Mirage(34)

“Why didn’t Gran come with us to the doctor?” I ask in a feeble attempt to change the subject.

Mom notices and gives me a raised eyebrow. “She isn’t feeling well. I couldn’t rouse her this morning, so I let her stay in bed. She should be fine for this short while.”

I think of Gran’s hitchhiking adventure and how quickly she can slip away. She shouldn’t be alone. “I lost her,” I blurt. “After I got out of the hospital. She went hitchhiking for pancakes.”

My mom’s eyes pop open in alarm. “She went?—” Then she laughs, but quickly stops herself with the back of her hand to her mouth. Her laugh isn’t carbonated like before. Now her laugh is flat soda: sweet but lifeless. The car speeds up, and after a few tense minutes she says, “You should have told me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“We were always so close,” she says. “I feel like I’ve lost my daughter.”

“I’m sorry.” I’m marinating in it.

“I know you didn’t want to take the pills, but they brought your father back to me. If they bring you back, then it seems worth it.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. The daughter she knew is gone. Visions of the girl they miss scroll through my head like a movie montage. Everyone’s fighting to save the girl they love.

We’re all losing the fight.

Suddenly I feel sick. There are kids whose parents don’t fight to save them. The strange, potent thought comes from last night’s dream, but with such emotional force, I’m pierced as if it’s my own story. It’s one of those visions, populated by people with dour, pale faces who are crowding in on me, laying hands on me, that I had to scribble about in my journal. The visions are increasing and uncontrollable. They’re like nightmares while awake. Daymares.

“Have you ever dreamed people you don’t know?” I ask, wanting to know if this is a normal thing. I dream the same cast of strangers so frequently, I feel like I’m starting to know them. And deeply hate them. Powerful emotions?—?hate, anger, despair?—?skip like stones on the lake of my dreams and visions, but otherwise, in day-to-day life, they sink to the bottom.

My mom gives me one of her assessing glances, full of concern. “I think we are all of the characters we dream. Different parts of our psyche playing various roles.”

So does that mean I hate myself?

My dad phones and asks if my mom can come handle some paperwork for the exhibition jump for the facility visit of the organizers of the X Games. He’s called in some favors and has arranged for more jump planes to be onsite when they come. The hangar is getting the top-to-bottom white-glove treatment. With each day, his anticipation ramps up. It has the faint trace of desperation.

My body hums with jittery excitement at going to the airport, and it’s a welcome sensation, something new. Maybe if I skydive, I’ll feel like myself again. The thought of jumping makes me queasy all of a sudden, but to be all the way alive, to experience something more than guilt and confusion, I have to do everything I can to be that girl?—?and that girl eats and breathes the drop zone.



The desert is particularly gorgeous today. The sky is so blue that the mountains look like they’ve been painted against it. I’m glad for the open space of the Mojave. I think I’d be overwhelmed in the bustling city with its colors and crowds and . . . glass.

My dad is in a good mood, or at least he looks like he is. When we walk in, he’s prepping two full loads of jumpers?—?a good sign for business, but my parents exchange a glance that is a question about me and my follow-up visit with Dr. Collier. Even though I haven’t wigged out in front of them in almost a week, he probably wants confirmation that the meds are permanently dousing the crazy in me.

Whether Dr. Collier realizes it or not, the way he speaks of schizophrenia and bipolar disorder has burdened me with a sense of hopelessness. The statistics don’t support my notion of “getting over this someday.” According to him, most people with schizophrenia never recover or live normally. I wondered why I even needed the medication when he said it often doesn’t help with problems like craving isolation, feeling numb, or having no interest in life in general. What’s the point, then?

My mom is talking to my dad about how we’re busier because word has gotten out that we’re being considered for the X Games. People want in on that action. The energy of the drop zone is a living thing, eddying around the bodies of the jumpers, infusing the air with an electric charge. I feel more alive. My blood pumps faster. This could be my medication.

Someone taps my shoulder. I startle.

Dom breaks into a chuckle. “I’m sorry, Ry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He’s wearing his jumpsuit and has a camera affixed to the top of his helmet. His dimples flash as he grins. He has a full-wattage smile.

“It’s okay. I’m sorry I’ve been cold to you.” My admission also startles me. Seeing him standing here, with cute dimples and sweet eyes, makes me feel warmth, and that’s another novel sensation after days of feeling numb and disoriented. Scared.

Dom looks into me so deeply, I swear he can see every secret under my skin. I don’t know if anyone has ever looked at me so penetratingly. But then I realize: He has. He’s also trying not to say anything about my shaved hair, but his eyes can’t help but flick to the top of my head. “I want to talk more with you, but I have to go up and film a jump,” he says, regret in his rich voice. “Paco broke his ankle on a jump, and Kelsey’s sick, so we’re way short on camera crew. We need to get you back in the air. I’m worried we won’t have someone to film the big-way. So can I talk to you when I land?”