"Well, yeah," I respond with a nonchalant shrug. "When you put it that way, sure … I made the choice to keep my freedom in exchange for group therapy, but-"
"And I seem to remember last week … you said you didn't have anything to contribute," she throws at me with her chin tilted aggressively high. "In fact, you even said to leave you the fuck alone as we were ironing out the details of the trip. But you sure seem to have a lot to say now."
"Mags said this would happen," Jillian says in a smooth voice, and my gaze slides over to her where I try not to get sidetracked by the dancing lights and shadows the fire casts upon her face. "She said we'd learn something from each other because our circumstances are all unique. She said it would become clearer the more time we spend together what things we have in common, and which we can use to draw strength from."
"We have nothing in common," I sneer, still mightily incensed any of these fucktards could even think to compare their misery to mine.
And no … I swear I absolutely do not want to kiss Jillian right now because she looks so goddamned perfect sitting on the other side of the fire, even though she's saying things I don't want to hear that must make some sort of sense to her.
"You're wrong," Goth Chick says to me. Everyone sort of jerks with surprise that she's actually got more to share. "There's one thing we all share with each other."
"Yeah … what's that?" I ask, my tone laced heavy with sarcasm.
She raises her eyes to mine. For a split second, I don't see the bristling anger she always seems to have bubbling just beneath the surface of her muddy-green eyes. Instead, they look weary, old, and wise.
So wise that I feel compelled to listen, but I'll never admit it to her or any of these freaks.
"Each of us here," Goth Chick says with a sweep of her arm around the fire. "Each one of us hates our life. It's a burden to us. It's unfair. It's nothing but misery and torment, and we're pissed we're the ones who have to suffer it. Maybe not to the same degree, and not for the same reasons, but it's the absolute tie that binds every one of us."
I wait for her words to bounce off me, for my trademark lip curl of condescension to spring forth. Instead, her words barrel into me with the force of a grenade launcher. They actually have a ring of familiar truth because I know I'm at the height of my anger and bitterness when I see just how great other people have it. I want to slap their sunny smiles off their faces, and I want them to come down to my level where they can wallow around in the sludge of desolation with me. I want everyone to feel as bad as I do, because it's unfair that I can't seem to feel better on my own.
So maybe Goth Chick has it a little bit right.
Except for Jillian. I don't think she hates her life the way I do.
Surging out of my chair, I totter for a second until I get my balance. "Well, that was enlightening, Dr. Phil. Maybe you should get a job counseling depressed people everywhere. I'm sure your bubbly disposition would be a hit with others."
She doesn't respond, picking at her nails with her shoulders hunched over protectively, indicating she's clearly done with this conversation as well.
Fine by me.
I walk past her toward my Suburban because I have a pill with my name on it just begging to be swallowed, pretending I don't care that I feel Jillian's eyes burning into my retreating back.
Chapter 6
As I head from the campground bathrooms back to our site, I realize I'm not as cranky this morning as I thought I'd be, given the fact I didn't sleep well. Had nothing to do with camping in general. I had a good tent, a decent sleeping bag, and level ground. It was a bit too warm last night, so I'd left my tent flaps open to allow some breeze. This, unfortunately, let in noise that would have otherwise been filtered had I kept it closed.
I would have been able to sleep but for Jillian's soft voice as she talked to Connor for what seemed like hours after they entered that huge tent to go to sleep. It had three areas separated by internal flaps, but when I set it up yesterday, I noted with interest that Jillian and Connor laid their sleeping bags right next to each other in the middle section.
Oh, I didn't think there was any fucking around going on. From the very first group session, Jillian established herself as Connor's "older sister he never had" and became his protector of sorts. She was always there to come to his defense should Barb or I lash out at him during the rare times we talked.
Incidentally, I'd decided this morning I should probably call Goth Chick by her real name of Barb, only to avoid Jillian's sanctimonious wrath should I slip up. Self-preservation and all that.
Last night, I listened to Jillian and Connor talk about everything from music to movies to politics. Even about Connor's impending death. There was a different tone in his voice because his guard was totally down with Jillian. I suspect he puts on a braver-than-normal face in group because he's a dude and we don't like feeling vulnerable. But last night, he pulled no punches with her.
"I obsess about every little symptom that crops up," he had told her when she asked how he was doing. "Afraid it means the end is coming or something. Sometimes I can't sleep at all because I'll obsess about something stupid like having the sniffles or something."
If he'd told that to me, my response would have been to "suck it up" and deal with it, because that's all the fuck I've been told since I lost my leg. But Jillian has far more empathy than I ever could, and she did nothing more than validate him.
"I can totally imagine feeling that way," she said softly. "Fear of the unknown is one of the greatest fears of all in my opinion."
"But it's taking away from enjoying what time I have left," he'd returned to her. His voice floated through my tent with surprising grit, and I almost smiled into the dark over his fierce determination. "I don't like being controlled like that."
Jillian had given a soft laugh, and I could even imagine her ruffling his hair if he had any. "Then don't let those emotions control you. Have those feelings, acknowledge what they are, recognize them for what they're worth, and then let them go. Turn your attention to that next great thing you want to accomplish."
Fuck, she made it all sound so simple. It's not the first time I've heard those words. I've had other counselors tell me with great care and consolation that it's okay to feel angry, it's okay to hate my circumstances, and that one day, things will look better. I sneered at every single one of those people who would dare make such a prediction when they sat there whole and hardy.
But Jillian isn't whole or hardy. She's delicate, fragile, and going blind.
And yet, she has that unfettered optimism that seems impossibly real.
At any rate, I shamelessly listened to their entire conversation, mainly because I couldn't sleep and it took my mind off my own problems. But also, I liked the sound of Jillian's voice. I'd tried to just concentrate on that rather than on the content of their discussions. I'd finally fallen asleep to the sound of it.
♦
The next morning, I find Jillian and Connor sitting at the picnic table on opposite sides of each other. Barb sits in the back seat of my Suburban with the door open. She's turned sideways, feet planted on the running board, her head bent over as she picks at her nail polish.
Jillian gives me a dazzling smile, which is surprising given I was a total ass last night. "Good morning. Sleep well?"
"Yup." The lie comes easily, but I'm not about to tell her I eavesdropped last night. I make my way to the large cooler and pull out the carton of eggs and package of bacon I'd bought yesterday.
"Can I help with breakfast?" she asks, swinging her legs over the bench and standing.
"Sure." I push the eggs and bacon at her. "Be my guest."
At that, I take the seat on the bench she just vacated, waiting to see what she does.
There's no surprise when she gives me a cheery smile and turns to the propane stove I've got sitting on the folding utility table. She bends over and squints at the knob on the front, then turns it to the left as indicated while hitting the ignitor button.
Nothing happens.
I watch as she hits the button a few more times before turning the knob back to off. Jillian turns to me while slowly raising her eyebrows up in silent question. "What am I doing wrong?"
"Turn on the gas," I tell her.
"Well, damn," she mutters as she turns to the small tank and does exactly as I instructed. Within seconds, she has the stove lit and puts the battered old camping skillet I have over the blue flame to heat.
"So what's our goal today? Where are we headed?" Connor asks, looking to me since I'd planned the route we'd take.
"Kansas City, Missouri," I tell him as I keep one eye on Jillian as she cooks. She seems confident, so I don't worry about it too much. "Figured we'd catch a Royals' baseball game."
"Really?" Connor asks with excitement, his eyes practically bugging out of his head as if I'd given him the goddamn cure to cancer or something. "Seeing a professional baseball game is on my bucket list, but it was sort of a low priority."
"You have an actual bucket list of things you want to do before you die?" I ask, because I'd conjured up a bucket list myself when I was in the hospital and hovering on the brink of death. During the few lucid moments I had, I vowed that if I survived, I'd do grand and glorious things like travel the world to climb the highest mountains and shit like that. Such a fucking waste of energy to have even thought that way.