Tess Sharpe - Far From You

“Do you blame him?” Dr. Charles asks.

“He’s just doing his job.” The lie feels like glass against my gums, the words grinding through my skin. Hating ­Detective James is second nature at this point. If only he’d listened to me…

But I can’t think about that now. I’ve got to focus. Mina’s killer is out there. And Detective James isn’t going to find him.

“I know going home will be hard. But I feel like you’ve given me the tools to handle everything way better than I used to.”

Dr. Charles smiles, and relief hits me like a two-by-four. She’s finally buying it.

“I’m delighted to hear you say that. I know we had a rocky start, Sophie. But our last few sessions, you’ve had a much more positive outlook. And that’s very important, with everything that’s ahead of you. Recovery is not easy, and the work never stops.” She checks her watch. “Your parents should be here by now. Why don’t I take you to the waiting area?”

“Okay.”

We walk in silence down the corridor, past the group session going on in the rec room. That circle of chairs has been my own personal hell for the last three months. To have to sit there and share with people I barely know has been excruciating. I’ve spent every minute lying my ass off.

“They must be running late,” Dr. Charles says when we get to the empty waiting room.

Right. Late.

She’s either forgetting our last strained family-day session or she honestly believes the best of people.

I don’t.

Which is why I wonder if my parents are late. Or if they’re just not coming.

THREE AND A HALF MONTHS AGO (SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD)

“Don’t make me do this. Please, Mom. I don’t need to go anywhere—I’m clean. I swear!”

“I don’t want to hear it, Sophie.” Mom snaps my suitcase shut and marches downstairs. I follow. I have to fight her. Make her believe me.

Someone has to.

My dad’s waiting for us at the front door, his coat over his arm like he’s off to work. “Ready?” he asks.

“Yes,” Mom says. Her heels click across the Spanish-tile floor as she takes her place next to him.

“No.” I plant myself at the bottom of the stairs, square my shoulders, and cross my arms. My bad leg shakes as disappointment bears down on me from both sides. “I won’t go. You can’t make me.”

My dad sighs and looks at his feet.

“Get in the car, Sophie Grace,” Mom orders.

I say it low and slowly. “I don’t need to go anywhere. I didn’t relapse. Mina and I weren’t out scoring. I’m clean. I’ve been clean for over six months. I’ll take any drug test you give me.”

“The police found the pills in your jacket, Sophie,” Dad says. His voice is hoarse and his eyes are red. He’s been crying. Crying over me. Over what he thinks I’ve done. “The bottle had your fingerprints on it. You were supposed to be at Amber’s house, but you girls were out at Booker’s Point instead. You were buying drugs. Even if you didn’t get around to taking the pills, you bought them—they didn’t just magically appear in your pocket. Seaside is the best choice for you right now. Do you know how hard your mother had to fight just so you wouldn’t get a drug charge on your record?”

I look desperately at each of them. Dad won’t even look at me; Mom’s face is frozen; she’s in ice-queen mode. Nothing will crack it.

I have to try.

“I’ve told you before, they weren’t mine. Detective James has it all wrong. We weren’t out at Booker’s Point for drugs—Mina was meeting someone because of a newspaper story. The police are going after the wrong people, and they won’t believe me. I need you to believe me.”

Mom rounds on me, the suitcase swinging in her fist. “Do you understand what you’ve put me and your father through? What about Mrs. Bishop? Do you care what she must be feeling right now? She’s already lost a husband, and now she has to lose her daughter, too! Trev will never see his sister again. And all because you wanted to get high.”

She spits out the words, and I feel like less than nothing. A speck on her shoe. Narrowing her eyes at me, she goes on, “So if you don’t get in that car, if you don’t go to Seaside and learn how to stay clean, I swear to God, Sophie…” Tears glimmer in her eyes as the anger evaporates.

“I keep almost losing you,” she whispers, and her voice trembles and cracks with the weight of the words. “This is what I should’ve done the first time, but I didn’t. I’m not going to make that mistake again.” Her voice hardens. “Get in the car.”

I don’t move. I can’t. Moving would be like admitting she’s right.

Six months. Five days. Ten hours.

That’s how long I’ve been clean, and I repeat it over and over to myself. As long as I focus on that, as long as I’m committed to making that number rise, minute by minute, day by day, I’m going to be okay. I have to be.

“Now, Sophie!”

I shake my head and grip the banister. “I can’t let you do this.”

All I can think about is Mina. Mina’s in the ground and her killer’s walking free, and the cops are looking in all the wrong places.

My dad grabs me around the waist, breaking my hold, and lifts me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. It’s gentle; Dad is always gentle with me, like how he used to carry me upstairs after the accident. But I’m done with his gentleness. It doesn’t make me feel safe anymore. I pound on his back, red faced, yelling, but it doesn’t stop him. He yanks the front door open, and my mother stands on the porch, watching us, her arms hugging her body like it’ll protect her.

He strides down the driveway and dumps me into the car, his face stony as he slides into the driver’s seat.

“Dad.” Tears are slick down my cheeks. “Please. I need you to believe me.”

He ignores me, fires up the engine, and drives.

NOW (JUNE)

My parents still haven’t shown up. Dr. Charles keeps checking her watch and tapping her pen against her knee.

“I can wait by myself.”

Frown lines mar her smooth forehead. This is not the way things are done. My parents should have been tearfully embracing my new and improved, squeaky-clean self at least twenty minutes ago.

“Let me make a phone call,” she says.

I lean my head against the wall and close my eyes. I sit and wait, wondering if she’ll even let me call a cab if she can’t get hold of my parents.

About ten minutes tick by before someone taps my knee. I open my eyes, expecting to see Dr. Charles. But instead, for the first time in months, I feel a real smile stretch across my face.

“Aunt Macy!” I throw myself into her arms, almost knocking her over. My chin hooks over her shoulder as I hug her. Macy’s a few inches shorter than me, but there’s something about the way she carries herself that makes her seem taller. She smells like jasmine and gunpowder, and she’s the best thing I’ve seen in what feels like forever.

“Hey, kid.” She grins and hugs me back, her callused palms warm against my shoulders. Her hair, blond like mine, is down her back in a long braid. Her tanned skin makes her eyes look shockingly blue. “Your mom got held up on a case. Sent me instead.”

I haven’t heard from Macy the entire time I’ve been at Seaside, even though after the first two weeks, I was allowed letters from people other than my parents. But now she’s here, and I have to bite my lip against the relief that rocks inside me.

She came. She still cares. She doesn’t hate me. Even if she does believe everyone else, she came.

“Can we please get out of here?” I ask thickly, fighting tears.

“Yeah.” She cups the back of my head, her fingers tangling in my long hair. “Let’s get you checked out.”

Five minutes spent signing a stack of papers, and I’m free.

I feel like running the moment I step outside. I’m half-convinced that any second, Dr. Charles will come slamming through the doors, suddenly seeing through all my lies. I want to sprint to Aunt Macy’s ancient Volvo, lock myself in.

But running isn’t an option. It hasn’t been for almost four years, since my right leg and back got messed up in the car crash. Instead, I walk as fast as my limp allows.

“Your mom wanted me to tell you how sorry she is that she couldn’t come,” Aunt Macy says as she starts the car.

“And Dad’s excuse?”

“Out of town. Dental convention.”

“Figures.”

Macy raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything as we pull out of the parking lot and onto the highway. I roll the window down, trailing my fingers in the hot summer air. I keep my eyes fixed on the buildings blurring past me, away from her questioning glances.

I’m afraid to speak. I don’t know what she’s been told. The only visitors I was allowed were my parents, and they came only when they had to.

So I stay quiet.

Nine months. Two weeks. Six days. Thirteen hours.

My mantra. I whisper the days under my breath, pressing the words against my lips, barely letting them out into the world.

I have to keep adding to it. I have to stay clean, stay focused.

Mina’s killer is out there, walking around, free and clear. Every time I think about whoever he is getting away with it, I want to bury myself with a handful of pills, but I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

Nine months. Two weeks. Six days. Thirteen hours.

Aunt Macy tunes the radio to an oldies station and changes lanes. We leave the coast behind, the scenery giving way to redwoods, then pines as we head into the Trinities. I let the air flow through my fingers, enjoying the feeling like a little kid.