“Do what?”
“This. This thing where we talk the hell out of it until there’s nothing left to just . . . think about, you know?”
The funny thing is, I do know. I know exactly.
Inside the car, Kathy turns on the radio. Wonder of wonders, it’s Stevie effing Wonder, telling all of us why he called.
“Sorry,” says Kathy, blushing. She turns the dial.
Against every bone in my body, I switch the station back to Stevie. Then, pulling Kathy’s Hills Bros. can from my bag, I hand it over. “Here. Also, sorry. Also, I’ll pay you back.”
She takes the can, shrugs, tosses it in the back seat. “You teach me how to cut hair like that, and we’ll call it even.”
“Deal.”
“Listen, Mim”—her head tilts and she sighs, and I know, whatever she was going to say, she just decided not to say it—“you ready to go home?” she asks.
A montage rolls through my head, and like a curtain call, the characters of my trip take a bow . . .
Carl is driving a Greyhound to Anywhere, USA, summoning extra Carlness as a semi passes in the pouring rain. Arlene’s tombstone, a shining beacon of hope in the Land of Autonomy reads Here lies Arlene, a Grande Dame from the Old School, if ever there was one. Claire is frowning a new frown, pouring herself a glass of lemonade in her appropriately apathetic townhouse. Ahab and the Pale Whale are pumping gas, kicking ass, swimming and sunbathing. Officer Randy, like Doctor Wilson before him, is inventing new ways to furrow, wrinkle, shake, sigh, and doubt. Dr. Michelle Clark, with her blood, bows, and perfect teeth, would like to say hello.
The villains of this odyssey—Poncho Man and Caleb (aka “Shadow Kid”)—are humming a sad song behind bars, staring ten to twenty in the face. And though it is a well-deserved end, I am reminded of a certain Amazon Blonde being helped through the wreckage of a bus by the unlikeliest of hands. And I am reminded of two distinct voices in the woods, one of which might even be considered sadly sympathetic. And I wonder at the virtues of the villain.
And what of the heroes? My dearest Walt, Rubik’s Cube aficionado and doer of the Dew, is sitting in the passenger seat of the beloved Uncle Phil, laughing a laugh for the ages. And Beck, my Knight in Navy Nylon, with that smell (everything good in the world), that smile (ditto), and those deep green eyes, rolls down the window and lets the wind hit him in the face. And though it is a well-deserved end, I am reminded of a certain someone’s inclination toward the theft of shiny things. And I am reminded of a firework-infused confession of dishonesty. And I wonder at the faults of the hero.
Maybe there is some black and white, though. In our choices. In my choices.
Smiling, I add Our Heroine to the curtain call. She is riding with Beck and Walt, laughing at some singular, lovely thing Walt said, and now we’re discussing the Cubs, and New Beginnings, and oh my God, is it Opening Day yet?
I miss them beyond belief. Way, way beyond.
“Mim?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go home.”
Kathy’s PT Cruiser, fueled by the smooth tunes of Stevie Wonder, rolls between perfectly angled magnolias. From behind the aviators, my good eye dares the bright sun to finish what it started, to take the rest of my sight. But the sun doesn’t, because I don’t mean it, not really.
On a whim, I dig around in my bag for the Abilitol, pull it out, study it. For the first time, I notice the corner of the label is starting to peel back. I pull it off the rest of the way, revealing a slew of warnings, including the risks associated with taking the drug.
“. . . common side effects reported by users of Aripapilazone may include headache, fatigue, inner sense of restlessness, extreme nausea . . .”
Extreme nausea.
A dark corner of my brain shakes off its thick coat of dust and comes alive in the hopes of redemption. Could it be? Could my misplaced epiglottis be no more than a misprescribed drug? I see another list, this one related to the side effects of withdrawal.
“. . . possible symptoms of sudden discontinuation of Aripapilazone may include emesis, lightheadedness, extreme nausea, diaphoresis . . .”
Extreme nausea: a side effect of both taking the pill and not taking the pill. Like the virtuous villain, or the blemished hero, Abilitol is just another in a long line of grays.
I stare ahead, and, admiring the well-kept lawn, consider the madness of the world. Beck and Dad both blame themselves for what happened to their sisters. And they’ve spent years trying not to make the same mistake twice. But Dad is searching for something inside of me that may not have been there to begin with. And if he’s right—if there is some dark thing down there—I need someone on my team who understands the fictional side of life. Someone who understands the difference between suites and concertos. I need a bear in the office, not a snake in the grass.
I need a Makundi.
I unscrew the childproof lid, roll down my window, and hold out the bottle. I’m sure there are people out there who rely on Abilitol to get through the day. Hell, it’s probably saved lives. But thinking back to the last place I swallowed a full dose, bowing to the kings of habit on that empty bus in Jackson, I’ll say this: I’m seeing things much more clearly these days.
Slowly, surely, I tip the bottle upside down, emptying the pills right there in front of the militant magnolias. It may be difficult for a while; I may even go through withdrawal. I may need to call the Irish-in-hiding himself, the good Dr. Makundi, for a referral. But it’ll be worth it. Because this is my life, the only one I get. And if it’s a choice between a life Abilitoled, or a life full of Life . . . well, that’s really not a choice at all.