Page 1 of The Way I Am Now
EDEN
I’m disappearing again. It starts at the edges, my extremities blurring. Fingers and toes go staticky and numb with no warning at all. I grip the edge of the bathroom sink and try to hold myself up, but my hands won’t work. My arms are weak. And now my knees want to buckle too.
Next, it’s my heart, pumping fast and jagged.
I try to take a breath.
Lungs are cement, heavy and stiff.
I never should have agreed to this. Not yet. Too soon.
I swipe my hand across the steamy mirror, and my reflection fogs over too quickly. I choke on a laugh or a sob, I can’t tell which, because I really am disappearing. Literally, figuratively, and every way in between. I’m almost gone. Closing my eyes tightly, I try to locate one thought—just one—the thing she said to do when this happens.
Count five things you can see. I open my eyes. Toothbrushes in the ceramic holder. One. Okay, it’s okay. Two: my phone, there on the counter, lighting up with a series of texts. Three: a glass of water, blistered with condensation. Four: the amber prescription bottle full of pills I’m trying so hard not to need. I look down at my hands, still not right. That’s five.
Four things you can feel. Water dripping off my hair and down my back, over my shoulders. Smooth tiles slippery under my feet. Starchy towel wrapped around my damp body. The porcelain sink, cool and hard against the palms of my tingling hands.
Three sounds. The exhaust fan whirring, the shallow huff and gasp of my breathing getting faster, and a knock on the bathroom door.
Two smells. Peaches and cream shampoo. Eucalyptus body wash.
One taste. Stinging mint mouthwash with notes of lingering vomit underneath, making me gag all over again. I swallow hard.
“Fuck’s sake,” I hiss, swiping the mirror again. This time with both hands, one over the other, scrubbing at the glass. I refuse to give in to this. Not tonight. I clench my fingers into fists until I can feel my knuckles crack. I inhale, too sharply, and finally manage to get some air into my body. “You’re okay,” I exhale. “I’m okay,” I lie.
I’m staring down into the black circle of the drain as my eyes drift back over to the bottle. Fine. I twist the cap in my useless hands and let one chalky tablet tumble into my palm. I swallow it, I swallow it good. And then I down the entire glass of water in one gulp, letting tiny rivulets stream out of the corners of my mouth, down my neck, not even bothering to wipe them away.
“Edy?” It’s my mom, knocking on the door again. “Everything all right? Mara’s here to pick you up.”
“Yeah, I—” My breath catches on the word. “I’m almost ready.”
JOSH
It’s been four months since I’ve been back. Four months since I’ve seen my parents. Four months since the fight with my dad. Four months since I was here in my room. I’ve been home only a couple of hours, haven’t even seen my dad yet, and already I feel like I’m suffocating.
I slouch down and let my head sink into the pillows, and as I close my eyes, I swear I can smell her for just a moment. Because the last time I was here, she was here next to me, in my bed, no more secrets between us. And as I turn my head, I bring the pillow to my face and breathe in deeper this time.
My phone vibrates in my hand. It’s Dominic, my roommate, who practically packed my bag and dragged me out of our apartment and into his car to come home this week. I had to come home sometime.
His text saysI’m serious. be ready in 10 . . . and don’t even think about bailing
I start to respond, but now that my phone is in my hand and Eden is on my mind again, I find our texts instead, my last three still sitting there unanswered. I haven’t looked at them in a while, but I keep rereading them now, trying to figure out what I said wrong. I’d seen the article about his arrest. I asked her how she was handling it all. Reminded her that I was her friend. Told her I was here if she needed anything. I checked in a couple of days later, then again the next week. I even called and left a voice mail.
The last thing I wrote to her wasshould I be worried?
She didn’t respond and I didn’t want to push. Now months have passed, and this is where we are. I type out a simpleheyand stare at the word, those three letters daring me to press send.
My bedroom door creaks open with two sharp knocks, followed by a pause and one more. My dad. “Josh?” he says. “You’re home.”
“Yep.” I delete the word quickly and set my phone facedown on the bed. “What’s up?”
“Nothing, I—I just, uh, wanted to say hi.” He shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, his eyes clear and focused as he looks at me. “I didn’t see your car outside.”
“Yeah, Dominic drove us home,” I explain, feeling my guard lower, just enough to let my anger start to rise inside me.
“Oh,” he says, nodding.
I pick my phone back up; hope he takes the hint.
