Page 45 of The Fall Before Flight

And I can feel it. What the Buddhist called No-Self. The acknowledgement that if all things change, and change is a constant, it follows that there can be no permanent, unchanging Self.

I understand.

I am changed.

It hits me at 4:00 a.m. when I’m curled on my side in bed. My arms, tucked over my stomach, begin to shake. Then my legs, my shoulders. A soul-quake, tectonic plates of Self ripping apart.

I’m only dimly aware of Tiffany and Kinsey on the bed with me, holding me between them and murmuring words of comfort. I hear Callum’s voice, too, threaded with worry.

What’s happening to her?

Should we get the doc?

What if she’s having a seizure?

“It’s not a seizure,” snaps Kinsey. There’s a gravity in her voice I’ve never heard. “She’s grieving.”

Grieving.

Such a small word. Such a commonplace emotion. We grieve everything, don’t we? Death. Time’s passage. The loss of an animal or person. The end of a favorite TV drama.

But grief is a process. There are stages and adjustments and gradual acceptance. I robbed myself of the natural cycle. The rhythmic wave of loss—the pound, the push, and finally the soothing caress—is instead a tsunami blotting out the sky, tearing apart everything in its path. I can’t see anything; I feel everything.

Scars rip open, and there, in the deepest part of my psyche, I see them. My mother and brother. Spaghetti crowning Phillip’s head because it was more fun to play with it than eat it. My mom’s laughter, bright and sunny, floating across the backyard as Jameson and I tried to teach Phillip how to do a somersault. A thousand moments, a thousand memories.

Flashing lights.

Caskets.

My father’s hoarse cry.

Jameson’s sobs.

And now mine.

The tsunami passes, taking parts of me with it.

17

THE LABYRINTH

DAY 12

I don’t know whether Dr. Chastain expects me to show up to therapy today, but I do. I’m running on hate for the world and an hour’s worth of shitty sleep, but I have to see him. Need to see him.

I shuffle into his office and fall into my chair. “Morning, Doc.”

Concerned blue eyes scan my face. “If you want to take today off?—”

“Nope, I’m good,” I say quickly.

I’m not good and probably look worse. Wrinkled pajama pants, a threadbare T-shirt and bedhead to the max. I can only imagine the dark circles under my eyes since I didn’t bother with a mirror.

When Chastain doesn’t immediately speak, I ask, “What’s on the agenda today? More revelations? Hmm, let me guess—this whole place is really a smokescreen for a government-funded social experiment to determine…” I frown. “Ah, forget it, I can’t think of anything. My head hurts.”

Chastain shifts, adjusting his glasses. “Would you like to go for a walk?”

I tilt my head, considering. “Interesting tactic, Doc. I like it. Change of scenery to combat my present, negative associations with this office.”

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