My new therapist—the “expert” Dad found who “has experience with cases similar to mine”—told me this will get better. She said I’ll begin to feel things again as I gain control over my life. I didn’t respond to her promise but sat there studying her antique cypress mantel that held an exotic collection of lit candles.
After our first session, she gave me an article that outlines how I’m supposed to feel at this point. She said many people who choose to leave a “high-demand” group struggle with the same feelings, even though the groups are very different. She told us about a facility in Oklahoma, but Dad said there was no way in hell he was sending me off to another state after all of this.
He did make an exception for me to visit Summer in Pensacola. When I first mentioned the idea of meeting up with friends in Florida, Dad hesitated, but Patti fell over herself to say I should absolutely go enjoy some time with Summer. “Oh, honey, it’s only a few hours away,” Patti argued, placing her hand on Dad’s arm. The therapist told us the sooner I can assimilate back into the normalcy of my old life with my pre-cult relationships, the better. I know Patti must have reminded Dad about this as soon as I left the room.
All because she insisted, I’m sitting beside Summer watching the surfers, just like old times. Except now my toenails are bright pink, my hair is full of honey-blond streaks, and I don’t even recognize myself anymore—inside or out. But the last part really isn’t Patti’s fault—she’s always just tried to help. And on days like this when the atmosphere is charged with something ominous, something more powerful than me, it doesn’t seem to matter. I turn myself over to the intensity of the weather, the raging Gulf, the rippling red flags—the same way the surfers give themselves to the whims of the water and the dangerous riptide.
While our other girlfriends chat and laugh and sip their beer, I study the ocean, my ears tuned to the rhythm of incoming waves. I watch the way the surfers brace their boards, crouching in position to maintain balance as they continue forward, how they fall into the turbulent water with pure abandon, and climb back up without hesitation to go at it again.
There’s one guy in particular I don’t recognize. He’s wading toward the beach with a worn surfboard tucked under his arm. When he turns back to face the water, I have a fleeting realization that the Ultimate Creator must have been a woman—one with a careful touch and an artist’s eye. I imagine Her gliding a steady thumb firmly down the middle of his back, molding the perfect indent between his muscles like ripe clay. Then I remember I’m not supposed to think about God. The therapist says that’s something we’ll work up to as I distance myself from what happened. I focus on the “now,” as she suggested, and on the beads of water sparkling across his skin.
“Who’s he?” I ask Summer.
She’s digging a cigarette out of a crinkled pack of Marlboro Lights when she answers as if she’s been waiting for this exact question. “That’s Alex. He just moved to our beloved town of Oceanview for the marine lab program.” Summer smiles knowingly. “Paul brought him over today to surf and hang out with us.” I note the hushed exchanges between the other girls, the sudden break in their banter to gauge my response. I can tell my friends are worried about me. Well, Summer, at least. The others eye me like a time bomb, wary of the invisible triggers.
I stand up and trudge through the sand toward the edge of the water. The red flags ripple in the wind like silent alarms, but this is the only time the surfers come out. There isn’t much in the way of surfable waves around here otherwise.
The water sweeps over my feet, then another wave just behind it swooshes through my legs. I balance myself as the tide pulls it back to the horizon. I’m cemented into the wet sand, its great expanse pocked with half-buried sea life—once whole but now shattered into fragments. On the horizon, I can see numerous bodies gliding across the water.
Alex is already paddling back out to mount another wave, his short hair glistening in the sun. His arms stretch out for balance and his abdominal muscles tighten as he slides in front of the crest of water. And for the first time since I returned home, something cuts through the numbness.
* * *
That night at the bonfire, Summer sits down beside me. I don’t even realize I’m no longer sitting by myself until I look up. “Hey. Emily Dickinson. I want you to meet someone,” she says. Then she leans back and introduces me to Alex.
I’ve been staring into the fire, so it takes me a few seconds to shake the burnout vision. As the bright splotches fade, his face could be anyone’s. In those brief moments, I have to block out the faces of the other students from the Kingdom’s mission. Or “cult,” as my therapist carefully referred to it as she leaned forward with her rectangular glasses dangling from her hand. I had to fight the urge to grab her spectacles and put them on my own face. As in: Maybe if I could see what you see, then it would all make sense.
“Emily,” I say to Alex as Summer slips away.
“I know,” he says. “But I can’t get anyone to tell me anything about you. What did you do … rob a bank, or something?”
I surprise myself with a genuine laugh.
This must have been easier for Tamara when she returned from rehab a few years before. After the initial gossip waned, people didn’t care. Maybe it’s because, with her, they can easily categorize it. Oh, that. Then it’s on to her next screw up. But with me, no one seems to know what to say. I definitely would have been the least likely of my friends to end up in some sort of trouble. But I’m learning that what happened to me triggers a specific fear in other people—the idea that something could drag one of their loved ones away from their own religious beliefs, traditions, social circles, or worse, familial grasp. In the South, it’s the scariest thing anyone could imagine.
“I have an idea,” I say to Alex, surprised my voice doesn’t sound as shaky as I feel. “Why don’t we just start with yesterday.”
He squints at me as if unsure of how to respond.
“So, Alex. What did you do yesterday?” I prompt.
“This,” he says, gesturing to the ocean without hesitation.
“And where did you learn to do this so well?” I say, copying his gesture.
His smile is stirring something buried deep, but it’s still a vague sensation.
“San Diego.”
“California. I’ve always wanted to go there. Tell me about San Diego.”
“No. Nuh-uh. It’s your turn.”
I smile at him, but I know I’m forcing it. After three weeks, I desperately want to feel something again, but I can’t forget that falling for a guy was the start of how everything went wrong. Because of that, the newness of Alex is unpredictable and scary.
“Oh, wait. Sorry, I forgot. What did you do yesterday, Emily?” He mimics my pretending-to-be-friendly voice.
“I got my nails done,” I say, wiggling my toes for full effect.
If only our past could always start with yesterday.
He looks down at my feet through the golden glow of the bonfire. “Nice,” he says. “But you don’t really strike me as a hot pink kind of girl.”
“And how would you know? I thought you said you didn’t know anything about me.”
He’s silent for a few seconds before answering carefully. “I know you’re not like those girls,” he says, glancing at Summer’s crew. They’re huddled in a semicircle on the other side of the bonfire, probably sharing a joint, from the sound of their unguarded bursts of laughter. “I know you’re quiet. I know your thoughts are far away from this place right now.”
My nerves fray with the urge to contradict him. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. I happen to like my pink toenails. And I recently made a conscious decision to live in the moment,” I say, knowing full well that I’m repeating something my therapist said to me earlier this week, probably verbatim. I imagine her sitting across from us wearing her linen top with chunky beads and a long, flowing skirt, giving me a thumbs up. This makes me laugh out loud, but Alex still looks serious.
>
He takes my hand and gently pulls me to my feet. The others are staring at us as he leads me to the water. I don’t care. And I don’t resist him.
It’s so nice to be led.
He lets go of my hand to take off his sweatshirt and tosses it in the dry part of the sand.
“Are you coming with me?” he asks as he backs into the darkening Gulf.
My bathing suit is almost dry under my pullover, but I want to follow him. Then I feel the distant tremors, the fault line threatening to shift.
“Come on,” he challenges, waist-deep in the giant abyss.
I like that he isn’t afraid of me. I like that he doesn’t care what the others think. What I like the most about Alex, though, is the fact that he doesn’t know the difference between me a year ago and the broken girl standing here right now. The dark waves never stop swelling, cascading in every direction, and pulling back.
I yank my sweater over my head and immediately begin to shiver. My teeth are chattering, but I can’t tell if it’s the cold or my underlying panic. And then, without thinking, I rush shoulders-first into the chilly water. Alex is by my side within seconds. He wraps his arms around my waist, in the same way a swimming instructor might do while teaching a lesson. The water is too turbulent for us to fully connect.
“This is how I taught myself to surf,” he says. He speaks into my ear as the water slams against us. “You have to sense the motion of the waves without seeing them.”
As he pulls me deeper into the Gulf, I hold his shoulders, close my eyes, and feel my initial trembling give way to the churning force of the ocean.
Panic disproportionate to an ordinary situation. Loss of control. You will have a moment. And it will throw you off. Prepare for it so it doesn’t wreck everything you’ve accomplished. Remember these “moments” are temporary.
Home Is Where the Water Is
Back in Oceanview, Alex and I continue our surfing lessons on weekends.
We just throw his surfboards into his old beat-up truck and drive down to Dauphin Island, the nearest spot Alex knows with good waves. We’ve been hanging out a lot, just as friends, even though I know what people are thinking when they see us together: A guy led me into a cult, yet here I am already attaching myself to a new one.
Whatever. They never knew me anyway, I rationalize.
When Alex and I ran into Patti’s tennis partner at the grocery store, her eyes glanced back and forth at us before she managed an awkward hello, grabbed something random to throw into her cart, and practically sprinted in the other direction. Patti just laughed it off when I told her about it later. “Emily?” Patti always says my name like a question before offering advice. “The sooner you quit worrying about what other people think, the better off you’ll be. Trust me on that. And when you’re ready for us to meet Alex—or not—just say the word. We only care about you being happy again.”
I appreciate Patti’s support, but I have no intention of bringing Alex to meet them—now or maybe ever. The beautiful thing about Alex is he doesn’t know my past or what I’ve gone through. He’s also graduating next year and already applying to grad schools all over the country. When I’m with him, I’m not thinking about the past, or looking ahead. Hell, I’m barely even thinking at all.
“Have you ever seen an elephant?” Alex asks me one afternoon. See? No thinking involved. “And zoos don’t count.” His smile reveals tiny teeth with a slight gap between the front two. He’s asking the questions in a game he learned from growing up in so many different places, a contrived way to get to know people as quickly as possible.
“No.” I sweep my hair behind my shoulders and pretend to take this initiation very seriously. His playful mood is contagious. My mind is buzzing from the newness of what’s happening between us. We’re sitting on the hardwood floor of his living room. I don’t want to go home and risk losing that blooming intensity that floods through me like a soothing tonic.
He leans in nearly close enough to kiss me. “An alligator?”
I laugh, breaking the mood. “Um, hello? Look where I grew up.”
“Okay, stupid question.” He leans back, feigning a dramatic thought. “Enough with the animals. How about a … castle?”
“Yep.” I smile as I remember my first train ride to Italy. I don’t share this with Alex, but instead let the memory burn out and fall away, leaving its familiar aching trail.
“What about a volcano?”
I think about it for a second. “No.”
“A movie star?”
“I don’t think so. Wait, no, once in New York.”
“Really? Who?”
“Al Pacino. He was having lunch at an outdoor café in SoHo. My stepsister made me walk by his table twice, and the second time around he looked straight at Tamara, raised his eyebrows, and said, ‘Hey, baby.’” I laugh at my own gravelly voiced Pacino imitation. It’s a relief to reveal an emotionally neutral memory.
“No shit. That’s a good story,” he says, impressed. “Okay, then. Hmmm. What about a king cobra?” he asks.
It’s a totally innocent question.
Yet my frazzled mind jumps to the snake on my bed in Italy. Kara’s tattoo. Josh’s talk about the venom. That night Ben chased me down … My body turns to pins and needles as the image of Kara’s lifeless body appears in flashes, like a horror movie burned into my memory—legs at odd angles, a bloated arm, her long hair swept over the top of her face.
A solid knot expands in my throat, making it difficult to swallow, and then impossible to breathe. Alex’s hands are on my shoulders, but I can’t see anything. My vision is already closing in, narrowing itself down to a distorted tunnel. I try to talk myself out of panicking. What is wrong with you? He just asked about a stupid cobra. It isn’t even the same snake as—
“Oh, God. What’s wrong?” Alex is at my side, his arms around me protectively.
“No … it’s okay.” I hear myself say it, but my voice sounds unfamiliar, like a disembodied whisper. Losing Kara hits me with fresh pain, the memory just as intense and surreal as the day I found her.
“Emily? Emily …” Alex is a blur in front of me, his voice a distant buoy in a sea of panic. His arms close around me as he smooths my hair down my back with his hand. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” He says it over and over.
I remember two things after taking a pill from the brand-new prescription in my purse: my teeth chattering as if I’m half-clothed in the middle of Antarctica, and the strength of Alex’s arms still wrapped around me when I wake up on his couch in the middle of the night.
I surface to consciousness a little too quickly, so fast that I imagine that suctioning noise on TV shows when someone is either leaving or entering a flashback. The Xanax haze has worn itself thin, yet it still offers the blessed illusion that nothing scary ever happened—nothing but a neutral fatigue. The warmness of Alex surrounds me, and for the first time in months I feel like an ordinary college student making spontaneously questionable decisions just like the other girls from my dorm.
I touch his face until his legs begin stirring. I kiss him gently. His hands press into my back as he pulls me closer. Our kissing becomes more forceful, the kind that completely shuts down an otherwise rational mind. I don’t want to think anymore, just feel. Through the silent darkness, I feel a mouth on my ear, his weight shifting on top of me, hands moving everywhere at once, the tandem rise and fall of breath. His finger gently slips its way inside of me, then out and away, leaving me with an irrepressible desire to lead it back. “Are you sure?” I can only answer by matching his urgency, by tugging at clothes, by legs twining legs into place. I never fully open my eyes until we’re both tangled and naked and pushing through the numbness. The intensity of every movement forces me to stay with him in those tangible moments, leaving Kara’s memory behind in a distant wake.
* * *
When I open my eyes, it’s daylight, but Alex is still asleep. I reach around the floor until I find a T-shirt. At first, the absence of r
egret surprises me. What happened felt natural in the moment, even inevitable. And now, I’m just another ordinary adult waking up with someone I like very much and in desperate need of coffee.
It’s all so normal I could cry.
Alex’s kitchen is in a tiny hallway at the back of the house. The long window overlooks a patio with a wooden picnic table. He told me this had been a vacation rental cottage, but he worked out a long-term lease with the owners. Just as I find a coffee filter, his phone rings. I freeze, unsure of what to do. I’ve never stayed the night with anyone before, and I hadn’t thought to call someone to say where I was. I hear the machine pick it up, and Tamara’s voice begins talking.
“Hey, Alex, Emily’s friend, can you pick up, please?”
There’s a long pause.
“Um. Okay. Is Emily there? Emily, are you there?”
Shit. I grab the phone and push the talk button.
“Shhhhhh,” I whisper. “Tamara? How did you know I was here?”
“What the hell, Em,” Tamara mock-scolds. “This is so not like you, shacking up. I wonder what Dad would say….”
“Stop it. I just fell asleep, okay? How did you get his number?”
“Dude. Summer is my source for everything Em-related. You of all people should know that. Anyway, don’t worry. I told Mom you were at a friend’s house. And Dad left early to go to the office before we were up, but that’s not why I’m calling.”
I stand there quietly watching the neighbor’s gray cat slink under the picnic table. It crouches at the edge of a shadow as if stalking something. My focus shifts as I catch my own reflection in the window. My hair looks wavy and disheveled, almost sexy. I notice the small image of a jumping fish on Alex’s T-shirt and feel a straightforward surge of happiness that has escaped me for months.
Those Who Prey Page 25
