|photo by Walter Randlehoff from Unsplash|
Lindsay extends her arm, and it's almost like she's asking me to take the joint out of her fingers. But then she pulls it back and exhales, sending a translucent cloud of acrid smoke in my direction. "I'd offer you a hit," she says, "But I don't think that's a good idea with your brain issues."
"You'd offer me a..."
I raise my arms above my head—because I'm having a hard time breathing.
There's a piece of paper, like a written procedure in the manila envelope Dr. Greene gave me at our last session. The acronym spells out a word I can't remember, but I know one of the letters is A—for accept or maybe acknowledge. My chest hurts but I'm not having a heart attack. This is panic. My body's fight or flight response to situation that's freaking me out.
It's uncomfortable, yes. Very much so. But I am not going to die.
"Ally, are you okay?"
Lindsay is standing right in front of me now. And I have to step back because she's too close. Because the smoke is all around her—it's around me, burning my eyes. "I can't...I'm not..."
I shake my head and turn away from her, wanting so much to run. But my legs are wobbly and the gravel pathway back to the street is peppered with fallen limbs and tree roots. I have to walk—carefully, so I don't trip and re-injure my stupid head. I focus on the concrete culvert, on the open space at the end of the tunnel, while I try to remember what else was written on that piece of paper.
"Ally! Hey, wait up."
Lindsay catches me easily. She grabs my arm and I yank it away. "I can't. Deal," I say, panting. "Smoking weed is...it's not a good idea for you, either."
"I didn't think you'd have a problem with it," she says. "You never did before."
I stop. Because I can't walk and process the thing Lindsay just said to me. I didn't have a problem before. With my little sister doing illegal drugs. "You were...doing this...before?"
And I knew about it?
"Hey, calm down," she says, holding up both palms to show me her hands are empty. The joint and the lighter are gone. But her eyes are narrow and her tone is judgmental. She thinks I'm overreacting.
Maybe I am.
This isn't the ten-year-old Lindsay who lives so vividly in my memory. I have to remember that she's a teenager now. This kind of thing happens all the time in movies and books.
I try to think of a specific example. Or an actual person I knew when I was the age Lindsay is now. Kara's older sister went to a lot of parties, and I'm pretty sure she experimented with drugs. But she was eighteen and a generally happy person. Lindsay is obviously troubled and she's out here doing this by herself.
"No," I say, shaking my head for emphasis. "The person I remember—the person I am right now—has a problem with my little sister smoking weed to escape. And I have an even bigger problem knowing that the person I can't remember, the Allyson in between, knew about this and didn't tell anyone. That's exactly why I don't want to talk to Samantha. I don't want to know that person—and I don't want to know this Lindsay."
My little sister flinches, takes a step back and crosses her arms like I've just punched her in the stomach. But then her expression morphs from shock to anger. Her features twist into disgust, so acute my stomach sours.
"That came out wrong," I say. "I just mean that I left Faircrest...I'm here because I want to help you. I think if we could spend some time together and get back to the way things were before the move, then none of this other stuff will—"
"What does that even mean, Ally? Who do you think you were in North Carolina, some sort of saint?"
"No, I... We were friends there. We watched out for each other, right?"
Lindsay presses her lips together. Her head turns away, but her narrowed eyes stay on mine. It's a look that echoes the question she just asked me. Except maybe with an expletive this time?
Yeah. She definitely added an F-bomb.
But then her arms drop to her sides. "If you really want to help me," she says, hands fisted, tone biting, "then promise you won't tell Mom and Dad what you just saw."
I shake my head, continuing my trek toward the street. I don't think I can make that promise. "You need help and I can't..." I stop walking. Trapped, because the concrete culvert comes up to my waist and the sloped banks on either side of it are canvased with loose gravel and mud.
It's an absurd overreaction, I know. If I can't decide which is the safest way to get out of a stupid ditch, then how am I going to fix what's wrong with my sister?
"It's not a big deal," Lindsay says, stepping first, onto the concrete pipe—which juts out, making a substantial ledge—and then onto the soft grass landing. She turns and offers her hand to pull me up. "Weed is practically legal now."
"Practically?"
"It's not legal in in every state, but—"
"Is it legal in this one?" I ask. "Is it legal for a fourteen year old?"
"Calm down, Ally. It was one joint and it's gone. I left it back there in the dirt. But if you tell Mom and Dad about this, it's going to be a huge problem—and I'm not talking about me getting in trouble. Things are different here. Mom and Dad aren't the same people they were. We're not the same family."
I lift my hand to say stop, give me a minute. And my sister agrees with a dramatic sigh.
Things are definitely different here—at this new house. In Virginia.
But the sky is the same: Carolina blue. The sun feels warm on my face. And when I walk back into that house I can't remember, my parents will be there. Dad, with his easy laugh and warm eyes, and Mom... She seems more nervous than usual, but that's understandable. It's just me and Lindsay who've changed.
She wedges a finger under her colorful collection of bracelets—and I catch myself, taking a step back. Because I'd forgotten about the word written on her wrist, and it's there again. In fresh black ink. Liar.
"You know about Dad's work situation, right?" she asks.
"Um, yeah. The new job that brought us here fell through."
"Mom wanted to move back to North Carolina. She wanted to put this house up for sale and go live with Grandma until we could get a new house there, but Dad talked her out of it. He promised to find another job here—and when he finally got an offer he turned it down. That's when the screaming started."
"Screaming?" I ask.
"They started arguing on a regular basis."
So. They were screaming at each other?
No, I don't believe that. My parents love each other too much to act that way.
"It was bad, Ally. There were weekends that Dad didn't even come home and Mom stayed locked in her room crying."
My sister is crying now. Silent tears she swipes off her cheeks. Fast, like she's embarrassed by them.
I drop my eyes to the asphalt, because I don't want her to see my distrust. My parents have disagreements but they don't scream. They wouldn't.
"You can't let on that you know," Lindsay says. "Mom told me not to say anything that might upset you."
Now that I believe. I'm pretty sure that's the reason behind the brush-off Mom gave me when I asked if we could try to get in touch with Kara. "Honey, it's been three years," she said. "There's a very good chance that Kara no longer feels the connection you're remembering."
"Ally," Lindsay says, her tone desperate or impatient. Or maybe both. "Mom will kill me if she finds out about this—and about the app. Please promise you won't let her figure out that it was me who showed it to you. Okay?"
Oh god, the app. I read something, a short conversation on a Saturday in May. I asked Samantha if I could come live with her because my parents were "at it" again. I thought that meant they were doing something embarrassing. Like when they used to do the synchronized mummy dance from a creepy song that was popular in the 1980s. But now, it seems possible that I wanted to escape because they were fighting.
"Whatever," Lindsay says, angry and disgusted. She tucks the speakers back in her ears one by one. And her face goes blank—the way it was earlier today after Mom walked into the yellow room. Except now, it's me Lindsay's shutting out.
"I have to fix this," I say. More to myself than her.
"What does that mean?"
That's a very good question.
Children react differently to stress than adults—according to Dr. Dabney. So maybe Lindsay is overreacting. This thing she just said about my parents is an exaggeration—it has to be. Mom and Dad love each other. And it makes sense that Lindsay might be overdramatizing things. Everything, because she's stressed out about my accident.
But I'm here now. I'm safe. And after a couple of weeks, she'll see that I'm okay. Mom will stop worrying and Dad will be Dad. Lindsay will be fine as long as I keep her from doing anything harmful.
Right?
"Lindsay," I say, stepping forward to put my hands on her shoulders. "I need to know you understand that smoking weed—out here alone—is not going to solve your problems. You need to promise me it won't happen again."
"Are you serious?" she asks. But then she sighs and says, "Of course you are," like all that venom and sarcasm just sort of...seeped out of her. "I'll do it. If you promise not to tell Mom and Dad."
"Fine," I say, because I don't want to push Lindsay any further away from me. "I'll keep your secret, but this has to stop. I'm here now. So if something is bothering you, we need to talk about it, okay? You have to let me help you."
She uses the tail of her T-shirt to wipe her eyes. And then she nods. I think.
"Was that a yes?" I ask. Smiling, because if I mentally block the sports-bra-covered boob flash she just gave me, she looks a lot like the little girl I remember.
"Yeah," she says, holding up her fist.
We do our secret fist-bump ritual. But this time, after the hand hug, I hold on. "I'm so sorry for the way I treated you after we moved here."
She tugs her hand out of mine and crosses her arms over her chest. "You need to talk to Samantha."
"Why?"
"She's your best friend," Lindsay says. Like it's some kind of sacred, universal truth that will explain everything.
"She's not, Linds. Not anymore, because I don't remember her. And from what I've learned so far, Samantha is..." She's connected to a version of myself I don't want to remember. But I can't explain that to Lindsay without showing her that pre-accident text message and I just...I'm not ready. "I'm going to finish reading the conversations first."
I give her a moment to object, but she doesn't. She swipes her hand through the air like she wants me to continue. But I don't have anything else to say about Samantha Zhao. "Right now, I just want to focus on this. On you. And I've only been here one day—not even a day."
God. It's been hours, but it feels more like a week.
"Can we just...like...put all of this on hold and go back to the house?" I ask. "I think I need to lie down for awhile."
Lindsay nods. And a single tear trails down her left cheek. I wrap my arm around her shoulder and head us both in the right direction. We walk that way, slow and cumbersome, but unified—until my left butt cheek buzzes and I have to drop my arm to dig out my phone. "This is probably Mom," I say.
"Don't tell her I'm with you."
"Lindsay," I groan. "Do you have any idea how awful that sounds?"
"Just please, don't text her back. Go inside and act like Dodge just dropped you off."
"What are you going to do?"
"Walk around the block and try to come down."
"Come down?"
"From my high," she explains.
"Oh, I know what it means. I just can't believe my fourteen-year-old sister is saying it for real."
And I knew about her drug use before my accident but didn't have a problem with it?
God. I hope that's an exaggeration too.