to hide the fact that he’s leaning most of his weight into me.
“Phel’s situation isn’t the same,” I tell him gently, “but it’s not for you to worry about. You and Emilia and Liam… I’m sure everything will all work out. There’s hope for you yet, you idiot.”
Nate is wearing a brave smile when he pulls away, but it doesn’t reach his eyes and he’s gone back to not looking at me. I sigh and say nothing, because even though I’m just his brother, it’s painfully clear how badly he wants to believe me, but doesn’t.
4
Phel
T HERE ’ S a moment, just before you’re about to catch a wave, where the only sensation you’re aware of is of pure force—not the burn in your arms of paddling out, the salt spray in your face, the anxiety of not popping up in time, not anything else in your life—just water and power and sheer exhilaration. It’s like flying, hurtling along on your stomach at an incredible speed until that last second when you push yourself up, surfboard hopefully angled in the direction of the swell before it breaks. Suddenly you’re on it, balanced between riding the wave and racing it, fighting every impulse of mind and nature to hurl yourself against that wall of water again and again, carving into it like your whole body’s the knife.
It’s probably stupid that I came out here alone, but as long as no one cuts into someone else’s priority, aloha spirit dictates we all look out for each other while we’re here. Though it’s getting late in the afternoon and the tide is almost out, there are plenty of surfers doing the exact same thing as me, trying to squeeze in a few more waves before they call it a day. I’ll stay out until the end, I think, surfing to make up for lost time. The past few days without it have felt… empty.
True to my word, I didn’t go back to the beach that day after running into Nate, hopped up on Xanax to the point where I’m lucky I made it home in once piece. It started to rain on the way there, but I was so loopy and numb from the drugs I barely registered the wetness, or how cold it got with my clothes soaked through. Doesn’t mean I didn’t miss the waves, though.
When I first came to Palermo Springs and got set up in my little apartment here, Willa gave me a contact card listing what’s considered to be the three most important pieces of information in the patient’s arsenal: the number for emergency medical services (overdoses or self-injury), the number for client services (housekeeping, security, or not enough food in the fridge), and, finally, the assigned counselor’s direct line for emergency therapy sessions. I know one of those things is not like the other, but if there’s anything they take seriously here at Palermo, it’s health, comfort, and mental well-being.
Before the front door was even closed, I started tearing through the drawers in my tiny kitchen, unmindful of the water I was tracking everywhere, looking for that damned card because I went ahead and listened when Willa asked that I not program her number into my phone. She wanted to discourage me from calling her direct every time crisis struck, a dubious luxury reserved for higher-maintenance patients. At the time, I kind of liked that there was a level of trust between us; she didn’t think I needed her on speed dial, and counted on me not to abuse the system. I know Willa isn’t a friend, but this is something that keeps me feeling like there is an element of reciprocity to our professional relationship. As she probably intended, it gave me a much-needed sense of control over my actions, confidence that I could rise above losing my shit over every little thing.
Yeah, right.
I couldn’t find the damn card anywhere and got so frustrated that I contemplated calling emergency medical services and faking a suicide attempt or something; naturally, that was the number I’d memorized. Except that with Xanax, the feeling of frustration becomes abstract,
“Phel’s situation isn’t the same,” I tell him gently, “but it’s not for you to worry about. You and Emilia and Liam… I’m sure everything will all work out. There’s hope for you yet, you idiot.”
Nate is wearing a brave smile when he pulls away, but it doesn’t reach his eyes and he’s gone back to not looking at me. I sigh and say nothing, because even though I’m just his brother, it’s painfully clear how badly he wants to believe me, but doesn’t.
4
Phel
T HERE ’ S a moment, just before you’re about to catch a wave, where the only sensation you’re aware of is of pure force—not the burn in your arms of paddling out, the salt spray in your face, the anxiety of not popping up in time, not anything else in your life—just water and power and sheer exhilaration. It’s like flying, hurtling along on your stomach at an incredible speed until that last second when you push yourself up, surfboard hopefully angled in the direction of the swell before it breaks. Suddenly you’re on it, balanced between riding the wave and racing it, fighting every impulse of mind and nature to hurl yourself against that wall of water again and again, carving into it like your whole body’s the knife.
It’s probably stupid that I came out here alone, but as long as no one cuts into someone else’s priority, aloha spirit dictates we all look out for each other while we’re here. Though it’s getting late in the afternoon and the tide is almost out, there are plenty of surfers doing the exact same thing as me, trying to squeeze in a few more waves before they call it a day. I’ll stay out until the end, I think, surfing to make up for lost time. The past few days without it have felt… empty.
True to my word, I didn’t go back to the beach that day after running into Nate, hopped up on Xanax to the point where I’m lucky I made it home in once piece. It started to rain on the way there, but I was so loopy and numb from the drugs I barely registered the wetness, or how cold it got with my clothes soaked through. Doesn’t mean I didn’t miss the waves, though.
When I first came to Palermo Springs and got set up in my little apartment here, Willa gave me a contact card listing what’s considered to be the three most important pieces of information in the patient’s arsenal: the number for emergency medical services (overdoses or self-injury), the number for client services (housekeeping, security, or not enough food in the fridge), and, finally, the assigned counselor’s direct line for emergency therapy sessions. I know one of those things is not like the other, but if there’s anything they take seriously here at Palermo, it’s health, comfort, and mental well-being.
Before the front door was even closed, I started tearing through the drawers in my tiny kitchen, unmindful of the water I was tracking everywhere, looking for that damned card because I went ahead and listened when Willa asked that I not program her number into my phone. She wanted to discourage me from calling her direct every time crisis struck, a dubious luxury reserved for higher-maintenance patients. At the time, I kind of liked that there was a level of trust between us; she didn’t think I needed her on speed dial, and counted on me not to abuse the system. I know Willa isn’t a friend, but this is something that keeps me feeling like there is an element of reciprocity to our professional relationship. As she probably intended, it gave me a much-needed sense of control over my actions, confidence that I could rise above losing my shit over every little thing.
Yeah, right.
I couldn’t find the damn card anywhere and got so frustrated that I contemplated calling emergency medical services and faking a suicide attempt or something; naturally, that was the number I’d memorized. Except that with Xanax, the feeling of frustration becomes abstract,
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