Before I Let You Go(56)

I was on edge all of the time, and it was exhausting.

During this adjustment period, Lexie had limitless energy for me, but her time was scarce—she was working so hard. I was just one of the many complicated balls she had to juggle. I was grateful to her—but I was feeling increasingly depressed, although I barely had the words to express the darkening storm clouds in my mind.

I remained determined to make it work, though, and did my best to cope. I went to class as late as possible to avoid the crush in the halls, and ate lunch in an empty classroom alone. I read voraciously and figured out the essay thing, and was soon doing well again in English—but math and science were foreign languages that no one ever taught me to speak.

By the second semester, I was skipping the classes I didn’t enjoy. The upside was that one day while I was hiding from my teachers, I found an unlikely group of friends. They were also outcasts—a small, ragtag band of exceedingly dramatic kids with too much eyeliner and attitude. I didn’t exactly join their group, but became friendly enough with one or two of them to learn some tips on how to blend in.

Unsurprisingly, when the school year ended, I didn’t have nearly enough credits to progress to sophomore year. Lexie was absolutely livid. Up until that point, I’d rarely seen her angry.

“Don’t you understand, Annie? School is everything! How could you hide this from me? You need to go back to school next year and sort this out—you’ll redo your freshman year and make more of an effort this time!”

I’m smart—not Lexie smart, but smart enough to have a level of self-awareness. Smart enough to understand that since I left the community there have been two distinct parts to Annie Vidler. There is the regular, everyday me—and there is the Bad Me. The regular me runs on regular things and likes sappy movies and good books and golden sunsets. The regular me is a good friend and loves her sister and has quite a way with words.

Then there is the Bad Me. It’s the blackness—it’s the darkness—and under it all is the pain. The bad Annie can be dormant for months at a time, but she is easily aroused—all it takes is an authoritative tone or demanding voice or an accusation or a dismissive glance. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Bad Me is fueled by my hatred for Robert.

Understanding my pain does not mean I can control it.

Lexie didn’t even know about the Bad Me until she unwittingly unleashed her. All it took were those words and that tone—don’t you understand, Annie? You have to make this work—and I was completely out of control. The rage rose from somewhere deep and dark within me, and once it was unleashed, its appetite for destruction wouldn’t rest.

We had a huge argument and someone from an adjoining dorm room called campus security. When they came to check on us, I completely lost my mind. I don’t remember doing it—but later Lexie told me that I smashed a hole in her door.

That argument was the first time a tide of rage washed away my common sense. I was not going to be told what to do. I simply wasn’t—not even by Lexie. She wasn’t going to control me. No one was ever going to have the power to tell me how to live my life, not ever again.

I was still blind with fury when they dragged me out of the dorm room, a seething ball of anger—kicking and screaming and cursing the guards and Lexie and the world. She followed, still trying to calm me, still trying to intervene—until a group of her friends pulled her away.

I started to sober then, noticing at last the fear and the confusion in her eyes, but I didn’t really snap out of my fit of rage until the campus police dumped me at the school gates and told me not to come back. Their dismissal was like a fire hose turned upon the heat of my anger. It was a shock to return to earth only to realize that one mindless temper tantrum, and I had cost myself everything.

I slept under a bridge that night, and the next day, one of those sort-of-friends from school took me in. By the time I had cooled down enough to try to go back to the dorm, Lexie had been told I wasn’t allowed to stay with her anymore.

She still had twelve months to go on her undergrad degree, and now, because of me, we had nowhere to live.

That was the first time I messed up Lexie’s life.





21


LEXIE


I’ve heard new parents say that the days go by too fast, but I’d never really understood what that meant before. The days between Daisy’s birth and Annie’s departure blur and blend and I’m quickly confused about what day it is.

We live extremes through every minute in that NICU. Within a few days of her birth, Daisy is caught in the full grip of withdrawal, and it’s heart-wrenching to watch. She breaks out in a rash from head to toe and she can’t keep her milk down, then she develops terrible diarrhea. She was born tiny on Monday morning, but by Thursday, she’s lost 20 percent of her body weight and there’s talk about inserting an IV to maintain her hydration. Daisy has tremors—her arms and legs and jaw vibrate furiously—and when it’s at its worst, she gets a startled, petrified look in her eyes as if she’s pleading with us to help her.

Possibly worst of all, between her three hourly doses of morphine, Daisy cries that terrible cry—that distinct, agonized sound that NAS babies make, a sound so high-pitched it makes my ears ache. I can still hear it for hours after I leave the hospital each day.

But because these things are all so intense—the peaceful moments, when they do come, are all the more blessed. Annie and I have long, quiet chats in that darkroom in the NICU—and we talk about everything, and nothing much at all. We dissect every aspect of Daisy’s face, looking for familiarities with Mom and Dad and trying to find ourselves in her features. Sometimes, we just sit in silence, and every now and again we look away from the baby and smile at one another. Those moments of silent togetherness are precious to me, and I know they are to Annie, too.