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“Alive” —Pearl Jam
My alarm clock notified me that it was six a.m. by blaring into my ear in decibels that shook the purple walls of my bedroom. I smacked it off and rolled onto my stomach, moaning into my pillow. Even after a trillion-hour shift at Descartes and crying to Kieran for forty minutes straight about Dad, I still couldn’t fall asleep last night. My mind was on overdrive, replaying my interactions with a certain sulky, tattooed chef the size of a prehistoric animal all night.
Row was right. Yesterday, Kieran’s presence had caught me by surprise. I had texted him that I was feeling too sad and anxious to sleep, but I’d never expected him to show up at my house. Then again, I’d never expected Row to refuse to evacuate my premises. How did he know I felt uncomfortable around Kieran? How did he know I was scared?
Well, I wasn’t scared per se, but I had sat on the other side of the wraparound porch of my house, across from Kieran, like a freak. Clutching my phone, 911 already saved on the screen just in case, as we’d talked into the night.
Now I needed to both keep my promise to Dad to pick up running again and somehow appear to be a functioning human for work today. My Spidey-senses told me there was a lot of caffeine in my near future.
Dragging myself to my closet, I stuffed my legs into neon-green leggings, slipped on a pink Dri-FIT shirt with a matching headband, and grabbed a fanny pack for my keys and scrunchie. I also put on two yellow wristbands for the cuteness factor. I wasn’t hoping to bump into Prince Charming. With my luck, I was more likely to bump into Ted Bundy. But Dad had loved this outfit. He’d said it screamed Cal, and it was an homage to him.
Mom was still asleep when I tiptoed my way out of the house. Cool, briny breeze assaulted my nostrils. I did a few torso twists and leg stretches on my front porch as I scanned my surroundings, dread drip-drip-dripping down my belly.
You can do this. There is nothing to be afraid of.
Only there was. Which was why I hadn’t run in so many years. My worst memory was attached to running. But I couldn’t let my father down. He hadn’t known what made me stop running, but he had known that running was important to me. I needed to at least try.
There will be no evil men, no lonely woods, no bad people. Just you and the music. And your maddening urge to pee every time you run, probably.
Squaring my shoulders, I squinted beyond the mountains stretching along the coastline. I decided to take a two-mile route downtown, make a U-turn at the harbor, then jog back home. It was a familiar route—one I’d run with my dad often before my injury—and I knew there would be at least a handful of pedestrians around. After watching a ten-minute TED Talk about motivation on YouTube, I began power walking down the street. At first, I strode fast. This was no issue. I was used to walking—I was a New Yorker now, after all—then gradually, I picked up speed.
See? It’s just like riding a bike. Minus the crotch pain and freezing fingers.
Soon, the soles of my shoes pounded the pavement. The first few minutes felt fine. Good, even. Physically, I broke the barrier. I was running again. Fast too. Then I realized…I was running. Just like that time when my life had turned upside down. A shock wave of anxiety zipped up my spine, and my whole body turned to ice.
Do it for Dad. Don’t quit now.
Fear clogged my throat, cutting my oxygen supply. My heart pulsated violently in my chest, and my hands felt like two pillars of salt, heavy and foreign to the rest of my body. A persistent, dull pain throbbed in my right shin, reminding me of that day all those years ago. I was reliving that moment all over again. The memory crisp, vivid, and in full color.
The woods.
The blood.
The laughter.
“Leave the weirdo to die. It’s not like anyone’s gonna miss her.”
Air. I needed air. I sucked in a breath, but my windpipe was crammed with lint. My vision swam. My eyesight became milky, fogged with terror; my mind screamed at my feet to stop moving, but they continued running of their own accord, going harder, faster; I looked around frantically. I wasn’t on Main Street anymore. At some point, I had veered off course. There wasn’t a soul on this residential, tree-lined street. No one to help me.
Calm down. Everything is okay. You just need to figure out how to stop moving.
But my brakeless feet wouldn’t slow. My body was a broken vehicle, and all I could do was swerve it off the pathway to try to soften the blow.
“She dead yet?”
“Smells dead to me.”
“I think it’s the cabbage. Dirty Russian whore and her stinky food.”
“Quick, let’s go before her nerdiac friend finds out and gets us in trouble.”
Tears needled my eyes, and I choked on the little air that still swirled in my lungs. Why had Dad asked me to do this? How careless could he have been? How cruel? This was a mistake. I’d have to—
Thwack.
Dirt filled my mouth, cold and crunchy. My face was pancaked over loose construction sand. I spat grit, slowly digesting that I had fallen down. Tripped over a stone and dived right onto my face. My right leg was scorching with pain.
I needed to move, stand up, call for help, but found that I was too paralyzed to do anything at all. The floodgate of memories had been broken, and the trauma I kept at bay was rushing like a river, drowning every positive thought in my head.
