Fly Away (Firefly Lane 2)

It is time, at last, to face why my body is here, broken and hooked up to machines in this white, white room.

“Okay, then,” I say, gathering my courage. “It starts with Marah. How long ago did she come to visit me? A week? Ten days? I don’t know. It’s late August of 2010, well after my mother’s so-called intervention, and honestly, time is not my friend. I have been …

trying to write my memoir, but it isn’t working. A headache seems to be my constant companion.

How long has it been since I left my condo? I am ashamed to admit that I can’t do it anymore. I can’t open the door. When I even touch the doorknob, panic washes over me and I start to tremble and shake and hyperventilate. I hate this weakness in me, am ashamed by it, but I can’t make myself overcome it. For the first time in my life, my will is gone. Without it, I have nothing.

Each morning, I make a vow to myself: I will stop taking Xanax and I will leave my home and venture out into the world. I will look for Marah. Or a job. Or a life. I imagine different scenarios in which I go to Bainbridge Island and beg Johnny for forgiveness and receive it.

Today is no different. I wake late in the day and realize instantly that I must have taken too many sleeping pills. I feel terrible. My mouth is tar-pit-sticky and it tastes like I forgot to brush my teeth last night. I roll over in bed, see my bedside clock. I smack my lips together and rub my eyes, which feel gritty and bloodshot. No doubt I cried in my sleep. And again, I have slept the day away.

I get up and try to focus. In my bathroom, I find a mountain of clothes on the floor.

Yeah. Yesterday I tried to go out. I thought it was the outfit stopping me. Makeup lies scattered across the counter.

This is really getting out of control.

Today I will change my life.

I start with a shower. The hot water pounds down on me, but instead of washing away my lethargy, it somehow makes me feel worse. In the steamy enclosure, I relive too much: Johnny’s anger, Kate’s death, Marah’s running away.

The next thing I know, the water is cold. I blink slowly, wondering what the hell has happened to me. Freezing now, shaking, I get out of the shower and dry off.

Eat.

Yes.

That will help.

I dress slowly, in sweats I find on the floor of my bedroom. I am shaky and headachy. Eating will help. And one Xanax.

Only one.

I walk through my dark condo, turning on lights as I go, ignoring the mail scattered on my coffee table. As I am pouring a cup of coffee, my cell phone rings. I answer it quickly. “Yes?”

“Tully? It’s George. I’ve gotten you a ticket to a screening of The American, with George Clooney. I’ll e-mail you the details. It’s a charitable event at a theater in downtown Seattle. The network guys will be there. This is your chance to wow them. September second. Eight P. M. Don’t be late, and look good. ”

“Thanks, George,” I say, smiling for the first time in days.

I feel hope stir inside of me. I need this so much. I’m cried out, as dry as sawdust. I can’t live this way anymore.

Then it hits me: I have to leave my condo and go out in public. I start to panic, try to tamp it down.

No.

I can do this. I can. I take another Xanax (I will quit tomorrow) as I head back to my closet to pick out some clothes for the event.

I will need …

What? Why am I standing here in my closet?

Oh. A hair appointment.

“Tully?”

Am I imagining Marah’s voice? I turn so quickly I stumble, bang into the door of my closet. I am unsteady on my feet as I make my way through the condo, toward a voice I don’t really believe is even there.

But she is there, in my living room, standing in front of the wall of windows. She is dressed in black, with her hair short and spiked and pink; she has silver charms hanging from her eyebrow. She looks dangerously thin; her cheekbones are like knife blades above her pale, hollow cheeks.