Now I am driving out of the city, taking the deserted stretch of road through Morganton that curves around the fingers of the Blue Ridge. It is a gorgeous fall morning. Around me, the foliage is budding and alive, and I believe, foolishly, that it can make sense of the troublesome thoughts circling my head.
The sign up ahead reads “Silver Fork Winery, turn left.” A new winery in town. I should have chosen the other route home, the one that wasn’t checkered with memories and deceit. We’d snuck into Grandfather Winery once with our fake ID’s. Ryan and I were seated by the stream in our Adirondack chairs. The water was high that time of year and the sounds were loud, but calming. It was a week before I was set to leave. The three of us had been together daily, though I needed some alone time with Ryan, and he with me.
“Am I supposed to babysit her while you’re gone?” he’d asked, his anger in my leaving starting to surface.
“Don’t say it like that. You know she’s a good friend to us.”
He poured me another glass of wine and I fell back into the chair, the warm sun making it a perfect afternoon. “You’re what connects us, Laur. Without you, there is no us.”
I’d laughed it off at the time. The wine. The way it made me feel silly and happy inside.
I shudder at the memory and seeing how we were all pinned against one another. How long it took me to get over the hurt, the devastation. How cruel fate could be. I stare at my bare fingers gripping the wheel.
When the Pisgah National Forest sign comes into view on my right, announcing the entrance to the Upper Creek Falls, I slow down for a glimpse, the windy drive filling me with visions of long ago.
I feel his heart beating while I lay my head across his chest, and how we tanned our bodies against the cool, gray rocks. I see Ryan carrying me across the creek, his lips cold and wet after the last slide of the afternoon. And then I see her face: Abby’s.
On our last weekend together, Abby had taken a video of us tubing down. We were all smiles, laughing and letting out playful shrieks, the three of us piled on the tube together. Later, I would watch the video in slow motion, searching for the angle, the close-up. I needed to pinpoint our descent, when we became less together. Was it possible that the cold water had battered our bond?
I have tried not to hate Abby, though it’s been impossible. That she captured our last moments in her video steeps me in accusation. No matter that we had a collage of moments, which painted our montage, the final evidence of Ryan and me was held in Abby’s hands, and she destroyed it.
It’s easy to blame her for everything, though I can’t leave Ryan out of the equation. It didn’t take him long to forget me. We spent so much of our relationship with Abby, and discussing Abby, that I wondered how much time they spent discussing me. What could they have possibly said?
Christa’s sandwich shop comes next. We’d stop there to pick up lunch on our way to the falls. Christa was blue eyed and blonde, with a kind personality to match her face. We loved filling out our checklist lunch orders with names like LaDainian Tomlinson and Gisele Bündchen. The more original the name, the more freshly baked yeast rolls she would throw in.
Being away for so long has kept the memories at bay. Being back, they are closing in on me. The book, I keep telling myself, that is why I made the journey back, though all the reasons I fled in the first place are confusing me. I feel him tugging at me. I smell him all around. Just a few more photos. Just a few more musings about a place that has captured my heart and spirit. I keep telling myself that, but the minute I stepped off that plane, I felt my resolve weakening. He was the air, and if I breathed, he would be inside of me again.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ABBY
Rose has become my friend and confidante. Though she is much younger than I am, we share a pain, a deficit that binds us, joined together by our third roommate, Sybil. No joke.
Sybil arrived this week with an alarming level of anxiety. Fast-talking and jittery, she’s an over sharer without a filter, so whatever thought pops up in her head she spouts out. “We’re all here because we’re not all there,” is how she greets us the first day. Shocking platinum hair outlines a face hidden under mounds of war paint. It is hard to tell if her raccoon eyes are blue or black. Her breasts are so large and perky that they peek out from the top of her blouse and call attention away from her face. Because of our weeks of wisdom, we know that as soon as Sybil strips herself of the mask and finds a better-fitting bra, she will find her real self and some acceptance.
The contrasts between my two roommates are startling. Cold Creek has brought out Rose’s true beauty, the kind that emerges from self-awareness. Jeannie says that the prettiest people are those who are happy within. Their energy makes them smile deeper; their glow comes from confidence, not cosmetics. Which is ironic since Sybil has made it her job to experiment with makeup and hairstyles—on me. In between therapy, yoga, and long walks around the property, I am being painted and primped like the girls in Toddlers & Tiaras.
“Close your eyes,” she tells me, while powdering my nose and lining my lips. “You have to shape and contour your eyes. It’ll make them pop.”
Whether it’s the palettes of gold and purple she uses to shade my eyes, or the mental dirt and grime that Jeannie and I extracted in our sessions and continued withdrawing later in group, the reflection staring back at me does look exquisite.
Rose refuses to allow Sybil near her face with the brushes and pencils she forced on me. Instead, Rose’s blonde hair is combed back neatly in a ponytail, and her cheeks, once vacant of color, are now glowing with wellness.
“You don’t need makeup,” I tell her, as Sybil tries out a new shade of plum on my lips. “At my age, I need all the help I can get.”
Sybil chimes in. “You’re not the prettiest girl in the Carolinas, Abby, but you’ve got a lot of strong features to work with. I’m barely using any makeup. It’s a very natural look.” Then she takes scissors to my long hair and cuts and shapes it better than any stylist in Charlotte.
Sybil, outside the confines of the Cold Creek grounds, is a high-powered executive who runs a multimillion-dollar cosmetic company. She won’t tell us the name, even though Rose got it out of one of the staff members the very first night she arrived. Rose is easily one of the most popular twentysomethings I have ever met. She receives no fewer than ten postcards a day from friends who are traversing the world, and she has a waiting list for visitors to come and see her.
“Nothing is ever what it seems,” Sybil says to me. “It’s a lot easier for people to imagine that your life is perfect than to take the time to see the cracks underneath.”
It is liberating to be among intelligent women with varying degrees of craziness. One of the great lessons of the weeklong therapy and group sessions is learning you are not alone. I had no idea that the general populace suffers as much as I do. The insight makes the thoughts less scary, less pervasive, and allows many of us the ability to accept ourselves in ways we never could before. One thing we all agree on is everyone has weak spots; no one is without some form of neurosis.
Take, for example, the mothers at Juliana’s school who can’t sleep without popping more than the recommended dose of sleeping pills. Or the ones who can’t make it through the day without a bottle of Chardonnay. They’re not quite alcoholics, but they’re dependent nonetheless on numbing all feeling. There are others who are addicted to activities that give them momentary highs. Workouts, Botox, and shopping are great substitutes for masking and avoiding what we don’t want to see or feel. All the pleasures of life we abuse to hide what’s bothering us. The residents of Cold Creek are no different, and it raises our hopes that we too can have a better life. Jeannie says, “It’s the strongest ones who seek out help.”
“I’ve never felt strong.”
“You showed up. And you show up each day. You’re opening up and learning about yourself. You’re working hard in here. Even when you’ve seen something about yourself you don’t like, you’r
e willing to fix it instead of blaming those around you. This new way of thinking will be very valuable to you when you leave here.”
The time spent in Jeannie’s office has ripened me. She illustrates the process with the metaphor of a maturing fruit. I was a peach, at once hardened in my obstinacy, my colors dull and unlively. Her poking and prodding me has softened my skin. My coat is wearing down now, allowing light to come through. When you squeeze me, I am beginning to feel soft. “You’re ripe.”
Why had my mind played this nasty trick on me my whole life? Filling my brain with scary thoughts and voices had depleted me. How could it hold so much power? These are questions Jeannie and I devour in our sessions. And it doesn’t stop there. The psychiatrist is managing my obsessions and compulsions with the newest of drugs. The dual therapy feels like peace, and I soak my toes in its warm water.
Although it’s helpful to examine my earlier self, I have learned that my psychological blueprint relies on a combination of triggers. How neat and tidy it would be to be able to sum up what caused my problem in one word or one person: Aha! That’s the reason I’m so messed up! It’s rarely that exact. One day I was blaming my domineering mother and her lack of attention. The next, I had to put myself in her shoes to look at the broader picture. The cause and effect spans through generations of genes and behaviors. Our minds are too complex for its dispatches to come down to one variable.
Blaming your defects on an abusive father or alcoholic mother can lessen the magnitude, but that shortsightedness blocks you from resolving the deeper problem tucked under layers of protective armor. One of the most significant aspects of my work with Jeannie is putting an end to my search for those answers. I am not being punished. The thoughts aren’t a nasty trick. Instead, she tells me, I am being tested.
Of course, I have to revisit my childhood from time to time—everyone in here wants to blame their problems on their childhood. And just as quickly, we move toward the present day and the basket of emotions we need to sort out. When a scary thought nips the surface, she asks, “Do you remember the thought you had before the scary one? I know you want to focus on the unthinkable threat, but what preceded it is what we need to analyze. What were you feeling at the time?”
My eyes close while the string of words work their way out of my lips: “Lonely. Sad. Unloved.”
“Tell me, Abby, have you ever heard of a term used in therapy called mindfulness?”
I shake my head to tell her I have not.
“Mindfulness is about living in the moment. Mindfulness backs up the overused phrase ‘live your life to the fullest’ with useful studies and tools to put in to practice. By committing yourself to mindfulness, you are an active participant in your life, observing your thoughts and feelings without judging them.”
I long for that ability immediately.
“I want you to try mindfulness while you’re here. If you find yourself having seemingly irrational thoughts, instead of labeling with negative self-talk, like ‘I’m crazy! I’m a horrible person! What’s wrong with me?’ be aware that the thought is just a thought. Imagine a crowded bus. There’s noise, chatter, and movement. It is best to imagine that you’re a passenger on that busy bus. You’re not driving. You always have voices in your head telling you things. They’re just like people beside you on the bus, distractions, and you have to stay on course, continue to move forward, riding the bus, without letting the noise in the background get in your way.”
I hear everything Jeannie says. Her knowledge and insights always move me in some way. I take her lessons seriously. But this is a big one. Sure, I’ll just tell the thoughts that have tortured me for thirty years to quiet down so I can get to Costco without distraction. No problem.
Sybil is gushing about the masterpiece she has created.
Rose watches us, not judging. She’s smiling the wry smile that I have learned to appreciate and envy.
Tonight we are having dessert outside by the campfire. I’ve come a long way since the sleep-away camp of my childhood, the summer getaway that plagued me with separation anxiety and crippling homesickness. I look forward to experiencing the grown-up version of something I could never enjoy as a kid.
“Is Ryan coming this weekend?” Rose asks.
Rose worships Ryan. He always had a way with kids, and, despite her age, Rose is childlike and enthralled with Ryan’s energy.
When Ryan first visited, the two of us would walk along the perimeter of the property and talk about everything, except for us: Juliana, the team, E.J. The more comfortable I became at Cold Creek, the less comfortable I felt about my old life. Soon his visits were filtered through Rose and eventually Sybil, who would challenge him to a game of basketball or chess. He always let the girls win. He is that kind of guy. Sybil’s assistant would arrive for a visit, joined by Rose’s friends and siblings. The lively group would descend upon Cold Creek and enlist her in a game of touch football, and soon Ryan was calling out plays and commanding the field with his athletic prowess. He could quickly make chaos into calm and orderly formations. And just as the players on the field turned to him for approval and leadership, so, too, did the women at Cold Creek.
This was an area that I was working on with Jeannie.
I loved Ryan’s playfulness. I loved his enthusiasm for life. But I didn’t like the way I felt around him. Unknowingly, he made me feel weak and small.
“No one can make you feel anything you’re not already feeling,” she would tell me, and each time she said that, it was met with a dull throbbing between my temples.
Many of my dreaded symptoms had been alleviated. I had a system of checks and balances in place so that when I was feeling particularly at ease with myself, I imagined one of the horrific thoughts, to elicit a response, to test how far I had come. Lately, I was convinced I was getting well. Only there was an area surrounding Ryan that I couldn’t quite come to terms with. I knew I loved him, that the fear of losing him was so great it would knot my insides, though there was something distracting me when we were together that left me with questions. Instead of joining the group on the fields, I watched from the sidelines.
“Earth to Abby. Come in, Abby.” It is Rose’s voice, and Sybil is laughing at her. “Not only is he too old for you, Rose, but he’s married, and I’m sure he doesn’t like blondes.” To which Rose responds, “No offense, Abby, I’m not into your husband, and Sybil,” she says, swatting her with the hairbrush, “I thought you were working on your filter.”
I have a sister, though we never laughed and accepted each other like the three of us do. Admitting faults and imperfections has a way of knocking down pretenses and defenses. So does honest, full disclosure.
“Yes, Rosie,” I tease. “Your boyfriend is coming this weekend.”
She smiles. “I may let him win this time. Poor guy.”
Our chuckles fill the bedroom.
We return from the campfire hours later. Sybil is the first to admit she is ready for bed. “This schedule is more rigorous than my business dealings.”
“Working on yourself is tough stuff,” I tell her, sounding like one of those life coaches in a self-help seminar.
I spend an extra few minutes in the bathroom scouring my face with a washcloth and removing Sybil’s artistry from my lips and cheeks. Studying my face in the mirror, I consider the changes I’ve made over the past few weeks. But something else is clawing at me, and it has distracted me much of the night.
These are the feelings I most feared when I thought of coming to this place. There were things inside of me I didn’t want to know, realizations I didn’t want to accept.
What if truths brim to the surface and have the power to drown all of us?
CHAPTER TWENTY
RYAN
In football, I take risks. I have been known to take a chance on fourth and inches or go for two when we need the extra points. That’s because I have faith in my players, faith in my team. As a coach, you see the whole field—the weak spots, the holes, the challen
ges that can be converted to victories. It is up to me to make history. These young men turn to me for guidance, and it takes years of preparation and developing my skills to make the right call.
In my personal life, I am far more cautious and predictable.
When Lauren told me she was leaving, I could have fought harder for her to stay. Letting her go was what she wanted. I couldn’t hold her back. When my father died and Lauren was overseas, I turned to Abby because she was willing and available. Abby had a range of personalities that drew me in. Instead of me being the leader of the team and making the tough calls, she guided me through the trauma of being orphaned at twenty-one. She tried so hard those early years. Despite her ups and downs, she was an attentive wife who listened and strived to create a peaceful home. There was a vagueness to her I would never understand, silences I couldn’t break through. There was a time they intrigued me and made Abby a sensual, mysterious woman. Until I learned that the mystery was depression, and instead of tempting me, it turned me away.
Like most marriages, our disjointedness linked us together. We each had our role, and for years it worked. Raising Juliana was paramount, and when Abby disappeared into her cave, I compensated by giving Juliana more love. There was a cadence to our marriage and Abby’s struggles. When she came out of one her thick fogs, she’d be better than ever—loving, wickedly funny, flirtatious. Those days I couldn’t get enough of her.
I love her. I love my wife. So why am I in my car on a Saturday morning following the lengthy road to Beech?
Wayne saw me after last night’s game and said I looked as though I’d seen the devil.
“I have.” But I wasn’t sure she saw me. Lauren was practically blind.
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