Spin (17 page)

Got it! Greer’s card must be a clue. I look at it again. She’s underlined the word “read.”

I pick up the first book and flip through the pages one by one. Nothing. The second book has a woman on the cover who looks vaguely like Greer. Same long auburn hair, same glint of mischief in her eyes. Way less clothing. On page thirty-eight, the word “healing” is circled. I take out the iTouch and get to the password screen. I type in the word “healing” and . . . yes! We have liftoff.

I check my inbox. There’s an email from Greer waiting for me.

If you’re reading this message, you’re smarter than I thought! No need for explanations, lass. The intrigue was worth it.

I laugh out loud. People surprise you every goddamn day, even in rehab.

Chapter 17

It’s Going to Be a
Bumpy Ride

O
n Day
Twenty-four: Preparing for Your New Life, Carol raps on my door and introduces
me to my new roommate, Muriel, the desperate housewife of some Internet CEO. Her
three Louis Vuitton suitcases take up twice as much space as she does, her blond
hair must come from a bottle, and every inch of her face has been Botoxed so
that no wrinkle would even dare attempt to take up residence. She has a jittery,
post-detox nervousness about her. My newly trained eye diagnoses her as a
prescription-painkiller addict.

She takes one look at me in my patented rehab look
(yoga pants, long-sleeved T-shirt, hair in a messy ponytail) and tells Carol she
couldn’t possibly room with anyone, she needs total silence, she’s sure it’s
crucial to her recovery.

“Muriel, I’ve already explained that you can’t have
your own room,” Carol replies patiently.

“Not even if I pay double?”

“It’s not a question of payment—it’s part of the
program.”

If her forehead was capable of a response, Muriel
would be frowning. “We’ll see about that.”

Carol ignores her. “Katie, would you mind showing
Muriel to group?”

“Sure, no problem.”

“I’ll check on you tomorrow, Muriel.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Carol leaves, and I watch my new roommate as she
drags her suitcases toward the closet. She opens the door and recoils in
horror.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Not what you’re used to, huh?”

She gives me a look that makes me feel unwelcome
even though I’m the one who’s been living here for weeks. “Excuse me?”

“The closet. I know it’s pretty small.”

Her eyes become two narrow slits.

Wow. Her skin doesn’t move
at
all
. How’d they do that?

“Let’s get one thing straight right now,
Kristie.”

“It’s Katie.”

“Like I give a fuck.”

“What the hell’s your problem?”

“My problem is I don’t want to have a little
chitchat about
your
problems, or anything else. I
just want to be left alone.”

I start to laugh.

Muriel looks pissed off. Or at least she would if
her face could make an expression.

“What’s so funny?”

“I don’t know where you think you are, Garbo, but
if you just want to be left alone, you came to the wrong place.”

“D
o I
have to room with her?” I ask Saundra the next day.

Muriel didn’t say another word to me the entire
day. She spent a loud hour getting ready for bed (I counted three separate face
creams, two toners, and several tweezing devices, and I wasn’t even paying close
attention to what she was doing), then snapped off the light while I was in the
middle of a graphic sex scene in one of the romance novels Greer sent me. And
then, as I was actually about to drift off to sleep at a decent hour for once,
she started to snore. And not some cute, feminine snore. No, sir. It was
jackhammer, woodpecker quality.

“Is there a problem?” The corners of Saundra’s
mouth might be twitching.

“Let me count the ways.”

Or maybe not.

“Katie . . .”

“Well, I’m never going to be able to sleep again,
for one. She snores like a middle-aged man.”

“That’s not her fault.”

“Well, it’s not mine, either.”

“We could get you some earplugs.”

“She won’t even talk to me.”

“I’m sure she’s feeling very raw right now, Katie.
Remember how you felt when you got out of detox?”

Damn straight, I remember. I felt elated.

“I guess.”

“And wasn’t it helpful having Amy to be able to
talk to?”

“But Amy was nice.”

“And so are you. Remember, Katie, you’re Amy in
this scenario.”

Right. How the hell did that happen?

“Does that mean I’m working the program well?”

She smiles. “I do think you’re making good
progress, Katie, don’t you?”

“Yeah, things seem to be
getting . . . easier, if that makes any sense.”

“It does. And that’s why I think you’re ready to go
on today’s field trip if you’d like.”

“You mean, leave the grounds?”

“That’s right.”

Oh yes, I’d like.

I leave Saundra’s office so excited I skip down the
hall to lunch. Henry, Amber, and Connor are already sitting at “our” table next
to the picture window. It’s a perfect, sunny day, but I wouldn’t care if it were
snowing.

“My therapist said something about that to me too,”
Amber says after I tell them I can go on the field trip. “Apparently I’m showing
‘newfound respect for the program’ and am ready to move on to ‘advanced coping
mechanisms.’ ”

I bounce up and down in my seat. “That’s great. So,
are you going?”

“Calm down there, sister,” Henry says
teasingly.

“Just wait until you’ve been here for as long as we
have.”

“I’m pretty sure I won’t be squealing with delight,
no matter how long I’m here.”

I punch him lightly in the arm. “Don’t be so sure.”
I turn to Amber. “Will you come?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She watches Connor plow through
a huge plate of pasta. “Can you go, Connor?”

“Doubt it.”

“
Con-nor,
don’t you
want to go?”

“
Am-ber,
you know he’s
not going to be allowed to,” Henry mocks.

She flicks him a look of disgust. “Oh, fuck off,
Henry.”

I tug on her arm. “Come on, Amber, it’ll be fun.
Besides, we get to go outside the compound. Haven’t you been dreaming about it
for weeks?”

“Well . . . when you put it that
way.”

A smile breaks across my face until I catch Henry
laughing at me.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he replies, but when he gets up to
return his tray, he leans in and whispers, “You’re cute when you’re
excited.”

Uh-oh.

D
espite my excitement, I almost turn back when I learn where the field
trip is going—to the
mountain where my father’s the
assistant manager.

I stand staring at the sign-out sheet, chewing the
end of my ponytail in indecision. Amber comes up behind me.

“What’s the holdup?” she asks. She’s wearing a pair
of biking shorts and a zip-up technical shirt covered with logos for French
water.

How many suitcases did she bring with her,
anyway?

“Oh, nothing, I’m . . .
uh . . . just having second thoughts.”

She gives a snort of disgust. “You must be kidding.
I’m only going because
you
talked me into it.”

“I know . . . it’s
just . . . remember when we ran into my ex-boyfriend, Zack?”

“You mean when we hid in the bushes?”

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I’m trying to avoid a repeat,
but I’m probably just being silly.”

What are the chances I’m going to run into my dad
on that big mountain, right? It’s not like I’m going to stroll into his office
or anything.

“Well, then, let’s get this show on the road.”

I scribble my name on the sheet with a sense of
foreboding, then follow the group outside and clamber into the van. We sit in
the backseat, while Candice sits in the front. Carol climbs into the driver’s
seat and revs the engine.

“Why’d it have to be mountain biking?” Candice
whines to us in her little-girl voice. “I’d kill for some good shopping.”

I snap. “Deal with it, Candice. You didn’t have to
come.”

“You don’t have to be such a
bitch . . .”

Amber hangs over the edge of the seat. “What are
you even still doing here, Candice? Aren’t you ever going home?”

Candice turns her shoulders toward the window. “I’m
not talking to you guys anymore!”

Amber and I roll our eyes at one another, and watch
the trees and mountains passing by. The sun reflects off the rippling, dark
water. I point out the trailhead where I started countless hiking trips with my
family.

“Are your parents coming to that family therapy
thing?” Amber asks. Day Twenty-seven: Advanced Coping Mechanisms also coincides
with Optional Work: Family Therapy.

“No way. Are your parents coming?”

“Sure.”

“But I thought you hated them.”

“So?”

“So, what am I not getting?”

She glances at Candice, who’s still pouting out the
window.

She lowers her voice. “I figure if I cooperate,
they’ll let me out of here earlier.”

I probably shouldn’t get my hopes up,
but . . . please, please, please let that be true.

“Got it.”

The van turns off the highway onto the road to the
mountain, and a flood of memories hit me. Walking from the parking lot to the
lodge, my skis a weight across my shoulder, trying to keep up with my dad.
Turning through the same gates over and over again, trying to improve my time.
Chrissie and I drying our socks by the roaring fire.

Oh my God. I think I miss my parents. I
hate
rehab.

Carol parks the van, takes us to the bike shop, and
gives us strict instructions to meet her in three hours. With a final
admonishment to “be good,” we’re free to go biking, hiking, or to walk into the
bar on the top floor of the lodge. We could even thumb a ride out of here and
never look back.

It’s good to have options.

It’s been years since I’ve been here. Thankfully, I
don’t recognize anyone in the bike shop. Amber and I rent a pair of mountain
bikes, grab a map, and decide to take the gondola up to one of the trails that
will give us a great downhill ride rather than a huge uphill climb.

Our bikes are attached to a rack on the outside of
the gondola, and we take a seat with a group of teenaged boys covered in mud.
They start nudging one another and looking at Amber with wide eyes. As we fly up
the mountain, I watch them, wondering if they’re going to work up the courage to
ask if it’s really her. Amber seems oblivious, resting her chin on her arms and
gazing out the window at the spectacular view of the mountains.

The gondola reaches the top, and the nudging and
whispering among the boys increases.

“Do it, dude!” one of them hisses loudly.

As we stand to leave, the boy sitting across from
Amber starts to talk to her in a stammering voice. “Um, excuse me, bbbutt, are
yyouu . . .”

Amber smiles her dazzling smile. “That actress?
God, no.”

We’re all surprised by her answer, and she takes
the moment it gives her to grab my hand and pull me out of the gondola. An
attendant hands us our bikes, and we follow the signs to the less scary of the
downhill slopes.

“How come you didn’t tell them who you were?”

“Who do you take me for,
Candice
?”

I chuckle. “I guess it must be annoying being
recognized all the time.”

“Sometimes I like it. But today I don’t feel like
dealing with a bunch of stupid boys following us around all afternoon.”

“I hear you.”

“Thanks for playing along.” She puts her helmet on
and snaps the strap closed under her chin. “Ready to die?”

“Oh yeah.”

We mount our bikes and pedal toward the trail. It
starts off gently enough, but after a few minutes the pitch increases, and I
squeeze the brakes to slow myself down.

Not Amber. She lets out a wild “Aiiieeee!” and
leans over her handlebars. The mud from her wheels sprays up and hits me in the
face, muddying my goggles. I squeeze my brakes harder as I hit the mud patch,
and my bike starts to skid.

Ah, shit!

I hit something, a root I think, and my bike leaps
in the air. I let go instinctively, hoping to land on soft ground.

I slam into the trail and my bike shudders to the
ground a few feet away. I lie spread-eagled on my back, barely breathing. I ache
everywhere. I might be dying, and yet, I can hear the birds chirping, and a yelp
of joy from somewhere in the distance.

Jesus. I wish I believed in God so I could pray to
him, it, she, whatever, to take me away, and make the pain stop. But, I don’t.
So, all I can wish for is that my brain does me a favor and checks out for a few
minutes, at least until the medics arrive with their pain-relieving drugs.

Drugs. Fuck. I’m so screwed.

“Are you OK, ma’am?” a voice that sounds way too
familiar asks.

I must be hallucinating. Maybe it’s a prelude to
passing out?

I raise my hand to wipe the dirt from my eyes. I
recognize the fuzzy shape standing above me, and now I’m sure, potential head
injury and all, that I’m not hallucinating.

“Dad?”

“Katie?”

He kneels next to me and pulls my goggles gently
off my face. And there my dad is, looking at me with concerned and bewildered
eyes that are the same shade of blue as mine.

“Hi, Dad.”

Shit. Even talking hurts.

“Are you OK?”

“I don’t know.”

He takes off his helmet and lays it on the ground
next to me. His hair is almost entirely gray; he looks older than he did four
years ago.

“Can you sit up?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” my sister says,
coming into view.

Looking at her is like looking at an upside-down
image of myself. Same wavy chestnut hair, same slender build, same narrow nose.
Totally different life.

I left. She stayed. I went to university in the
city and racked up enormous debts. She went to the local college and put money
in the bank. I dreamed about the size of my byline. She became a teacher like my
mom and got a job at the elementary school.

Somewhere along the way, she also acquired an
enormous chip on her shoulder, a chip I mostly blame on her high school
sweetheart, Michael, who left her on their wedding day. Seriously. She was at
the back of the church in her wedding dress and everything, waiting for the
“Wedding March” to start playing. I had to tell her he wasn’t coming, that he’d
run off with some girl he’d met at his bachelor party. Chrissie took it
surprisingly well at the time, or so we all thought, but she hasn’t been the
same person since.