The_way_i_am_now_-_Amber_Smith
THE WAY I AM NOW
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A L S O B Y A M B E R S M I T H
The Way I Used to Be
The Last to Let Go
Something Like Gravity
Code Name: Serendipity
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For us.
For all of us—messy and imperfect—
daring to wish, to hope, to heal.
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Contents
Part One: April
Part Two: July
Part Three: September
Part Four: November
Getting Help
Acknowledgments
Rock The Boat
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EDEN
I’m disappearing again. It starts at the edges, my extremities blurring.
Fingers and toes go staticky and numb with no warning at all. I grip the
edge of the bathroom sink and try to hold myself up, but my hands won’t
work. My arms are weak. And now my knees want to buckle too.
Next, it’s my heart, pumping fast and jagged.
I try to take a breath.
Lungs are cement, heavy and stiff.
I never should have agreed to this. Not yet. Too soon.
I swipe my hand across the steamy mirror, and my reflection fogs over
too quickly. I choke on a laugh or a sob, I can’t tell which, because I really
am disappearing. Literally, figuratively, and every way in between. I’m
almost gone. Closing my eyes tightly, I try to locate one thought—just one
—the thing she said to do when this happens.
Count five things you can see. I open my eyes. Toothbrushes in the
ceramic holder. One. Okay, it’s okay. Two: my phone, there on the counter,
lighting up with a series of texts. Three: a glass of water, blistered with
condensation. Four: the amber prescription bottle full of pills I’m trying so
hard not to need. I look down at my hands, still not right. That’s five.
Four things you can feel. Water dripping off my hair and down my back,
over my shoulders. Smooth tiles slippery under my feet. Starchy towel
wrapped around my damp body. The porcelain sink, cool and hard against
the palms of my tingling hands.
Three sounds. The exhaust fan whirring, the shallow huff and gasp of my
breathing getting faster, and a knock on the bathroom door.
Two smells. Peaches and cream shampoo. Eucalyptus body wash.
One taste. Stinging mint mouthwash with notes of lingering vomit
underneath, making me gag all over again. I swallow hard.
“Fuck’s sake,” I hiss, swiping the mirror again. This time with both
hands, one over the other, scrubbing at the glass. I refuse to give in to this.
Not tonight. I clench my fingers into fists until I can feel my knuckles
crack. I inhale, too sharply, and finally manage to get some air into my
body. “You’re okay,” I exhale. “I’m okay,” I lie.
I’m staring down into the black circle of the drain as my eyes drift back
over to the bottle. Fine. I twist the cap in my useless hands and let one
chalky tablet tumble into my palm. I swallow it, I swallow it good. And
then I down the entire glass of water in one gulp, letting tiny rivulets stream
out of the corners of my mouth, down my neck, not even bothering to wipe
them away.
“Edy?” It’s my mom, knocking on the door again. “Everything all right?
Mara’s here to pick you up.”
“Yeah, I—” My breath catches on the word. “I’m almost ready.”
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JOSH
It’s been four months since I’ve been back. Four months since I’ve seen my
parents. Four months since the fight with my dad. Four months since I was
here in my room. I’ve been home only a couple of hours, haven’t even seen
my dad yet, and already I feel like I’m suffocating.
I slouch down and let my head sink into the pillows, and as I close my
eyes, I swear I can smell her for just a moment. Because the last time I was
here, she was here next to me, in my bed, no more secrets between us. And
as I turn my head, I bring the pillow to my face and breathe in deeper this
time.
My phone vibrates in my hand. It’s Dominic, my roommate, who
practically packed my bag and dragged me out of our apartment and into his
car to come home this week. I had to come home sometime.
His text says I’m serious. be ready in 10 . . . and don’t even think about bailing
I start to respond, but now that my phone is in my hand and Eden is on
my mind again, I find our texts instead, my last three still sitting there
unanswered. I haven’t looked at them in a while, but I keep rereading them
now, trying to figure out what I said wrong. I’d seen the article about his
arrest. I asked her how she was handling it all. Reminded her that I was her
friend. Told her I was here if she needed anything. I checked in a couple of
days later, then again the next week. I even called and left a voice mail.
The last thing I wrote to her was should I be worried?
She didn’t respond and I didn’t want to push. Now months have passed,
and this is where we are. I type out a simple hey and stare at the word, those
three letters daring me to press send.
My bedroom door creaks open with two sharp knocks, followed by a
pause and one more. My dad. “Josh?” he says. “You’re home.”
“Yep.” I delete the word quickly and set my phone facedown on the bed.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing, I—I just, uh, wanted to say hi.” He shoves his hands deep into
the pockets of his jeans, his eyes clear and focused as he looks at me. “I
didn’t see your car outside.”
“Yeah, Dominic drove us home,” I explain, feeling my guard lower, just
enough to let my anger start to rise inside me.
“Oh,” he says, nodding.
I pick my phone back up; hope he takes the hint.
“Actually, if you have a minute, I’ve really wanted to talk to you. About
the last time you were home. Look, I know I wasn’t there for you when you
were dealing with . . .” He pauses, searching for the rest of a sentence I
suspect also isn’t there.
I watch him closely, waiting to see if he actually remembers what it was I
was dealing with the last time I was home. I make a bet with myself while I
wait: If he remembers even a fragment of what happened four months ago,
I’ll stay in tonight. I’ll talk with him like he wants. I’ll tell him I forgive
him, and I might even mean it.
“You know,” he starts again, “when you were dealing with all that.”
“What is this, making amends?” I ask. “Step nine already? Again,” I
mutter under my breath.
“No,” he says, wincing softly. “It’s not that, Josh.”
I sigh and set my phone back down. “Dad, I’m sorry,” I tell him, even
though I’m not sorry. But I don’t need him breaking his sobriety again just
because I took a cheap shot, either. “Shit, I just—”
“No, it’s okay, Joshie.” He holds his hands out in front of his chest and
shakes his head, just taking it. “It’s all right. I deserved that.” He backs up a
couple of steps until he can hold on to my doorframe like he needs
something to lean on. He opens his mouth to say something else, but the
doorbell interrupts him. I can hear my mom downstairs now too, talking to
Dominic.
“I don’t know why I said that.” I try to apologize again. “I’m sorry.”
It’s fine, he mouths to me, then turns toward the hallway, greeting
Dominic like the picture-perfect father he sometimes really is. “Dominic
DiCarlo in the flesh! Good season for you, I hear.” What he doesn’t say is
how my season has been shit—he doesn’t need to say it, we all know.
“Keeping this one in line, I’m sure,” he adds in that good-natured way of
his.
“You know it,” Dominic jokes, shaking my dad’s outstretched hand.
“Someone’s gotta keep him in line.” He’s all cheerful until he sees me,
taking off my hat and trying to smooth the wrinkles in my shirt. “Man,
you’re not ready at all.”
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EDEN
My hands are steady now as they reach for the door handle. Steady as I flip
down the visor in Mara’s car and swipe mascara over my lashes. Steady as
Steve climbs into the seat next to me and interlaces his fingers with mine,
smiling sweetly as he says, “Hey, I missed you.”
My heart has slowed now that the medicine found its way into my
bloodstream. Even though I know it’s not a real calm, I guess it’s enough
for me to do this for my friends. To be out and acting normal for one last
night before I drop another bomb on them. And so I lie and say, “Me too.”
Mara’s boyfriend, Cameron, slams the passenger-side door as he gets in.
He kisses Mara and then glances back at me and says, “We’re probably
gonna miss the opening act now.”
“We will not,” Steve responds in my place, then leans toward me and
kisses my bare shoulder. “I’m glad you decided to come.”
“Yeah, me too,” I repeat, feeling like I should mean it.
“It’s about time you got out again,” he says.
“That’s what I told her, Steve,” Mara chimes in, all smiles.
“Think of tonight as a new beginning,” he continues. “You’ll be back in
school on Monday, and then we have the last couple of months of our senior
year to enjoy. Finally. We’ve earned it!”
“Hell yeah, we have,” Cameron agrees.
They act like I’m recovering from a bad flu or something. Like now that
I’m not keeping secrets, things can magically go back to normal, whatever
normal used to be. As if finishing senior year is not the last thing on my
mind right now. Or maybe they’re right, and I should just try to ignore all
the rest of the shit and be a regular teenager for the next two months while I
still can.
“Cameron,” I hear myself call above the music, and they all turn to look
at me. “We bought the tickets for the headliner, anyway, right? So if we’re
late, it’s still gonna be okay.”
Not that I care much about either, but I owed them a little enthusiasm.
He rolls his eyes and turns back around, muttering, “You mean I bought
the tickets.” Cameron is the only one not pretending, not suddenly being
nice to me just because of everything that happened, and I feel strangely
grateful for that. “You can pay me back anytime, by the way.”
Our bickering somehow makes Mara smile, and Steve holds my hand too
tightly, both taking this all as a good sign that I still have some fight in me. I
clear my throat, preparing to give them the disclaimer my therapist helped
me work out during my session this week.
“So, guys, um,” I begin. “I just wanted to say . . . You know it’s been a
while since I’ve been around a lot of people, and I might, like, get anxious
or—”
“It’s okay,” Steve interrupts, pulling me closer. “Don’t worry, we’ll be
there.”
“Okay, it’s just that I might need to take a break and get some air for a
few minutes, or something. And if I do, it’s not a big deal and I’m okay, so I
don’t want anyone to worry or feel like we have to leave or anything like
that.” It didn’t come out as smoothly as I’d practiced, but I said what I
needed to say. Boundaries.
Now his nervous puppy eyes are back on me. And Mara squints at me in
the rearview mirror.
“I mean, I might not. It’s hard to say,” I add so they’ll stop looking at me
like that. “Or I could just get really drunk and we’ll all have a great fucking
time.”
“Edy,” Mara scolds at the same time Steve is shouting, “No!”
“Joking,” I say with a smile. It’s also been four months since I’ve done
anything bad. Though my therapist would tell me to replace bad with
“unhealthy.” I haven’t done any drinking or guys or smoking of any
substances at all. I’m still not sure how taking these pills when I get
overwhelmed is any different from the other unhealthy stuff. Not sure who
decides what’s good and what’s bad. But I’m doing it anyway, following
these rules, because I want to get better, be better. I really do.
Walking up from the parking lot, we pass a group of college kids with
drinks in their hands, hanging out around this old wooden picnic table that
looks like it’s being partially held up by the concrete walls of the building.
Their cigarette smoke calls to me as we walk by, and I watch them laughing
and spilling their drinks. If Steve weren’t holding on to my hand so tightly,
if things weren’t different now, I’d imagine myself drifting toward them,
finding an easy space to fit for the night.
But things are different now; that kind of easy doesn’t seem to exist for
me anymore.
At the door we’re each issued a neon-pink UNDER 21 wristband that the
guy puts on me, grazing the inside of my wrist as he does so. I know it’s
nothing, but I already feel somehow violated by that small touch, yet also
strangely numb to it.
It’s too tight, the wristband. I tug on it to see if there’s any give, but
they’re the paper kind that you can’t tear off or squeeze over your wrist.
Mara doesn’t seem bothered by hers at all, so I try to forget it.
Music’s thumping from the speakers. Everywhere I look people are
drinking, laughing, shouting. Someone bumps into me, and I know, I know
my body should be feeling something about all this. That old shock of
adrenaline, heart racing, breath quickening. But there’s nothing. Except for
that disappearing feeling again, except this time it doesn’t kick off a panic
attack. It just makes me feel like part of me isn’t really here. And I’m
suddenly unsure if I can trust myself to even know whether I’m safe or not
with that part of me dormant.
This time I hold on to Steve’s hand tighter as he leads us closer to the
stage. Mara takes my other hand, and when I look back at Cameron holding
hers, I’m reminded of kindergarten recess, little kids forming a human chain
to walk across the street to get to the playground. I hate that I need this now.
“You good?” Mara says, close to my ear, as bodies start to pack in around
us.
I nod.
And I am. Sort of. Through the first set of the opening band, I’m good. I
even let myself sway a little. Not dance or jump or move my hips or close
my eyes and touch my boyfriend the way Mara is doing that makes it look
so easy. It’s different, chemically, the absence of alcohol, the presence of
this medication clouding my head instead.
By the time the band—Steve’s favorite band, the one we came to see—
takes the stage, I feel myself emerging again. Softly at first. There’s that
familiar jagged heartbeat in my chest and my breathing comes undone and
messy, the bass reverberating in my skull. “It’s okay,” I whisper, unable to
hear my own voice in my head over the music. I let go of Steve’s hand. My
palms are getting sweaty. And I’m suddenly very aware of every part of my
body that’s touching other people’s bodies as they bump up against me.
I look around now, too quickly, taking in everything I missed when we
arrived, all at once. I spot our school colors; a varsity jacket catches the
lights from the stage. I immediately get a sinking feeling in the pit of my
stomach—I don’t know why I hadn’t counted on seeing people from school
tonight. We’re here, after all. But then I see him in clips, flashes, his head
back, laughing. Jock Guy. One of Josh’s old friends.
No. I’m imagining things. I close my eyes for a second. Reset.
But when I open them, he’s still there. It’s definitely Jock Guy. The one
who found me at my locker that day after school. The one who chased me
down the hall. The one who wanted to scare me, wanted me to pay for my
brother beating Josh up. I face the front, look at the stage. It’s now. Not
then. But I can’t help myself; I look over again. Close my eyes again. Hear
his voice again in my ear. I hear you’re real dirty.
My head is pounding now.
I clear my throat, or try to. “Steve!” I yell, but he can’t hear me. I place
my hand on his shoulder, and he looks down at me. I cup my hands around
my mouth, and he leans in. I’m practically shouting in his ear. “I’m gonna
step out.”
“What?” he yells.
I point toward the exit.
“You all right?” he shouts.
I nod. “Yeah, I just feel weird.”
“What?” he yells again.
“Headache,” I shout back.
“Want me to come?”
I shake my head. “Stay, really.”
He looks back and forth between me and the band. “You sure?”
“Yes, it’s just a headache.” But I’m not sure he hears.
Mara notices me leaving and grabs my arm. She’s saying something I
can’t make out.
“It’s just a headache,” I tell her. “I’ll be back.”
She opens her mouth to argue and grabs hold of my other arm now, so
we’re face-to-face, but unexpectedly, thankfully, Cameron is the one to
gently touch her wrist, making her let go of me. He nods at me and keeps
Mara there.
I squeeze through openings in the crush of bodies, holding my breath as I
struggle against the current. My head is pounding harder now, in time with
the music but out of sync with my footsteps, setting me off-balance, the
music rattling my chest. I finally make my way through the worst of it,
bouncing like a pinball as I fight my way past the line of people still waiting
to get in.
I hear my name, I think, over all the voices and music spilling through
the doors.
Outside, I go straight for the parking lot, and now I know for sure he’s
calling my name. Steve always wants to be some kind of Prince Charming,
but if he’s the prince, I’m just another fucking Cinderella, my magic pills
having worn away, the spell broken. I’m in rags, the ball raging on without
me. And I don’t belong here anymore; I never did. I know already, as I try
to catch my breath, the cool air hitting the sweat on my face and neck,
there’s no way I’m going to be able to go back in there.
I tilt my head skyward and breathe in deeply, close my eyes as I exhale
slowly. In and out. In and out, just like my therapist showed me. There’s a
soft tap at the back of my arm. “I said I’m fine, Steve, really.” I spin around.
“It’s just a head . . . ache.”
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JOSH
Dominic keeps complaining about how long it’s taking to get in, how much
of the show we’ve already missed. He’s texting with our friends inside—his
friends mostly these days. “They’re saving us spots near the back,” he tells
me. When I don’t respond, he adds, “Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“I can feel you brooding from here.” He glances up from his phone at
me, the briefest exchange. “Stop it.”
“Sorry, I just don’t get what the big deal is with this band,” I tell him,
pretending my mood is over me not being into the concert instead of
because of things with my dad. “So, they were kinda famous for a minute in
the early aughts.” I shrug.
“And they’re from here,” he emphasizes. “Have some hometown pride,
you ingrate.”
I shake my head because I know he doesn’t really care either. That’s not
the reason we’re here, at this concert, or here, back home. He’s meeting up
with someone—the same someone he’s been texting this whole time—but
won’t just tell me that’s the reason he wanted me here.
“At this rate, we’ll miss the concert altogether,” he mutters, “so you
might get your wish after all.”
“Well, we wouldn’t have been so late if you didn’t make me change my
clothes.”
“You’re welcome for not letting you out of the house like that.” He scoffs
and looks at me, finally putting his phone in his pocket. “Sometimes you’re
so straight, you don’t even know how lucky you are to have me.”
He reaches up to try to fix my hair, but I push his hand away.
“Seriously?”
“You have residual hat hair, man!” He’s laughing as he reaches for me
again. I dodge him and ram right into someone.
“Sorry, excuse me,” I say, turning just in time to see the side of her face
rushing past. I turn back to Dominic. “Was that . . . ?”
“Who?” Dominic asks.
I look again. She’s moving fast toward the parking lot. The hair is
different, but it’s her walk for sure, the way she’s holding her arms crossed
tight to her chest. “Eden?” I call, but there’s no way she could hear me in
this crowd. “Listen,” I tell Dominic. “I’ll be right back.”
“Josh, don’t,” he says, clamping his hand on my shoulder, no playfulness
in his voice anymore. “Come on, we’re almost in—”
“Yeah, I know,” I tell him, already stepping out of the line. “But just give
me a minute, all right?”
“Josh!” I hear him yell behind me.
My heart is pounding as I jog after this girl who may or may not be her.
She’s walking so fast, then stops abruptly.
I finally catch up to her, standing still in the parking lot. “Eden?” I say
quieter now. I reach out, my fingers touch her arm. And I know it’s her
before she even turns around because my body memorized hers in relation
to mine so long ago.
She’s saying something about having a headache as she spins to look at
me.
“It is you,” I say stupidly.
Her mouth opens, pausing for a second before she smiles. She doesn’t
even say anything; she just steps forward, right into me, her head tucking
perfectly under my chin as it always did. I don’t know why it surprises me
so much when it feels so natural, like what else would we be doing besides
holding on to each other like this? Her lungs expand like she’s breathing me
in, and I bury my face in her hair—only for a second, I tell myself. She
smells so sweet and clean, like some kind of fruit. She mumbles my name
into my shirt, and I realize I’ve forgotten how good it feels to hear her say
my name. As I place my arms around her, my fingertips touch the bare skin
of her arms. It’s so familiar, comforting, I could stay like this. But she pulls
away just a little, her hands resting at my waist as she looks up at me.
“You’re literally the last person I thought I would run into tonight,” she
says, still smiling.