Tess Sharpe - Far From You

I feel sick inside and grit my teeth. “I can’t let that happen.”

Macy’s eyes soften. “You might have to, babe.”

I don’t say anything. I keep quiet.

We get up, she pays the bill and tips the waitress before we leave the diner. I’m still silent, the idea of never knowing who took Mina away from me burning in my chest. But somehow, as always, Aunt Macy hears the words I can’t say. When we’re in the car, Macy reaches over and takes my hand.

She keeps it in hers the entire drive home.

It feels like a safety net.

Macy is always poised for my inevitable fall.

NINE AND A HALF MONTHS AGO (SIXTEEN YEARS OLD)

“You’re a fucking sadist,” I snarl at Macy.

It’s been three days since my parents shipped me off to Oregon so Macy can “straighten me out,” as my dad put it. Three days since I’ve had any pills. The withdrawal is bad enough—like my body is one giant, throbbing bruise and spiders crawl underneath my sweaty skin—but the pain, undulled and persistent, is too much to take. With the pills, I can move without it hurting too much. Without them, my back is killing me and my leg’s always giving out. Every movement, even turning over in bed, sends sharp flares down my spine that leave me breathless, pain-tears tracking down my face. The pain, full-force for the first time since the accident, combined with the withdrawal is excruciating. I stop getting out of bed. It hurts too much.

It’s all Macy’s fault. If she’d just give me my damn pills, I’d be fine. I’d be able to move. I wouldn’t hurt. I’d be okay again.

I just want to be okay again. And Macy won’t let me.

I spend a lot of time staring at the cheerful yellow walls of her guest room, with its lace curtains and vintage travel posters. They make me want to puke. I hate everything about Macy’s house. I want to go home.

I want my pills. The thought of them consumes me, drives everything out of my head, makes me focus with a singularity I’ve had for only one other thing in my life. Mina would hate me for comparing her to this, but I don’t care, because I kind of hate her right now, too.

“I’m helping you.” Macy barely looks up from her magazine. She’s sitting in a turquoise armchair across the room, her legs kicked up on the matching stool.

“I’m…in…pain!”

“I know you are.” She flips a page. “Which is why you have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow. Best pain management doctor in Portland. We’ll find non-narcotic options for you. And Pete’s got an acupuncturist friend who’s going to come to the house to treat you.”

The idea twists in my gut. “You want to stick needles in me? Are you crazy?”

“Acupuncture can be therapeutic.”

“There is no way I’m doing that,” I say firmly. “Can’t I go home, please? This is so stupid. The doctors were the ones who gave me the pills in the first place. I have prescriptions. Do you really think you know better than them?”

“Probably not,” Macy admits. “I didn’t even graduate college. But I’m in charge of you now, which means I get to do what I think is best. You’re a drug addict. You screwed up. Now you get clean.”

“I told you, I don’t have a drug problem. I’m in pain. That’s what happens when you get crushed by an SUV and your bones are held together by metal and screws.”

“Blah, blah, blah.” Macy waves it off and sets her magazine down. “I’ve heard it all before. Some people can handle pain meds, some can’t. Considering the pharmacy your dad found in your bedroom, I’m going to say you’re just a few bad days away from an OD. You think I’d let you do that? Put your mother and me through that? I don’t think so. Not again.

“When you run out of bullshit excuses and admit you’ve got a problem, then we can talk. The sooner you admit it, babe, the sooner we’ll get to the root of this. You might as well start talking—you’re not going anywhere until I’m sure you’re not a danger to yourself.”

“I’m fine.” I wipe the sweat off my forehead, swallowing against the constant nausea that’s taken over since yesterday. God, withdrawal sucks.

Macy gets up and shoves a trash can in my hand. “If you’re going to throw up, use this.”

Her face softens, a ripple in that bad-cop facade she wears so well. She reaches over, grasping my free hand in hers, and holds on tight enough that I can’t tug away. “I won’t give up on you, Sophie. No matter what you do, no matter what you say, I’m here. I won’t lose you. Not to this. I will get you clean. Even if you end up hating me for it.”

“Great,” I say bitterly. “Lucky me.”

NOW (JUNE)

Harper’s Bluff is nestled in Northern California’s side of the Siskiyou mountain range, a tiny town carved out of the ­wilderness, sheltered by the piney mountains, surrounded by oak woodland for miles around, with a lake that stretches out into what you trick yourself into thinking is infinity. We’ve got a population just tipping twenty thousand, more churches than grocery stores, American flags flying from most of the houses, and REAL MEN LOVE JESUS bumper stickers on every other truck on the road. It’s not idyllic, but it’s comfortable.

I thought I was ready to come back, but the second we pass the WELCOME TO HARPER’S BLUFF sign, I wish I could tell Macy to hit the brakes. Beg her to take me back to Oregon with her.

How can I be here without Mina?

I bite my tongue. I have to do this for her. It’s the only thing I can do. I stare out the window as we pass by my high school. I wonder if they decorated Mina’s locker, if it’d been festooned with flowers and candles, notes tucked into corners, never to be read. I wonder if her grave’s the same, teddy bears and pictures of her, beaming up at a sky she’ll never see again. I hadn’t even gone to her funeral—couldn’t bear to watch them put her in the ground.

As we’re turning onto my street, Macy gets a call. Maneuvering the car into the driveway, she tucks the phone under her chin. “Where?” She listens for a second. “How long ago?” She shuts the car off, eyeing me. “Okay, I can be there in thirty.”

“Someone jump their bail?” I ask after she hangs up. Macy’s a bounty hunter, though she prefers being called a bail recovery agent.

“Sex offender in Corning.” She frowns at the empty driveway. “I’d hoped your mom would be here by now.”

“It’s okay. I am capable of being alone in my own house.”

“No, you shouldn’t be by yourself right now.”

“Go catch the bad guy.” I lean over and kiss her on the cheek. “I promise I’ll be fine. I’ll even call as soon as Mom gets home, if it’ll make you feel better.”

Macy taps her fingers against the steering wheel. She’s itching to get going, to chase down that guy and put him in jail where he belongs.

I know that feeling, that drive for justice. All the women in my family have it. Macy’s is wrapped up in the chase, in hard and fast and brutal judgment, and Mom’s is wrapped up in rules and laws and juries, the courtroom her chosen battlefield.

Mine is wrapped up in Mina, magnified by her, defined by her, existing because of her.

“Seriously, Aunt Macy. I’m seventeen, I’m clean, and I can spend some time by myself.”

She shoots me a calculating look. Then she reaches over and flips open the glove compartment. “Take this,” she says, pressing a container the size of a water bottle into my hand. There’s a white pulley at the top of it and a label with big red letters that say BEAR REPELLENT.

“You’re giving me bear spray? Seriously?”

“It’s got way better range and packs more of a punch than that pepper spray key chain stuff they sell at the drugstore in the cute pink holders, and it’s even better than a Taser,” Macy says. “Too many things can go wrong there—clothes can get in the way, the prongs don’t fully eject, some big guys don’t go down from the current. Spray them in the face with this? They’ll go down.” She takes the canister out of my hands and points to the pulley. “Press the button at the top, move it right to unlock the mechanism. Aim and pull the trigger. Don’t ever drop the can—you may need to use it again. Spray and then run. Even if your attacker’s incapacitated, if he’s got a gun or a knife or any weapon, even blind, he can do some damage. Spray, run, and don’t let go of your only weapon. You got that?”

“You’re actually encouraging me to use this?”

“If someone’s coming at you? Absolutely,” Macy says, and her voice is so serious, it sends prickles down my back. “Whoever killed Mina is still out there. You are the only living witness. And I’m pretty sure you’re about to stir up some serious shit, so be careful.”

“You’re not going to stop me?” Until I say it out loud, I realize that I’ve been waiting for her to.

Macy’s quiet for a moment. She looks me up and down, her blue eyes assessing me like she might a perp. “Could I?” she asks baldly.

My hand tightens around the canister. I shake my head.

“That’s what I thought.” Macy tries not to smile, but I catch it before she slips back into seriousness. “Do you remember what I told you the night we decided you were ready to come back home?”

“You said I was capable of making my own decisions.”

“You’re not a kid anymore, Sophie. You’ve been through too much. And though you’ve made some pretty bad choices, you’ve made some decent ones, too. You got clean—and you stayed clean. I believe that. I believe you. And it would probably be smart to tell you to move on, that letting go of Mina is the right thing to do. But I see it in you, babe, how it’s gonna eat you up if you don’t do something. If you don’t try. Just—” Her phone rings again. “Dammit,” she mutters.