Page 44 of The Fall Before Flight

I was on my way to my favorite gelateria, a couple of freeway exits away from Jameson’s. The night before, he’d joked I should name the baby Gelato or Gelata because I couldn’t go a day without the stuff.

I was in a good mood. Singing along to a popular song on the radio. The windows were down, the sun shining.

Brake lights. A chorus of honks. Screeching tires. Time slowing to a crawl. A white wall swinging across the highway several cars ahead of me.

Nowhere to turn. Slamming on the brakes while cranking the steering wheel as hard as I could to the left. Spinning.

Drifting.

Impact.

Pain. Both indistinct and sharp.

“The only reason you’re alive today is because you turned,” Chastain says into my ringing ear. “That split-second decision caused you to hit the guardrail instead of the semi head-on.”

“I should have died.” My voice is scratchy from abuse. Broken, just like me.

“If you should have died, you would have. But you didn’t. You’re here. And you’re safe.”

I laugh. A horrible, wretched sound. Leaning back—slowly, so he doesn’t think I’m going to attack him again—I find his eyes with mine.

“Take it back, Leo.”

He shakes his head, tears glistening in his eyes. Fire melting ice. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t.”

This time the darkness is gentle, a sweep of silken feathers. Calm filters through me. And resolve.

“Are we done for the day?” I ask blankly.

He frowns concernedly. “Amelia?—”

“I said, are we done for the day?”

He hesitates, torn, then nods and releases me. I reach for the fence and pull myself up, not feeling the bite of sharp metal links. When I’m standing, I look down at the man on his knees before me.

“Congratulations, Dr. Chastain. You’ve won.”

His brows pinch together. “Please, Amelia?—”

I cut him off. “Eleven days until you leave. Eight more days of therapy. Tomorrow we can talk about my stay in the hospital and what happened there. Then we can spend a few days discussing all the reasons why I shouldn’t blame myself. And finally, we’ll end on an uplifting note. The life I can rebuild when I get out of here.” I tilt my head. “Isn’t that your agenda?”

He reaches for me, but I sidestep. His hand falls and he looks down.

As I begin the long trek back to the facility, I call over my shoulder, “Don’t forget to make that appointment for surfing lessons. And for fuck’s sake, man up and ask the mother of your child to marry you.”

Funny thing, the power of the mind to protect itself. Even funnier—the machinations of the heart. Between those two forces, how and where can the Self exist?

My roommate in college was a meditation junkie, always going to retreats in the mountains and listening to podcasts from gurus around the world. I went to a retreat with her once at one of those campsites for the rich, with cabins and a full-service spa and a community hall for listening to lectures from highly paid speakers.

Only one memory sticks out from that weekend, a few words spoken by a guest speaker. A Tibetan Buddhist, I remember his eyes most of all. Fathomless, dark. A calm lake under moonlight.

After the lecture, I stood in line with fifty others to thank him. When it was my turn, I asked, “Where do I find myself?”

He smiled and said, “Wherever you’re not looking.”

At the time, the answer annoyed me. Why did spiritual people always have to be so fucking vague, smiling like they have a secret they’re not willing to share?

I don’t have any answers now, even less than I had before. But at least I finally understand what he meant. Because now, right now—as I lie in the dirt behind my cabin watching the stars, as my mind sews itself back together—I’m not looking. I’m nothing.

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