I smile. “December?”
“Hi, Katelyn!” She rushes toward me and gives me a hug. “I changed my name to Lily. I hated the name December anyway. I don’t know what my parents were thinking. I was born in March.”
“Lily is beautiful. Is there a reason you chose it?”
“My favorite flower,” she says. “Always lovely during any season.”
I nod. I could have changed my name, but I chose not to. I was born Katelyn, and I’m still Katelyn. I was always Katelyn, even when I was Moonstone. Even when I couldn’t remember my name.
I have to take it all back. Take my life back. And the first step seemed to be to take my name back.
“We’re using last names now as well,” Macy says. “So Katelyn Brooks, meet Lily Patel.”
We hug again.
“Is Patel a new name too?” I ask her.
“No. It’s my real last name. My father’s from India. Is Brooks your old last name?”
I nod. “Just seems easiest,” I say, though the name comes from my father, and there’s no love lost between the two of us.
Still, he was happy to know I was alive and okay.
So was my mom.
They visited me at the center once, and they both wanted me to return to LA and live with them. But I figured Zee’s offer was better for me. I can’t get pulled back into my parents’ drama when I’m still so fragile. My so called family is the reason I ended up on that island. Not my parents, but relatives—relatives they sent me to stay with.
Fragile. Yuck.
I hate the word.
But despite the strength I needed to endure the last ten years, I am fragile. Macy’s right. It’s a journey. I’ll never be the Katelyn I was. I’m not sure I even want to be.
“We’ll wait a few minutes to see if Aspen or Kelly show up,” Macy says.
I raise my eyebrows. “Kelly? I thought only Aspen and Dec—sorry, Lily—were here.”
“Kelly arrived late last night,” Macy says.
“I don’t think they’ll show,” Lily says.
Macy sighs. “You’re probably right. Have you talked to Aspen?”
Lily nods. “She still doesn’t feel comfortable talking to a group, and Kelly…”
Macy sighs again.
Kelly. I remember Kelly. Her gem name was Opal.
Kelly was…
Not friendly.
Most of us understood that we were in this together, but Kelly… She got jealous if someone else was chosen over her.
I used to pray someone else was chosen over me. Then of course I felt guilty about that, because I was praying for someone else to be hurt instead of me.
Then I stopped praying because clearly, God didn’t exist.
No God could have let those horrors happen to me and to the others.
No God could let any of the horrors of the world happen.
And it was a man of God, a priest, who dislocated both my shoulders that time.
A fucking man of God.
Right.
God doesn’t exist.
“Then it’s just the three of us today.” Macy smiles. “Please have a seat, both of you.”
I take a seat a few chairs away from Macy. Sitting right next to her feels too…weird. Lily smiles and sits next to me.
“Today I want to talk about expectations,” Macy begins. “This is a good topic for you especially, Katelyn, since you’ve just gotten here. It’s important to keep our expectations normal.”
Our expectations? I hate it when therapists do that. Act as if they’ve been through all the shit we’ve been through.
It’s crap. Pure crap.
Macy goes on, “You’ve been through a lot of healing already, and I’m sure your therapists have told you that the road will have bumps. It will, and when you come to one, you have two choices. You can fall down or you can jump over it.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. This is old news.
“Katelyn,” she says to me, “do you have any expectations?”
“Not really,” I reply.
“None at all?”
“No. This is my life now. I get that. I was dealt a shitty hand, but I’m alive. I’m glad to be alive. I guess I expect to stay alive. So yeah, I have an expectation. I sure didn’t have that during the time on the island.”
“That’s good,” Macy says.
Yup. Now she knows I’m not suicidal. One hurdle jumped.
“Anything else?” Macy asks.
“I’ll find work. Make my own way. Take life one day at a time.”
“Not a bad outlook at all. Lily?”
“I expect to be happy,” she says. “And I will. Someday.”
“That’s a great expectation,” Macy says, “and I have a piece of advice for both of you concerning happiness.”
Again, I resist an eye roll. What can she possibly have to say to us about happiness after all we’ve been through?
“Think about this,” Macy says, “because it’s the truth. You don’t have to wait until life is no longer difficult to be happy.”
I meet Macy’s gaze, as her words play in my mind.
It’s the truth, she said.
I like the idea.
I like it a lot.
Life may always be difficult. Indeed, it probably will be. I’ve been dealt shitty cards.
Can I?
Can I be happy while I’m healing? While life is still hard?
Luke’s image pops into my mind. Luke, with his dark hair and hypnotic eyes. His firm lips so soft against my own.
His red and black tattoo that probably goes all the way up his left arm.
I don’t need a man to be happy. In fact, I’d probably be happier without a man, considering my past.
But I felt good with him. I felt safe with him.
Happy is a stretch. But good is a start.
I regard Macy. Sure, she’s a Pollyanna with a doctorate who has probably led a sugar-and-spice life.
But her words…
You don’t have to wait until life is no longer difficult to be happy.
And I know I’ll be coming to meetings twice a week.
12
Luke
The scar on my shoulder is a constant reminder of what I was.
What I no longer will allow myself to be.
I was fucked up. Majorly. I could blame my upbringing. My parents. My circumstances.
But in truth?
The only person to blame is myself. Once I became an adult, I made my own choices. Sure, there were extenuating circumstances that factored into those choices, but in the end, I made the decisions. I acted on them.
Power is an aphrodisiac. It crawls inside you. Clings to every microscopic cell in your body.
And it corrupts.
It corrupts from the inside out.
I look back now at the things I did, the people I hurt, and I don’t want anything to do with power. If that means I spend the rest of my life waiting tables, so be it.
I can’t lie. I miss the booze sometimes. Once an addict always an addict, as they say.
Yet I chose to work in a restaurant with a bar. To serve drinks to my customers. And every time I serve a martini—or a Manhattan, or a scotch and soda, or a glass of wine—the alcohol calls to me.
It’s a constant battle—one I make a conscious choice to fight.