Mirage(54)

“I wasn’t haunting you, Rachel,” I say, remembering with sudden clarity her name from the back of the maroon Bible. Her eyes fly open as the name leaves my lips, and I know I’m right. “I was following you. I was desperately fighting for my own life!”

I think back to the night of the LSD trip. “What I did was stupid,” I admit, regretfully. “I let you in. But I tried to get back. I clung to my body, to my life. I tried to let people know not to trust you.” I recall the kiss with Joe. How I pushed so hard for her to kiss him so he’d know she couldn’t possibly be me. But instead I only hurt him. I see that now. “You cut my hair off . . .” It seems like a stupid thing to say.

The spirit ventures closer to me, but not in a threatening way: beseeching, her eyes seeking forgiveness. “I didn’t know it was you in the reflections. I thought it was a ghost trying to possess me. But the ghost had the same reflection I saw every day in the mirror. I didn’t know how to stop it, but I knew I was ruining my life.” She pauses, eyes to the ground. “Your life,” she corrects. “I couldn’t live like that. People were suffering. I realized that Gran was right: a life without integrity isn’t worth living at all.”

“I would never give up on life. No matter how bad things were. Never!”

With those words I become a dark dandelion seed, furiously picked up and whipped in the wind.

Planted.





Thirty-Five


SEARING PAIN IS the first thing I feel. It’s hard to breathe. I try to move my legs. More pain floats through my body than blood. I’m steeping in it. Someone takes my hand, and I struggle to open my eyes. It’s Daddy. His eyes are swollen from crying, but unabashed love shines from them. How could I have been so blind? Mom moves to kiss my cheek and stands next to him. They look down on me with such gratefulness. They sob, they laugh, relieved.

Joe and Dom are both wrinkled and sound asleep on worn chairs next to each other, like two mismatched brothers. It’s one of the sweetest things I’ve ever seen.

Looking around the hospital room, I have a stab of panic wondering if any of it really happened. Maybe there was no sad-eyed girl in the desert with me. Maybe I never left the hospital from the LSD. Could it all have been a dream?

Could I be crazy after all?

If all of it did happen, my life is wreckage. There is so much to repair. Some damage might be permanent. Hurricane Crazy Girl debris. Relationships shattered, Gran dead, Dad’s business in ruins.

How can I even tell them the truth? They’d think it was more ramblings from a nutjob. I wonder if I can find Rachel’s journal . . .

At least Gran finally knew the truth. Now I know what she meant about my song. It’s the most important tune you’ll ever dance to: your life is your song. And the melody is how you live it. Each of us is a movement in the great symphony. I want to tell everyone this.

Live with integrity so you can die with integrity. Don’t die without sharing your song.

Only through dying have I come to know what a gift it is to be alive. But they’ll never believe me. I close my eyes. Hot tears run down to my temples. They think I tried to kill myself.

If they only knew how badly I tried to save myself.

When I was floating, I had the pain of watching someone else try to be me, and I could only throw my spirit against the door of my own life, desperate to break through. I think that emotional pain was worse than the pain I’m feeling now. I’ll take this.

I’m the only one who can be me.

At one time I told Avery I’d rather be crazy and fully alive than sane and half-dead. I thought that nothing I did mattered. I was so full of shit. Half-dead sucks ass, half-dead hurts, but it’s life. Now I realize: life is worth living, even when it hurts.

I might not have known that if it hadn’t been taken away.

“I love you,” I tell my parents. I roll my head sideways and see a message written in messy handwriting, lying on the table next to me. I wince as I reach with my one good hand to pick it up.



Your reflection is your own.





I point to the note with a hammering heart. “Who?—?who wrote this?”

My mother flashes me a perplexed, sympathetic look and lays her hand reassuringly over mine. “Honey . . . you did.”





Acknowledgments


Yes, I flung myself out of perfectly good airplanes! I sucked at it, quite honestly. My fellow skydivers told me it was because my right ear sticks out more than my left, contributing to my tendency to turn constantly in freefall. I was a human with a bad rudder and only jumped thirty-nine times. But I’m still here, so by that measure of skydiving achievement, I guess I did well!

Thank you to the motley bunch of personalities who used to jump with me in California City back in 1993–94. Particularly, I wish to thank the Celaya family. I thought of Dennis often during the writing of this book and recall the days in the desert with all of you as some of the most memorable of my life.

As always, I must thank my distinguished (and by that I mean he’s legendary, like whoa) and exceptional agent, Michael Bourret. Michael, I consider the day we decided to work together as one of the luckiest of my career. Thank you for your hard work and continued belief in me.

Much gratitude goes to my editor, Karen Grove. We’ve walked this path together four times now, and each time, I learn something new from you. Thank you for your love of my stories and careful attention to making them better. Working with you is an absolute joy.