would’ve easily put me up in an apartment to keep me out of town, but I insisted on paying my own way. With the hush money from the settlement, finances are not a problem.

The kettle whistles and I move my achy body over to the stove to make some tea, hoping it will help soothe my stomach. Sitting at the distressed wood kitchen table I found at a flea market, I breathe in the earthy aroma wafting up from my mug. My new home is filled with similar treasures from junk shops and yard sales. It’s my absolute favorite place to be.

After the tea, I finally feel content enough to finish my work.

I’m taking four courses and an internship this semester. It’s beyond a full load, but I need to catch up after leaving school mid-semester last year. Plus, the internship is for the school newspaper—one of Dad’s responsibilities at the university. All I have to do is layout and an occasional photography assignment. It should be a breeze.

Too soon, my work is finished and so, unfortunately, is my distraction.

All alone, I move into the living room and cuddle up on the squishy couch. I love this couch and the soft blanket that’s always draped across it. At my old house, there were no squishy couches, and you surely weren’t allowed to cuddle there in the living room. Heaven forbid. No, there was no cuddling. We had sofas, bureaus, and glass tables—ivory, polished, and cold—meant to be seen, not to be used. I don’t think Mom would be a fan of my eclectic little studio apartment on the Mississippi River.

I settle in and the countdown begins: two days left of freedom. Then it’s back to the real world. On the coffee table next to me a stack of magazines wait to be read. I wade through Photography, Ms. Magazine, and Psychology Today—courtesy of Dad and Amy. Idle minds, you know. But the quiet is unsettling so I turn on the TV for background noise.

I’m flipping through the pictures in Photography, when I start to doze. Not sleeping exactly, more like daydreaming. Or remembering.

The memories never stay put, and when they surface, I feel the hole in my chest expand. Just like that, I’m back there at the house on Fawn Hill. They’re all there: Thomas, his friends, and Megan. I hear their laughter ringing in my ears. I want to leave, run away, and never look back.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

I blink awake, my heart pounding. I’ve been here so many times before. I pick up the magazine and try to ignore what’s going on inside of me. The pages blur and wave. Even when I refocus, they continue to move. Closing my eyes, I go to my peaceful place: my grandmother’s garden. It’s a trick I learned from my shrink to keep from slipping into a full-blown panic attack. I picture the white iron table and chairs on the old stone patio surrounded by clusters of spring tulips in bright purples, reds, and pinks. The lilac bushes and their perfume filling the cool morning breeze. The daffodils blowing their yellow trumpets and the purple iris standing tall behind them. Gran with her fresh-squeezed lemonade. I can almost hear her voice and feel the soft, paper-thin skin of her hands patting my cheeks. My version of heaven.

I feel better for a minute.

It doesn’t last.

I’m hot and sweaty. My bangs are matted to my forehead and my stomach churns. The hole inside is gaping, ready to swallow me. I stay in that frozen state for minutes, hours, maybe. I have no idea. An alarm is going off and I can’t seem to make sense of it until I identify the source. My phone. It reads: 11:00 a.m. Campus Tour

Shit!

I forgot all about it in my hung-over state this morning. Dad’s taking me around the campus today in…fifteen minutes.

The hardwood floors of my apartment creak as I race to my room. At the door, I bend over and try to catch my breath. This time it’s not because of a panic attack, it’s because I’m completely out of shape. My heart is ready to jump out of my chest. Pathetic. My old dance instructor would be disgusted with my current state of health.

I get dressed without collapsing, reminding myself to breathe along the way. I’m slow and sore. My muscles are now mush, much like my brain.

I make my bed and something on the table catches my eye. It’s a necklace. I lift it and a silver cross dangles from the bottom.

Holden.

He must’ve taken it off last night.

Dad announces his arrival with his signature five knocks. I’m not sure why, but I throw the necklace over my head, hiding it under my shirt, and run to the door.

When I open it, there is no evidence of my shaky physical—or mental—state. I look like any other twenty-one-year-old college student with my skinny jeans, ballet flats, and messenger bag.

“There she is,” Dad says, making his way in to plant a kiss on my forehead. Always the professor, he peers at me over his glasses. He is perfectly disheveled with his shaggy dark hair, wearing a cotton blazer that only partially covers his Tom Petty t-shirt.

“Hi, Dad.” I raise my voice a full octave and give him a warm hug.

“Big day. You ready?”

“More than ready,” I lie.

Gotta fake it, ’til you make it.