Far From You

by Tess Sharpe

  I sit up straighter, on guard. “I don’t mean to be.”

  David leans back in his chair, his eyes crinkling as his lips twitch. “I think you do,” he says. “I think that you’re an intelligent young woman who is very good at keeping secrets.”

  “Got that from a few notes and, what, an hour-long talk with Dr. Charles?”

  He grins. “Now that’s more like it. Dr. Charles is excellent at what she does. But as soon as you stopped resisting therapy at Seaside, all you did was tell her exactly what she wanted to hear—what she expected to hear from an addict on the verge of relapse.”

  “I am an addict.”

  “It’s good that you acknowledge that,” David says. “That’s important. But at the moment, I’m more concerned with the trauma you suffered. What jumped out at me, from Dr. Charles’s notes, is how you sidestep the subject of Mina every time she’s brought up.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You didn’t break a coffee table when Dr. Charles asked you about the night Mina was killed?”

  “My leg makes me clumsy; it was an accident.”

  David raises an eyebrow. I’ve done something that’s made him take notice, and I’m not sure what it is. It makes heat prickle down my back. I’m not going to be able to play him like Dr. Charles.

  “Why don’t you tell me about Mina?” he asks.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “How did you two meet?”

  “Mina moved here after her dad died. The teacher sat us next to each other in second grade.”

  “Did you spend a lot of time together?”

  I don’t answer immediately.

  “Sophie?” he prompts gently.

  “We were always together,” I say. I can’t keep it out of my voice. That choked-up emotion bleeds through, makes it waver. I look away from him, my nails digging into my jeans. “I don’t want to talk about Mina.”

  “We’re going to have to talk about Mina,” David says ­quietly. “Sophie, you were put into an environment designed to get you clean right after you experienced a major trauma and loss. While I understand what motivated your parents to do that, it might not have been the best thing for you in terms of processing your grief.

  “Most of your therapy at Seaside was focused on your problems with addiction. I don’t think you’ve been given the space or the tools you need to deal with what happened to you and Mina the night she was killed. But I can help you with that, if you let me.”

  Anger surges inside me, stampedes through my veins at his words. I want to hit him. To throw the stupid tasseled pillows on the couch at him.

  “You think I haven’t dealt with it?” I ask. My voice is horribly low. I’m about to cry. It builds in the back of my eyes, threatening to break through. “She died scared and in pain, and I felt it—when she went, when she left, I felt it. Don’t you dare tell me I haven’t dealt with that. Every day, I deal with it.”

  “Okay,” David says. “Tell me how you do that.”

  “I just do,” I say. I’m still breathing hard, but I will myself not to cry in front of him. “I have to.”

  “Why do you have to? What’s keeping you motivated?”

  “I have to stay clean,” I say.

  The answer would’ve worked with Dr. Charles, but not with this guy. My quick search before Dad had driven me over had pulled up four articles Dr. Hughes wrote about PTSD and its effects on teenagers. Mom and Dad have done their homework. With my addiction tackled, now they’re setting out to fix me completely. A New and Improved Sophie. Whole and mended, with no jagged edges or sharp points. Someone who doesn’t look like she knows how death feels.

  “I don’t think you’re telling me the whole truth,” David says.

  “You a human lie detector?”

  “Sophie, you can trust me.” David leans forward intently. “Anything you say here, any secrets you choose to share, nobody else will know, and there’ll be no judgment from me. I am here for you. To help you.”

  I glare at him. “You already got me to talk about it when I didn’t want to,” I say. “That doesn’t really breed trust.”

  “Getting you to open up isn’t tricking you. It’s about your having a safe outlet to talk. You have to share with someone or you’ll burst.”

  “Is that in your professional medical opinion?”

  He smiles, dispassionate, with no edge to it, no pity, no judgment. It’s a nice change from everyone else. “Absolutely,” he says wryly. He pushes the box of tissues across the coffee table at me. I take a few, but instead of patting my eyes, or blowing my nose, I twist them in my hands.

  “This won’t happen again,” I tell him. “Don’t start expecting it.”

  “Whatever you say.” He nods and smiles. I look away.

  18

  A YEAR AND A HALF AGO (SIXTEEN YEARS OLD)

  On the morning of my sixteenth birthday, I wake up with a purple Post-it note stuck to my forehead. I pull it off, wondering how in the world she’d managed to stick it there without waking me up.

  Congratulations! As of 5:15 this morning, you are officially sixteen. Proceed to your closet for part one of your surprise.

  —Mina

  P.S. Yes, you have to wear what I picked out. No arguments. If I leave it up to you, you’ll just wear jeans. Please, go with me on this for once. The color is perfect.

  I shuffle to my closet and pull it open. She’s bought me an entire new outfit. It’s not a surprise, considering how much she complains about my fashion sense. I rub the soft jersey dress between my fingers. Its dark red color is nice, but it’s too short.

  I pull it out of the closet anyway and see the note she’s taped to it.

  No arguments!!!

  Rolling my eyes, I layer two camisoles underneath the dress to cover the scar on my chest and pull on a pair of leggings and knee-high boots. I’m putting the finishing touches on my makeup when there’s a tap on my door.

  “You awake, birthday girl?�� my dad calls.

  “Morning, Dad. Come on in.”

  He pushes open the door, a big smile on his face. “That’s a pretty dress,” he says. “Is it new?”

  “Mina,” I explain.

  Dad grins. “Speaking of Mina…” He hands me an envelope. “She sneaked in this morning. Wanted me to give you this. You girls have plans today?”

  I nod. “You and Mom have me tonight,” I promise.

  “Good,” Dad says. “I’ve got to get to the office. Your mom had to go in early. But there’s a surprise downstairs for you.” He ruffles my hair. “Sixteen,” he says. “Can’t believe it.”

  I wait until I hear his car pull out of the driveway before I do my morning lines of Oxy.

  I’m sure he wouldn’t believe that, either.

  Go to the Old Mill Bridge and walk to the middle.

  —M

  Mina loves birthdays. Trev and I have been trying to top her for years, always failing. For my thirteenth birthday, she’d gotten my dad to help her in an elaborate ruse involving a flat tire, a clown, and a skating rink full of balloon animals. She’d spent an entire year saving for and planning Trev’s eighteenth. I’d helped her decorate his sailboat so it looked like it’d been shipwrecked. We filled it with presents, and then sailed it out to one of the little islands dotting the lake. She’d arranged for Trev to borrow a friend’s boat and texted him coordinates, sending him on a quest to find his treasure, with little chests of foil-wrapped chocolate coins marking each stop.

  Now it looks like I’m in for another surprise of my own.

  The Old Mill Bridge has long been closed to car traffic, with a newer, shinier version built down the river. I brush my fingers over the moss-covered bricks, looking for something that doesn’t belong.

  The flash of bright colo
r grabs my eye—a red balloon tied to one of the stone columns. I walk up and untie it, but there’s no note. I look around, expecting to see her leap out from somewhere, bounding toward me, all smiles and trickery and delight.

  “Mina?” I call. I search the ground. Maybe the note fell.

  But I find nothing.

  My phone rings.

  “You forget something?” I ask after I pick up.

  “Pop the balloon,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice.

  “Are you watching me?” I ask, looking around. I go to the edge and peer down the bridge, trying to find her. It feels good to lean on the solid stone railing, take the weight off my bad leg for a second.

  “I’ve got binoculars and everything,” Mina says, lowering her voice, trying to make it sound dangerous and failing when she bursts out laughing.

  “Stalker. Where are you?” I peer behind me, trying to spot her.

  “I had to make sure no one took the balloon! I had your dad text me when you woke up.”

  “You could just show yourself,” I suggest. I look down over the railing and finally spot her on the north side, down the trail near the riverbank. She’s a blur of yellow, her dress bright against the gray railing. She waves.

  “Pop the balloon first, then I’ll come up,” she says.

  I dig my keys out and jab the longest one into the balloon. It pops, and something small and silver falls to the ground, skittering across the pavement. I chase after it, bending down on my good knee to pick it up where it’s spun to a stop.

  For a long moment, I’m silent, the ring in my hand, the phone against my ear.

  “Soph? Did you get it?” Mina asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I…” My thumb swipes over the ring, over the word engraved on it. “It’s beautiful,” I say. “I love it.”

  “It’s like mine,” Mina says. “We match.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “We match.”

  I press my thumb against the word, let it imprint on my skin.

  Forever.

  19

  NOW (JUNE)

  Dad drops me back off at home. He stays at the curb, the car idling until I’m safe inside the house. I wait until he’s gone, then I get in my car and drive to Sweet Thyme Nursery.

  I try to distract myself among the rows of plants, leaning too hard on the cart as I push it along. I breathe deep, gulping in the scent, rich and earthy and green, and it loosens something inside my chest that’s been there since I stepped inside David’s office.

  After paying for my marguerite daisies and organic soil, I smile and shake my head at the girl at the counter who asks if I need help. The cart’s heavy, but I put my weight into it, gritting my teeth as my muscles spasm.

  By the time I get to my car, my leg’s hurting enough that I’m steeling myself to go get someone to help me load the bags of soil into the trunk. Someone honks behind me, and I pull the cart out of the way.

  “Hey, Sophie, is that you?” Adam Clarke peers out at me from his pickup. I’ve known him, like nearly everyone else at my school, for most of my life. He’d dated our friend Amber for almost a year, and she used to go on and on about how he looked like a country music video version of a Disney prince. Pair the worn baseball cap, his shit-kicker cowboy boots, and a fondness for ­Wranglers and John Deere T-shirts with his green eyes, straight nose, and perfect smile, and Amber had a point.

  “Hi, Adam.”

  He looks from my trolley of soil down at my leg, and understanding filters through his face. “You need help?”

  When I finally was allowed back to school after the crash, Mina had assigned all our friends jobs to make sure my comeback went smoothly. There’d been a calendar with color blocks and code names and everything. Amber had been my bathroom buddy because Mina had a different lunch period than we did. Cody was in charge of reminding me when to take all my medications, because he was the most punctual. And because they were the biggest and in all my classes, Adam and Kyle had carried my stuff for me and made sure I didn’t fall down.

  I’d hated Mina’s little army of helpers at first, but after the fourth time I got the stupid walker I used back then stuck in the handicapped stall, I knew better than to refuse the help. I learned to be grateful for Amber and how she’d slam the bathroom door shut if anyone tried to come inside.

  “That’d be great. Thanks, Adam.”

  Adam pulls his truck up next to my car and hops out. “Planting a garden?”

  “Yeah, gives me something to do.” I pop my trunk open, and he grabs the first bag of soil, placing it inside. “What are you doing here?”

  “Mrs. Jasper buys venison from me and Matt. She makes jerky out of it.”

  “Good season this year?”

  Adam smiles, pushing his baseball cap back, black hair curling against his forehead. “Yeah. It’s been great for Matt. He’s been getting healthy.” He hefts another bag easily over his shoulder, dumping it in my trunk.

  “What about you?” I ask, because I don’t want the conversation veering to me. “Are you going for the soccer scholarship still?”

  “Trying.” He grins. “Pretty much the only way I’m gonna get out of here. But Uncle Rob thinks I’ve got a good chance. He’s been on my ass about it. Making me run suicides.”

  I wince in sympathy. “I remember he used to have us do those. My dad thought we were too young. They used to argue about it.”

  “I forgot you played soccer.”

  “I lasted a season, and then swimming took over. And after that, you know…” I shrug.

  Adam reaches out and squeezes my arm, and it takes an effort not to flinch. If I don’t see it coming, I tend to jump when people touch me now. I’m sure David would have loads to say about it.

  “I know things have been tough. But it’ll get better,” he says earnestly. “You just need to stay clean. You know, my brother went through the same thing. He relapsed, too. He really screwed up, stole money from our mom—she almost lost our house because of it. But my uncle got him on the right track. Matt made amends, and he’s doing really good on the program now. Healthy, like I said. He and my mom are even talking again. So I know if you take it seriously, stick close to your family, you’ll be okay. You’re strong, Soph. Just think about all the stuff you’ve gotten through.”

  “That’s really nice,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

  Adam smiles. “So, listen, I’m glad I ran into you. Kyle mentioned that you two kind of got into it last week.”

  “Is that what he’s saying?” I ask, trying for casual.

  “Look, I know you guys have had your problems. But really, Soph, that fight he had with Mina—”

  “What fight?”

  “I thought that’s what you guys were…” He stops abruptly, red creeping along his cheekbones. “Um, maybe I shouldn’t—”

  “No, you can tell me,” I say, maybe a little too quickly, because it makes his straight black brows scrunch together, forming a solid line.

  “Look, Kyle’s my best friend—” he starts.

  “And Mina was mine.”

  Adam sighs. “It’s not a big deal,” he says. “They just—they had a fight the day before she died. Kyle came over to my place shitfaced afterward. He wouldn’t tell me what it was about, but he was really upset. Dude was crying.”

  “Kyle was crying?” I can’t even picture giant, lumbering Kyle in tears.

  “It was weird,” Adam admits, shaking his head.

  “Did he say anything? Tell you why they were fighting?” She hadn’t been taking his calls that day. What had they fought about that would drive him to cry on his best friend’s shoulder? Was it enough to make him want to kill her?

  “He was so drunk, I could barely understand half of it. He just kept saying that she wouldn’t listen to him and h
is life was over. I think it’s hard for him, you know, because they fought and he never got to say he was sorry.”

  “Yeah,” I say, but now I’m the one with the furrowed brow, absorbing this information.

  “I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Adam says when the silence has stretched out too long. He grabs the two bags of soil left in the cart and dumps them in the trunk for me, brushing his hands against his jeans. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay,” I say. “Thanks for telling me. And thanks for helping me with all this dirt.”

  “You have someone to help you unload at home?”

  “My dad’ll do it.”

  “Text me sometime,” Adam calls out as he hops into his truck. “We’ll hang out.”

  I wave at him as he drives off. I get into my car and press hard on the gas, like if I drive fast enough, I can leave all the questions behind.

  When I get home, I leave the bags of soil in the car and head into the house. After I take a shower, I do what I’ve been dreading. I’ve put off searching Mina’s room for too long. If Trev won’t answer my calls, I’ll have to trick him. But that means I have to wait until my dad’s home so I can use his phone. So I force myself to grab a cardboard box and go upstairs to my room to start filling it with her things. They’re my ticket inside the house.

  Through the years, her clothes and jewelry had mixed with mine. I have the folders full of newspaper clippings and printouts of online articles that she’d page through while we’d lie on my bed, listening to music. Books, movies, earrings, makeup, and perfume, they all mingled until they weren’t mine or hers anymore. Just ours.

  Everywhere I look, there she is. I can’t escape her if I try.

  I take my time choosing what to put in the box, knowing that Trev will thumb through every book, every article, as if they hold some deeper meaning, a message to comfort him. He’ll place her jewelry back in the big red velvet box on her dresser, and the clothes back in her closet, never to be worn again.

  I’m sliding the last book into the box when I hear my dad open the front door.