Tess Sharpe - Far From You

“Sophie?” Dad asks, his voice breaking me from my thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” I say automatically. “It’s been fine. Things have been fine.”

He stares at me longer than he should, and there are worry lines on his forehead I haven’t noticed before. My eyes flick to the gray at his temples. Is there more since I last saw him? I know what he’s thinking: Is she zoning out, or is she on something?

I can’t bear it.

Nine months. Three weeks. Three days.

“I was going out to my garden.” I gesture toward the backyard, feeling stupid.

“I’ve got some work to do.” He hesitates. “I could do it out on the deck? If you’d like the company?”

I almost say no, but then I think about those worry lines and the gray in his hair, what I’ve done to him. I shrug. “Sure.”

We don’t speak for the hour we stay out in my garden. He just sits at the teak table on the deck and goes through his files while I dig and root rocks out of the soil.

It feels like what I used to think safe was.

I know better now.

NINE MONTHS AGO (SIXTEEN YEARS OLD)

For three weeks, Macy plays hardball: no phone, no computer, nothing until I start talking to the shrink she sends me to, until I follow the schedule Macy’s given me, until I finally admit that there’s something wrong.

The only order I’ve obeyed is doing yoga with Pete. Pete’s nice; I like him. He’s quiet; he doesn’t pester me with questions, just helps me through the poses he’s shown me, the ones adjusted to my problem areas. That first week, I’d heard him on the phone, deep in conversation with my old physical therapist. The next morning, he’d dropped a mat on my bed and told me to meet him in the brick two-room studio in the backyard. The bamboo floors were cold underneath my bare feet, and Pete had some sort of cinnamon oil in a diffuser so it smelled like Christmas.

I won’t admit it to Macy, but I like that hour every morning. After years of dulling all my senses with anything I could get my hands on, it’s weird to focus positively on my body. To pay attention to my breathing and the way my muscles stretch, to let my thoughts go, to push them away so I can feel —feel the air and movement and the way I can make my bad leg bend and make it do what I want for once.

Sometimes I falter. Sometimes my leg or back wins.

But sometimes I can go through an entire sun salutation without one mistake or wobble, and it feels so amazing to be in control, so singularly powerful, that tears track down my face and something close to relief surges through me.

Pete never mentions the tears. When I’m done, we roll the mats up and head into the house, where Macy’s making breakfast. My cheeks are dry and I pretend it never happened.

But the feeling, the memory, it lingers inside me. A spark waiting for enough fuel to spread.

One night, when Macy’s off chasing down another idiot trying to jump bail, Pete knocks on my door. I’m allowed to keep it closed, but there’s no lock, something I’ve hated since I got here.

Macy never knocks. She says I haven’t earned it.

“Come in.”

Pete holds up an envelope. “Something came for you.”

“I thought the warden said no contact with the outside world.”

“Just don’t rat me out.”

“Seriously?” I can’t believe he’s going to give it to me. But he places the letter at the foot of my bed and ambles out of the room, whistling.

“Pete,” I call. He turns and grins. His front teeth are a little crooked, and there are acne scars pitting his cheeks, but his eyes are big and green and sweet, and I suddenly understand why Macy looks at him like he’s the best thing she’s ever seen. “Thank you.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, his smile wide and innocent.

I look down at the letter. My name, above Macy’s address, is written in loopy purple letters.

Mina’s handwriting.

I tear the envelope open, almost ripping the letter in my hurry. I unfold the notebook paper, my heart pounding like I’ve been holding a pose for too long. The words are written in pencil, which is weird, because she’s stockpiled purple pens for as long as I can remember.

Sophie—

I know you’re still mad. I’m not sure you’ll even read this. But if you do…

Please get better. If you can’t do it for yourself, do it for me.

Mina

I press my fingers under the smudge the word me is written over, trying to make out the word she’d erased. I trace two letters, the ­shadowy, barely there curls of a U and an S she didn’t quite erase: do it for us .

When Aunt Macy gets home, peeking into my room without knocking, I’m still sitting there with the letter in my lap.

“Sophie?”

When I don’t answer, she walks in and sits next to me. I keep my eyes on the letter. I’m not strong enough to look at her.

“You’re right. I’m a drug addict. I have a problem.”

Macy lets out a long breath, an almost soundless exhalation of relief. “Okay,” she says. “Now look me in the eye and say it.”

When I don’t, she reaches over and grabs my hand, squeezing hard. “You’ll get there.”

I believed her. I put in the work. I followed the rules from then on, talking to the therapist, starting up my mental calendar, making days turn into weeks and then months. I struggled and fought and won.

I wanted to make myself better. For Mina. For me. For what I thought might be waiting when I got home.

But this is the thing about struggling out of that hole you’ve put yourself in: the higher you climb, the farther you have to fall.

NOW (JUNE)

I call Trev three times over the next week, but he won’t answer. After the third unanswered call, I switch gears and go by the Harper Beacon office, only to be told that Tom Wells, the head of the internship program, is out of town.

With my parents still watching me so closely, I spend most of my days in my garden, among the redwood beds Trev built for me.

After the crash, Mina had insisted I needed a hobby and presented me with a preapproved list. I’d chosen gardening to get her off my back, but then, as usual, she’d taken it to extremes. She’d shown up the next day, Trev in tow with lumber, hammer and nails, bags of soil, a box of seedlings, and foam knee pads so I wouldn’t hurt myself.

I like the feel of dirt between my fingers, nursing delicate plants into strength and bloom. I like watching things flourish, like the swath of colors I can grow, bright and alive. It hurts to get up and down, but the pain’s worth the effort. At least I have something pretty to show for it.

After a full day of weeding, removing rocks and clay soil from the neglected beds, I spend another filling them with fresh, rich compost. Midweek, I’ve got the first two beds in good enough shape to think about planting. I run my fingers compulsively over the worn wood, making lists in my head of flowers that’ll thrive this late.

Mina had painted hearts and infinity symbols on the outsides of the beds, adding to them when she’d sit out here with me: her favorite quotes surrounded by stars, a pair of crooked stick-figure girls holding hands and faded red balloons. I brush my dirty fingers over the wood to touch what she’d touched.

“Sophie.”

I look up from my spot on the ground. Dad’s on the porch, dressed in his regular blue button-down and tie. His tie is crooked, and I want to reach out and fix it, but I can’t.

“You have your first therapy appointment with Dr. Hughes in an hour,” he says. “I moved some appointments so I can drive you. You should clean up.”