Held A New Adult Romance(2)

She nods. "I get that. It's okay. We can't always be making breakthroughs. We've done good work here, Amber. We have."

I nod along with her but my head bobs out of control and the sobs and snot come tearing out of me. I grab a handful of Kleenex from the box. She doesn't get up or hug me or anything - she's not that kind of therapist and I'm glad. The one I had before wanted to hug me all the time and kept telling me I was a strong, brave young woman. Eventually I told her that I was crazy, not stupid, and that I could still smell bullshit when someone crapped a pile at my feet. She went off in a huff and didn't come back.

"It's like anything," says Dr. Stahl. "Sometimes you breeze through and sometimes you hit a plateau. And it can knock you back because you're used to doing so well. But don't let it. This is a good sign - trust me. It means you're not satisfied with slow progress. It means you want to get better. But don't let it frustrate you, okay?"

I sniff and nod. I don't know how I'm supposed to get better when I can't even put a pair of shoes away without freaking out, but she's the doctor, after all.

"How are you getting along with the medication?"

"Fine. Good."

"No more side effects?"

"No. It makes my mouth dry sometimes, but I always did need to drink more water."

She checks a little black notebook. "You're not due for a refill for...about two weeks? Does that sound right?"

"Yep."

"Okay. Good." She peers neutrally at me for a while. I know that look. She's waiting for me to bring something else up, but I've got nothing today. On better days I can tease out a strand of what's bothering me and offer it up for us both to examine and talk over and unravel, but today there's nothing but a snarl, a hopeless tangle.

"Are you okay to carry on?" she asks. "Or do you need a break for today?"

"Break," I croak, so grateful that I think I might cry again. This is so stupid. She's right - I feel like I've taken a giant step back. All the effort and energy I spent trying to pull myself out of this hole, only for it to open up and swallow me again. And it happened so easily; that is by far the worst part.

When she's gone I sit and stare at the door like it's going to eat me. I know that beyond it is an oval shaped pool, mosaic tiled and all mine. I used to love going out there in the mornings, seeing the perfect, flat surface of the water and knowing that it was mine to break. I don't want for much. People have been telling me that my whole life.

Once upon a time they were talking about getting the pool drained. Are we back there again? I hope to God not. I don't think I could stand people looking at me like that.

I want a cigarette. Outside is the only safe place to smoke, but I'm desperate. I recall the dorm-room contraptions that Everglade used to make - cardboard tubes and dryer sheets, so that we could do bong-hits without setting off the smoke alarms. The crumpled pack under my mattress reveals that I have only five smokes left and I haven't seen Esteban today. Or yesterday. Or the day before. How long have I been in this room?

I turn on the extractor and stand on the lid of the john, straining up on my tiptoes when I exhale, so as to blow as much of the smoke into the fan as possible. So much for adulthood. Like sanity, it can collapse from underneath you when you least expect it. I am careful to keep my balance.

Four. Four. The number won't leave me alone. That's one smoke now. Then maybe I can take my mind off it, watch a movie for a couple of hours. Then another. No. Maybe I'll call for some dinner first and smoke after. Good. That's two. That leaves me with two until whatever o'clock in the morning I fall asleep. It's not enough. Not today. Today is a bad day.

The fear threatens to sneak up on me again, to steal my breath. I clench my fists hard and remember to breathe. Breathe like I learned in yoga class, deep through the nose, down into the throat. Heroic breathing - was that what they called it? Huffing farts, said Everglade. They should just rename Downward Facing Dog the Fart Cannon and get it over with. They were always threatening to throw us out for giggling.

If I call the gatehouse they'll know something's up. I'm going to have to go out there. My heart feels like it's trying to bust out of my rib cage and my mouth is dryer than a mummy's sock, but it's that or face a whole night with only four cigarettes in the pack. I can't do that.

I could cry. I could scream. I could punch the walls. It might even make me feel better, but it won't get me what I want. To get what I want all I have to is step outside, sit beside the pool and wait for Esteban to make his rounds. My life is not exactly complicated, but for some reason my brain and my body never got the memo.

Everything is fuzzy around the edges as I open the door. I feel like I could just float away. It's almost evening - the shadows long on the terracotta patio tiles. The pool is smooth and blue as a jewel and I think about what might happen if I fell in. Would I just sink because I couldn't catch my breath? I sit down before I fall down, and put my feet in the warm water.