Page 55 of Nothing Less than Magic
This is when I know I’m in deep trouble. Even on a good day, I can’t walk a straight line or touch my nose with my eyes closed. And the worst part of all, is the gas station where I’ve chosen to park is on top of a hill, a steep hill, where a person can get altitude sickness just from looking down at the twinkling lights of Ghost.
I do my best to make a graceful exit, which is instantly blown by the fact that my wallet, registration, and license are all in my lap. I quickly bend down to pick everything up off the pavement when I nearly topple headfirst over my feet.
“You should know that I’m afraid of heights,” I tell the officer as I regain my balance.
“Right,” he says. “And you should know that I’ve heard it all before.”
“Look, I’m a licensed psychologist. Acrophobia is real. The DSM-5 defines it as an anxiety disorder. At least one in twenty people suffer from fear of heights; I happen to be one of them.”
“We’re not that high, Chelsea.”
The use of my first name catches me off guard. How did we go fromma’amtoChelseain under five minutes? I want to say, “We’re not that familiar with each other,” but decide it might antagonize him.
“Please take nine heel-to-toe steps, then turn around and come back to your starting point,” he says.
“Like this?” I successfully complete the first few before getting tripped up on my number. I can’t remember if I’m on four or five.
He stands there with his arms folded over his chest, no help at all. When I get back to my starting point, he asks, “Have you had any recent head injuries?”
“Why, yes, I have,” I say almost gleefully. “I was hit by a cable car.”
“Were you now?” He holds up a pen, taps the top, and starts moving it from side to side. “Follow the light, please.”
I do it, though it hurts my eyes and seems like it should be illegal, like it might cause vision problems later on in life. “Don’t I get a phone call or something?”
“For what?” he says, and sticks the pen in his uniform pocket. “Please raise one leg six inches off the ground and count in numerical order.”
I try, but wind up grabbing onto his shoulder for support.
He softens. “This one is hard for everyone. Some people just have crappy balance.”
“Don’t forget, I also have head trauma.”
“Yep, hit by a cable car. Where was that exactly?”
“San Francisco.”
“Right.”
“If you don’t believe me, call San Francisco General. Even better, call the San Francisco Police Department.”
“Leg, please.” He points with his finger for me to raise it.
This time, I switch to my right leg, and am able to hold it up without falling. I manage to count to ten before he tells me to stop.
“How many drinks did you say you had?” He squints his eyes, closing in on me like we’re in an interrogation room instead of a gas station on top of a hill.
“One,” I say.
He gives me a hard look.
“Two, maybe.”
“Is that such a good idea? You know, with your head trauma and all.”
“Maybe not.”
“I’m going to let you go this time. But I’m disappointed in you, Chels. I expected better. Your father expected better.”
