Spin A Novel

CHAPTER 17

It’s Going to Be a Bumpy Ride





On Day Twenty-four: Preparing for Your New Life, Carol raps on my door and introduces me to my new roommate, Muriel, the desperate housewife of some Internet CEO. Her three Louis Vuitton suitcases take up twice as much space as she does, her blond hair must come from a bottle, and every inch of her face has been Botoxed so that no wrinkle would even dare attempt to take up residence. She has a jittery, post-detox nervousness about her. My newly trained eye diagnoses her as a prescription-painkiller addict.

She takes one look at me in my patented rehab look (yoga pants, long-sleeved T-shirt, hair in a messy ponytail) and tells Carol she couldn’t possibly room with anyone, she needs total silence, she’s sure it’s crucial to her recovery.

“Muriel, I’ve already explained that you can’t have your own room,” Carol replies patiently.

“Not even if I pay double?”

“It’s not a question of payment—it’s part of the program.”

If her forehead was capable of a response, Muriel would be frowning. “We’ll see about that.”

Carol ignores her. “Katie, would you mind showing Muriel to group?”

“Sure, no problem.”

“I’ll check on you tomorrow, Muriel.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Carol leaves, and I watch my new roommate as she drags her suitcases toward the closet. She opens the door and recoils in horror.

“You’ve got to be f*cking kidding me.”

“Not what you’re used to, huh?”

She gives me a look that makes me feel unwelcome even though I’m the one who’s been living here for weeks. “Excuse me?”

“The closet. I know it’s pretty small.”

Her eyes become two narrow slits.

Wow. Her skin doesn’t move at all. How’d they do that?

“Let’s get one thing straight right now, Kristie.”

“It’s Katie.”

“Like I give a f*ck.”

“What the hell’s your problem?”

“My problem is I don’t want to have a little chitchat about your problems, or anything else. I just want to be left alone.”

I start to laugh.

Muriel looks pissed off. Or at least she would if her face could make an expression.

“What’s so funny?”

“I don’t know where you think you are, Garbo, but if you just want to be left alone, you came to the wrong place.”

“Do I have to room with her?” I ask Saundra the next day.

Muriel didn’t say another word to me the entire day. She spent a loud hour getting ready for bed (I counted three separate face creams, two toners, and several tweezing devices, and I wasn’t even paying close attention to what she was doing), then snapped off the light while I was in the middle of a graphic sex scene in one of the romance novels Greer sent me. And then, as I was actually about to drift off to sleep at a decent hour for once, she started to snore. And not some cute, feminine snore. No, sir. It was jackhammer, woodpecker quality.

“Is there a problem?” The corners of Saundra’s mouth might be twitching.

“Let me count the ways.”

Or maybe not.

“Katie . . .”

“Well, I’m never going to be able to sleep again, for one. She snores like a middle-aged man.”

“That’s not her fault.”

“Well, it’s not mine, either.”

“We could get you some earplugs.”

“She won’t even talk to me.”

“I’m sure she’s feeling very raw right now, Katie. Remember how you felt when you got out of detox?”

Damn straight, I remember. I felt elated.

“I guess.”

“And wasn’t it helpful having Amy to be able to talk to?”

“But Amy was nice.”

“And so are you. Remember, Katie, you’re Amy in this scenario.”

Right. How the hell did that happen?

“Does that mean I’m working the program well?”

She smiles. “I do think you’re making good progress, Katie, don’t you?”

“Yeah, things seem to be getting . . . easier, if that makes any sense.”

“It does. And that’s why I think you’re ready to go on today’s field trip if you’d like.”

“You mean, leave the grounds?”

“That’s right.”

Oh yes, I’d like.

I leave Saundra’s office so excited I skip down the hall to lunch. Henry, Amber, and Connor are already sitting at “our” table next to the picture window. It’s a perfect, sunny day, but I wouldn’t care if it were snowing.

“My therapist said something about that to me too,” Amber says after I tell them I can go on the field trip. “Apparently I’m showing ‘newfound respect for the program’ and am ready to move on to ‘advanced coping mechanisms.’ ”

I bounce up and down in my seat. “That’s great. So, are you going?”

“Calm down there, sister,” Henry says teasingly.

“Just wait until you’ve been here for as long as we have.”

“I’m pretty sure I won’t be squealing with delight, no matter how long I’m here.”

I punch him lightly in the arm. “Don’t be so sure.” I turn to Amber. “Will you come?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She watches Connor plow through a huge plate of pasta. “Can you go, Connor?”

“Doubt it.”

“Con-nor, don’t you want to go?”

“Am-ber, you know he’s not going to be allowed to,” Henry mocks.

She flicks him a look of disgust. “Oh, f*ck off, Henry.”

I tug on her arm. “Come on, Amber, it’ll be fun. Besides, we get to go outside the compound. Haven’t you been dreaming about it for weeks?”

“Well . . . when you put it that way.”

A smile breaks across my face until I catch Henry laughing at me.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he replies, but when he gets up to return his tray, he leans in and whispers, “You’re cute when you’re excited.”

Uh-oh.

Despite my excitement, I almost turn back when I learn where the field trip is going—to the mountain where my father’s the assistant manager.

I stand staring at the sign-out sheet, chewing the end of my ponytail in indecision. Amber comes up behind me.

“What’s the holdup?” she asks. She’s wearing a pair of biking shorts and a zip-up technical shirt covered with logos for French water.

How many suitcases did she bring with her, anyway?

“Oh, nothing, I’m . . . uh . . . just having second thoughts.”

She gives a snort of disgust. “You must be kidding. I’m only going because you talked me into it.”

“I know . . . it’s just . . . remember when we ran into my ex-boyfriend, Zack?”

“You mean when we hid in the bushes?”

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I’m trying to avoid a repeat, but I’m probably just being silly.”

What are the chances I’m going to run into my dad on that big mountain, right? It’s not like I’m going to stroll into his office or anything.

“Well, then, let’s get this show on the road.”

I scribble my name on the sheet with a sense of foreboding, then follow the group outside and clamber into the van. We sit in the backseat, while Candice sits in the front. Carol climbs into the driver’s seat and revs the engine.

“Why’d it have to be mountain biking?” Candice whines to us in her little-girl voice. “I’d kill for some good shopping.”

I snap. “Deal with it, Candice. You didn’t have to come.”

“You don’t have to be such a bitch . . .”

Amber hangs over the edge of the seat. “What are you even still doing here, Candice? Aren’t you ever going home?”

Candice turns her shoulders toward the window. “I’m not talking to you guys anymore!”

Amber and I roll our eyes at one another, and watch the trees and mountains passing by. The sun reflects off the rippling, dark water. I point out the trailhead where I started countless hiking trips with my family.

“Are your parents coming to that family therapy thing?” Amber asks. Day Twenty-seven: Advanced Coping Mechanisms also coincides with Optional Work: Family Therapy.

“No way. Are your parents coming?”

“Sure.”

“But I thought you hated them.”

“So?”

“So, what am I not getting?”

She glances at Candice, who’s still pouting out the window.

She lowers her voice. “I figure if I cooperate, they’ll let me out of here earlier.”

I probably shouldn’t get my hopes up, but . . . please, please, please let that be true.

“Got it.”

The van turns off the highway onto the road to the mountain, and a flood of memories hit me. Walking from the parking lot to the lodge, my skis a weight across my shoulder, trying to keep up with my dad. Turning through the same gates over and over again, trying to improve my time. Chrissie and I drying our socks by the roaring fire.

Oh my God. I think I miss my parents. I hate rehab.

Carol parks the van, takes us to the bike shop, and gives us strict instructions to meet her in three hours. With a final admonishment to “be good,” we’re free to go biking, hiking, or to walk into the bar on the top floor of the lodge. We could even thumb a ride out of here and never look back.

It’s good to have options.

It’s been years since I’ve been here. Thankfully, I don’t recognize anyone in the bike shop. Amber and I rent a pair of mountain bikes, grab a map, and decide to take the gondola up to one of the trails that will give us a great downhill ride rather than a huge uphill climb.

Our bikes are attached to a rack on the outside of the gondola, and we take a seat with a group of teenaged boys covered in mud. They start nudging one another and looking at Amber with wide eyes. As we fly up the mountain, I watch them, wondering if they’re going to work up the courage to ask if it’s really her. Amber seems oblivious, resting her chin on her arms and gazing out the window at the spectacular view of the mountains.

The gondola reaches the top, and the nudging and whispering among the boys increases.

“Do it, dude!” one of them hisses loudly.

As we stand to leave, the boy sitting across from Amber starts to talk to her in a stammering voice. “Um, excuse me, bbbutt, are yyouu . . .”

Amber smiles her dazzling smile. “That actress? God, no.”

We’re all surprised by her answer, and she takes the moment it gives her to grab my hand and pull me out of the gondola. An attendant hands us our bikes, and we follow the signs to the less scary of the downhill slopes.

“How come you didn’t tell them who you were?”

“Who do you take me for, Candice ?”

I chuckle. “I guess it must be annoying being recognized all the time.”

“Sometimes I like it. But today I don’t feel like dealing with a bunch of stupid boys following us around all afternoon.”

“I hear you.”

“Thanks for playing along.” She puts her helmet on and snaps the strap closed under her chin. “Ready to die?”

“Oh yeah.”

We mount our bikes and pedal toward the trail. It starts off gently enough, but after a few minutes the pitch increases, and I squeeze the brakes to slow myself down.

Not Amber. She lets out a wild “Aiiieeee!” and leans over her handlebars. The mud from her wheels sprays up and hits me in the face, muddying my goggles. I squeeze my brakes harder as I hit the mud patch, and my bike starts to skid.

Ah, shit!

I hit something, a root I think, and my bike leaps in the air. I let go instinctively, hoping to land on soft ground.

I slam into the trail and my bike shudders to the ground a few feet away. I lie spread-eagled on my back, barely breathing. I ache everywhere. I might be dying, and yet, I can hear the birds chirping, and a yelp of joy from somewhere in the distance.

Jesus. I wish I believed in God so I could pray to him, it, she, whatever, to take me away, and make the pain stop. But, I don’t. So, all I can wish for is that my brain does me a favor and checks out for a few minutes, at least until the medics arrive with their pain-relieving drugs.

Drugs. F*ck. I’m so screwed.

“Are you OK, ma’am?” a voice that sounds way too familiar asks.

I must be hallucinating. Maybe it’s a prelude to passing out?

I raise my hand to wipe the dirt from my eyes. I recognize the fuzzy shape standing above me, and now I’m sure, potential head injury and all, that I’m not hallucinating.

“Dad?”

“Katie?”

He kneels next to me and pulls my goggles gently off my face. And there my dad is, looking at me with concerned and bewildered eyes that are the same shade of blue as mine.

“Hi, Dad.”

Shit. Even talking hurts.

“Are you OK?”

“I don’t know.”

He takes off his helmet and lays it on the ground next to me. His hair is almost entirely gray; he looks older than he did four years ago.

“Can you sit up?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” my sister says, coming into view.

Looking at her is like looking at an upside-down image of myself. Same wavy chestnut hair, same slender build, same narrow nose. Totally different life.

I left. She stayed. I went to university in the city and racked up enormous debts. She went to the local college and put money in the bank. I dreamed about the size of my byline. She became a teacher like my mom and got a job at the elementary school.

Somewhere along the way, she also acquired an enormous chip on her shoulder, a chip I mostly blame on her high school sweetheart, Michael, who left her on their wedding day. Seriously. She was at the back of the church in her wedding dress and everything, waiting for the “Wedding March” to start playing. I had to tell her he wasn’t coming, that he’d run off with some girl he’d met at his bachelor party. Chrissie took it surprisingly well at the time, or so we all thought, but she hasn’t been the same person since.

“Hey, Chrissie.”

She looks away. “Don’t move her, Dad. She might’ve broken her neck.”

Does she have to sound happy about that possibility?

She pulls her cell phone out of the shoulder strap of her backpack. “Just stay still, Katie.”

She punches in a few numbers, then speaks to whoever answers in a crisp, authoritative tone, stating the nature of her emergency.

As I lie there, with my dad murmuring comforting words, some of the pain starts to recede. I breathe in slowly and fill my lungs. It hurts, but I’m no longer wishing to pass out. Mindful of Chrissie’s mention of a broken neck, I turn my head gently from side to side. It feels creaky but in one piece.

I put my hands on the ground and push myself up.

Chrissie snaps her phone shut. “Hey, I said stay still!”

“Don’t be so bossy, Chrissie.”

My father’s face contains that look of disappointment he always gets when we fight. “Girls, girls.”

I look down at my legs. They’re black with mud, but they both seem to be pointed in natural directions. I move them tentatively.

“Well, if you don’t care if you’re paralyzed,” Chrissie huffs.

“Thanks for your concern, Chris. Dad, can you help me up?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

He helps me get to my shaky feet. I push my hair out of my eyes, and take an inventory. Amazingly, except for a few cuts, a lot of mud, and the lump I can feel forming on the back of my head, I seem to be injury-free.

My sister looks at me like she’s inspecting one of her students for evidence of contraband. “So, what are you doing here?”

“Mountain biking.”

“You know what I mean.”

My mind starts to race. What can I possibly say except for the semi-truth?

I hate my f*cking life.

“She’s with me,” Amber answers for me, pushing her bike up to us. Her body is covered in mud, but she still looks like she’s about to shoot a cover for Outdoor magazine.

She looks me up and down. “Shit, Katie. You’re a total wreck.”

“Thanks.”

“You OK?”

“Just peachy.”

“That’s Amber Sheppard,” my sister says to no one in particular.

“God, Chrissie! Have a little tact.”

“Who’s Amber Sheppard?” my dad asks.

Amber smiles charmingly at Chrissie. “You must be Katie’s sister.”

“So they tell me. How do you know Katie?”

Amber turns toward my father. “And you must be Katie’s dad. I’m sorry. It’s my fault Katie fell. I was riding too fast.”

He smiles at me fondly. “Katie always did like going fast.”

Two fit, tanned guys in their mid-twenties in tight shorts and red-and-white shirts bike around the corner, skidding to a stop. One of them has a spinal board strapped to his back.

“Did somebody call for help?”

“She did,” Amber and I say together, pointing at my sister.

An hour later, I’ve been checked head to foot, taken down in the gondola (not something I recommend if you’re scared of heights), and had most of the mud cleaned off my face. Along the way, my dad finally clues into who Amber is, and my sister asks her enough personal details to give Saundra a run for her money. The only question Amber hasn’t answered is how she knows me, but I know it’s just a matter of time before that comes out. Sure enough, a few moments later, Carol walks through the door of the paramedics’ examining room.

I watch my dad’s eyes wander to the Oasis logo above Carol’s pocket and back to me. I take a deep breath, waiting for the inevitable.

“Katie . . . are you . . . working at the Cloudspin Oasis?”

Oh, Dad. Thank you for asking that first.

“No, Dad.”

“You’re a . . . patient?”

“What?” Chrissie sputters. “You’re what?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“You’re in rehab?”

I ignore my sister and focus on my dad. He looks incredibly sad, but not, you know, surprised.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“No way.”

I shoot her a dirty look. “Will you knock it off, Chris.”

“Sorry,” she says, sounding contrite but looking like Christmas has come early.

“For alcohol?” my dad asks.

“For alcohol,” I agree.