Don't Look Down

thirty-one: don't let anyone tell you otherwise

We pass the Lancerfield sign six hours later. Like I said, slow-as-a-turtle. Our easy conversation slipped into comfortable silence hours ago, but the scenery has kept me distracted from our destination. There's no ignoring it now that the two have blended. I give Seth directions to our motel, passing the familiar sites of my adolescence as we make a few turns.

It's then the imagery starts.

They come in quick bursts, tiny cracks of lightening leading to the deafening boom of thunder coming next. I see the playground and the monkey bars I fell from when I was eight, the simple scrape along my elbow that terrified my mother. I see the hallways and lockers of my high school, the Johnson Mansion where most town events were held, the walls of my bedroom, my mother storming into my room when I didn't come down for dinner on time.

Then I don't just see-I feel.

The blow of her hand across my cheek, the dig of her nails into my shoulder, the lash of discipline drilling into my back-they pound into me. Relentless and unyielding.

The anxiety swells, starting in my fingertips as they tap against my bare legs. My feet are affected next, rubbing against stiff carpet on the floor. My legs start to shake.

"You doing okay?"

Seth reads me like an open book. When did he become this in sync with my emotions?

"Yes," I lie, grinding my teeth together, turning toward the window. I don't want him to see the apprehension in my eyes.

He takes my hand, threading his fingers together. The tranquility of his skin caressing my own works until we pull into the parking lot and separate. And by the time we pay and Seth unlocks our motel door, the remaining effects of his touch have worn off completely.

The room is too small. There's a queen size bed, two nightstands, a dresser, and a tiny couch-all tacky and cheap. The walls are painted maroon, tightening the space, and the beige carpet looks itchy. I've lost control. My heart pounds, the beat of it in my ears mimics a clock ticking down. I can't breathe.

Why had I decided this was a good idea? I'd separated from my mother, escaped from her clutches. Now I'm back and for what? So she can scold me for failing? For quitting my job when I had everything going for me? For being the disappointment she always feared I'd be?

I'd had plans of returning so I can rub my successful life in her face while Seth winds her up with his undesirable word choices. But now I hear her words, knocking me down and making me feel pathetic. They assault me from every angle, crushing the life from me. After all this time I'd chosen to relive the pain, thinking I was strong enough to face it. But I'm not. I'm not strong enough.

My hands tremble as they pluck a Kleenex from the box on the nightstand and I start rubbing down the fake wooden surface. My movements are frenzied and erratic as I head to the next piece of furniture, but fixing this mess is easier than fixing my own. It's manageable.