Wow, I wasn't expecting such a positive response to just the prologue! Thank you to Dark-Enough-Conspiracy-Theory, rosegold1996, and Banana for leaving a review, you guys made my day!
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Chapter 1
"Psst, Miranda!"
She starts awake as soon as she feels a hand on her arm. Her heart rate spikes, and she isn't sure why. This is her friend Leila; there's no reason to be jumpy.
"Sorry, I can't seem to stay awake," she mumbles, offering an apologetic smile that somehow seems insincere after a gaping yawn.
"I'm fine with you sleeping through Chem, but you know how Sra. Mendez is. Sleeping equals participation deduction equals un grado muy mal. Capisce?"
"Leila, that was the worst Spanglish I've ever heard. And you do realize capisce is Italian, right?"
Leila waves a careless hand and grins.
"I won't need Spanish in art school, will I?"
"One can only hope. You're worse at it than me, and that's an accomplishment in and of itself," Miranda whispers back.
"Ladies!"
She jumps in her seat and has her second round of heart palpitations at the sharp reprimand of the teacher.
"Surely your conversation must be quite important if you feel the need to have it in the middle of my lecture. Do share with the rest of us, por favor."
"Lo siento, señora," Miranda replies before Leila can say something smart and get them in even bigger trouble. "I was just asking her about the midterm exam. I've lost my study guide."
"Such a shame."
Miranda tries not to comment that Sra. Mendez really doesn't think it's quite a shame at all, actually.
"Save such conversations for after class." Surely satisfied that she's embarrassed them enough, the good señora returns to the chalkboard to continue the lesson on verb conjugation.
Leila and Miranda trade amused smiles before returning to their tedious note-taking, counting down the minutes until lunch in the margins.
"God, one more day of that crazy woman and I quit."
"Ever the charmer, aren't you?" Miranda returns.
"Seriously! I'm not reading a chapter of Don Quixote in a language other than English!" Leila whines through a mouthful of hot dog.
"Art school still likes its applicants to have passed high school, right?"
"I'm passing everything! Including Spanish!"
"And you'll need to study if you want to keep that up," Miranda says.
Leila instantly stills like she's been shocked. Miranda wonders what she said, but then she looks at her hands. She's gone three shades paler, and it suddenly feels so very cold.
"Did they turn on the AC in the middle of winter?" She tries laughing it off, and Leila smiles hesitantly. "Seriously, I want my coat. And a Snuggie."
"Good idea," is all Leila can seem to come up with.
Miranda knows something's up; Leila's moods don't change this quickly. Asking seems like a bad idea, however. Leila is avoiding her curious glance with all the subtlety of a trumpeting elephant, and when Leila can't even bring herself to make some offhand joke about it, it's bad and she doesn't want to talk about it.
But Miranda can still ask if she's okay and hope for the best.
"Are you okay?"
Leila waves the question off, and Miranda tries not to be disappointed.
"Yeah, I got hypothermia for a moment. Seriously, it's like they enjoy turning the heating system off or something."
"The joys of a budget."
Both of them pretend not to notice that the rest of lunch passes with little more than tense silence and pathetic attempts at small talk they both can see through.
The familiar click of the key turning in the front door sets Miranda's teeth on edge. When she notices how tense she's become, her muscles practically locked into paralysis, she purposely forces herself to relax. What's been with her today? First getting spooked by Leila's hand on her arm, and now freezing up at the sound of a key turning the tumblers of the front door lock.
Shaking her head at herself, she slips inside and closes the door with a resounding bang that instantly soothes her. Loud noises have always soothed her, for some odd reason.
In the same vein, she tosses her car keys onto the dining room table to further announce her arrival to her mother.
"How was school?" Her mother's voice rings out of the bedroom, sounding distracted and decidedly not interested.
Miranda knows what to say. "It was fine."
"Good."
And back her mother goes to furiously working on her research. Having a college professor as a parent has its perks, but an abundance of quality family time is not one of them. Still, Miranda relaxes at the familiarity.
"Do you need any help grading midterms?"
"That would be wonderful!"
Just as Miranda dumps her bookbag on the floor of the kitchen, the phone rings.
"Get that, would you?"
"It's Dad. You sure?"
"You answer it," comes the cryptic reply.
Miranda shrugs and picks up the phone. She's heard her parents fight a little more than usual lately; now she's just waiting for the current storm to pass.
"Hey Dad. You on the way back from work?"
"Just left the office. Tell your mother not to worry about dinner tonight. We're eating out."
"Fight was that bad, huh?"
"Nothing to worry about, kiddo. Stress at work is getting to both of us."
She accepts this explanation, of course. This time of year is always a little more hectic.
"I'll tell her. Drive safe."
"Always do."
She hands up then. The click of the "end call" button makes unpleasant goose-bumps pop up on the back of her neck, leaving her once again confused at her body's odd reactions to random things today.
"Mom, Dad's taking us to dinner. He'll be home in an hour," Miranda says as she walks into the storm of loose papers, wall calendars, post-it notes, and the occasional bag of chips that passes as her mother's office. A messy workplace is a happy workplace, her mother always said. Really, Miranda's sure that's just a convenient excuse to put off cleaning the place for another week until the junk gets knee-deep.
"Oh? How nice of him."
Miranda knows that tone; it's the tone her mother gets when she's feeling sorry for whatever things she yelled at him last night.
"You go get ready, I'll start on the grading," Miranda says with a knowing purse of her lips.
"Just the short answers, dear!" Her mother flits out of the office like an overeager bird leaving the nest for the first time.
"Yes, Mom."
Miranda settles down, hopping over a few toppling stacks of books as she makes her way to the plush computer chair that is easily her mother's favorite thing of the entire house. As she grabs the first stack of papers, one of the books slides off the top of the stack and falls open.
Before she even realizes what's happening, Miranda catapults herself backward in the chair and into the wall, knocking down a bulletin board on the way. Her heart's leapt into her throat, and the next thing she knows she's staring wide-eyed at the book with its fluttering pages like it's a snake poised to strike. She only realizes she's wheezing and hyperventilating when her head starts to spin.
"Honey, is everything alright?" comes her mother's worried voice.
"I'm fine, I just tripped on a stack of books," she calls back.
Why is her voice shaking?
The sound of rattling papers draws her attention. Why are her hands shaking? She's shaking like a leaf, and she can't seem to stop.
"Shit," she mumbles. The midterms she so carefully grabbed are spilling out of her hand and into the sea of papers below.
"The hell is wrong with me?" she whispers to the tests slipping through her fingers. Unsurprisingly, they don't answer, and she's left feeling confused and more than a little scared.
She tries to gather up the tests, but her hands can't seem to grip anything properly. Even her knees are knocking together. So she's left with no choice but to sit tight in the chair and breathe as calmly and deeply as she can. She's been feeling off all day, but this is getting ridiculous.
"Christ, I might be the one who needs a damn shrink," she grumbles. Her parents go to a relationship counselor once a month, and now she's wondering if she shouldn't make an appointment with the office. They have quite the sparkling reputation for helping troubled teens. Of course, most of those are depression cases, but still.
Several long, tense minutes pass as she sits there with her head in her hands and her elbows on her knees. She curls up in the chair Indian-style, and that helps a little. The sound of the shower water running helps too, and slowly she finds that her heart is slowing and her hands aren't shaking quite so badly.
At last, she thinks she's calm enough to stand up and get out of there.
"Hey Mom, I just remembered I have a test later this week, I'll do the grading after dinner." She's relieved that her voice doesn't shake as she tells the small lie, though her legs still feel like pogo sticks.
"No problem, hon!"
In truth, she doesn't have a test until next week, but she just might start studying now anyway. She practically lectured Leila on the importance of studying anyway, she may as well live up to her talk.
As she grabs her backpack and scrambles upstairs to her room, she pretends not to notice how her head spins at the creak of that step three from the top.
The restaurant is much nicer than the usual post-fight places; the air hangs heavy with the smells of seared filet mignon, boiled lobster tail, and glasses of wine. It's savory and a little bitter and sour and mouth-watering all at once.
"Just how big was the fight, Dad?" Miranda murmurs to him as the waitress leads them to a table under a chandelier that looks like its made of crystal and stained glass.
"It built up; I had to make reservations this time."
"Oh." What else does a girl say to that?
"You really didn't have to do all this, James," her mother whispers to him, her hand curled gracefully in his.
"Can't a man treat his two girls?" he replies, giving her hand an affectionate squeeze.
Miranda looks away and tries not to blush, but it's easier thought than done when her father's giving her mother the twitterpated look.
"Good evening, I'm Eric and I'll be your server tonight."
Grateful for somewhere else to focus, Miranda looks up at the waiter with barely disguised relief.
No sooner has she glanced at his face than she feels sick to her stomach, and she doesn't know why. A flash of blonde hair appears in her mind, paralyzing her.
She blinks once, and it doesn't go away. Eric's mouth opens and traces words about the menu for tonight, but she hears something else entirely.
'There's a good girl.'
She's frozen, and she doesn't know why. Her mouth is dry and it feels like some ghostly hand is trying to choke her. Her heart's incessant thump-thumping drowns out everything else. Can she really not breathe, or is she just going crazy?
A menu appears in front of her, and it takes all the control she has not to jump a foot in the air. For a split second, it looks like the hand releasing the menu is clamped around her wrist, but then the image vanishes and she's clambering up from her seat and asking where the restroom is please.
If her parents are concerned, she doesn't notice; she's too focused on getting away and forcing herself to breathe because the restaurant is quite nice and it wouldn't do to faint in the middle of it. But she can't breathe and everything is spinning so fast...
She stumbles through the first door she sees, the sign barely registering. It did say "Ladies," didn't it? It doesn't matter; there are stalls, nice ones, with marble-patterned sides and doors that reach to the floor and far above her head. The toilet even has a lid, one she lowers with trembling fingers. Her chest is too tight, like she's being squeezed from the inside out and the outside in.
Her head falls into her hands, her elbows slip from her knees, and she sits there, folded in half, trying to breathe and succeeding only in raggedly gulping the occasional bit of oxygen. A rapid banging registers in her ears through the fog that's settled over her senses, a fog that turns everything grey and unimportant and sharpens every detail at the exact same moment. She only realizes that the banging is the toilet lid rattling against the seat when her body shakes all the harder. Did someone come in?
The very thought of a door opening is enough to send her into a near-frenzy again. It's all the worse because she still doesn't know what on earth is the matter with her or why she heard those strange words from a stranger's mouth.
She has to pull it together. Tonight is for her mother, so her parents can make up after one of their fights. She can't ruin that for them, turn it all on her.
Just the thought of their worry causes bile to rise in her throat. She has to force the retch down, but it burns the whole way.
The gentle bang of a door closing jolts her to awareness, momentarily.
"Honey? Are you alright?" comes her mother's worried voice. Her rapid exit from the table must have been frantic after all.
"I'm fine. Just got my period," she lies, because that's a lot easier than the truth, especially when she doesn't know exactly what the truth even is.
"Do you need a pad?"
"Nope, I'm good." She knows her voice is shaking, but she also knows her mother will chalk it up to the monstrous hormones that usually accompany her 'times of the month.'
"Alright, I just wanted to make sure. We ordered an appetizer, so come on out when you're feeling better."
"Will do," she calls. Is it her imagination making the thud of the closing door echo around the stall?
She needs to calm down, and fast; she knows that much. Without another thought, she whips out her phone and dials the number of her parents' therapist. To her surprise, the good doctor answers on the second ring.
"Dr. Ethel speaking."
"Hi, it's Miranda. My parents come to see you once a month?"
"Miranda O'Donahue?"
"Yeah. Listen, I've been feeling weird all day, like really jumpy, and I don't know what to do and I need to calm down, so do you know a line or someone I can call?" The words come out in a rush, like she's ashamed of them. She is, if she stops and thinks on it for just a second.
"Are you hurt in any way?"
"No, I'm okay, I think. I've just been scared by specific noises today, and I think I just hallucinated."
Dr. Ethel gives her a number that she explains only as a help line that will talk her through some calming exercises, tells Miranda to take care, and hangs up.
"How perfectly brusque," she comments to the radio silence. Still, she dials the number Dr. Ethel said and waits.
"Hello, S.A.F.E. Helpline."
"Hi," she answers uncertainly. "I was told to call you by a psychologist. Is that okay?"
"Of course, dear. What's the matter?" The voice on the other end is much warmer than Dr. Ethel's was, though to be fair it was dinnertime and Miranda really couldn't blame anyone for being annoyed at receiving a call at this hour.
"I'm panicking and I don't know why." The words come out before she's even processed them. Maybe it's because she's already processed that whoever this is can help, but it all spills out from there. The jumpiness, the terror at mundane things like a door closing or books shifting or a waiter with blonde hair.
"Alright, miss, I need you to calm down, okay?"
"What do you mean? I don't know how!" She tries not to yell, she really does, but it comes out much louder than she intended anyway.
"Take slow breaths, but not too deep. Breathe in…." Miranda does. "And hold…" Miranda does that too, even though she's not sure why breathing is the relaxation technique of choice. "And release."
The room's still spinning, but it's at least going a little slower now. The person on the other end has her do it again, and again, until she actually feel calm enough to hold a decent conversation.
"Do you know what's wrong with me?" Miranda briefly thinks that she sounds so tiny and breakable with that one question, but she's at a nice restaurant and it doesn't matter how she gets better, just that she does.
"What you described sounds like a flashback, dear. Now that sort of thing is usually associated with some sort of posttraumatic stress disorder. Do you have a history that would put you at risk for that?"
"I don't think so. I mean, I don't know. How can I figure that one out?"
"Look for a counselor in the area who specializes in PTSD or anxiety, and see if you can't schedule an appointment."
"You want me to see a shrink?" Miranda isn't against the idea, per say, it's just that her parents are the ones who are supposed to need the counseling, not her. She's always been healthy as a whistle. Or a horse. Not that she's overly concerned with getting cultural maxims exactly right at the moment.
"If something happened to you and you've forgotten it, a counselor could help bring it out into the open and, more importantly, help you in dealing with it."
"How could I forget something traumatic? Don't our brains work to remember that stuff, not forget it?"
"Repressed memories can occur under periods of intense stress, such as the terror a traumatic experience can cause."
"Oh. I thought that was all Freud's theory."
"Well, the important thing is helping yourself and making sure you are able to function healthily. I can give you the names and numbers of some therapists in your area, if you're comfortable with that."
Miranda nods before remembering that the nice lady can't actually see her. "That would be great, thank you."
The lady gets her the numbers of several offices, and Miranda says goodbye after thanking her profusely.
As soon as she hangs up the phone, the dizzy feeling returns. But she breathes like the lady taught her and reminds herself that a wonderful dinner is waiting. She finally exits the stall with a pounding head but almost-steady legs. She cleans her face of the evidence of her little breakdown and practically marches back to the table.
"There you are, kiddo! We were getting worried. Did ya fall in?"
Her father's familiar joking helps ground her, and she silently thanks him.
"Almost, but I got my balance at the last second. Sorry to disappoint."
"All plumbing leads to the ocean, isn't that what Gill said?"
"You really watch too much Finding Nemo, honey," her mother croons back, rubbing his arm in a way that makes Miranda avert her gaze and clear her throat.
"I love you guys, but sometimes you two are downright disgusting," she mumbles, making sure none of the other restaurant-goers can hear.
"What ever do you mean? It's only his arm," her mother replies, the picture of all innocence.
Miranda pretends to ignore this and instead takes one of the rolls from the bread basket.
"I see you already finished the appetizer." She smiles because she's more amused than annoyed.
"You were in there a while," her father chimes defensively.
"It doesn't matter; I prefer bread and butter much more."
Miranda flinches involuntarily as she takes her knife and cuts the roll in half. Her hand starts shaking, but she manages to steady it before her parents notice. Her head spins a little when she spreads the delicately whipped butter on the first half, so she breathes slow and long like the nice lady taught her. She can survive a simple dinner out.
Can't she?
Miranda does survive, with only a few minor instances of shaking hands and a trembling voice. But her mother notices, and Miranda has to fight a grimace as the three of them slip inside the house, pulling their coats tight around themselves as the chilly night air chases them into the living room.
"You look pale, Miranda. Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine. You know how my time of the month is."
Her mother is concerned, more than usual. Miranda always gets some sympathy for her 'lady time,' as her mother calls it, simply because hers are always relatively miserable, even as those times go, but her mom seems to get that there's something more this time.
'At least she actually believes that's part of it, though,' Miranda thinks dryly. She's never used the period excuse before, and it feels foreign on her tongue.
"Well, just make sure you stay hydrated and take some ibuprofen."
"I will. Now I'm gonna stay down here and let you and Dad have some alone time where I can't hear."
To her credit, her mom blushes a little, but still with a devious little twinkle in her eye.
"Save that sparkle for Dad. I have a very important date with the new Hobbit movie."
"Thranduil is a hottie."
"Ew Mom, he's mean and old!" Miranda laughs as her mother disappears up the stairs. She pretends that the flinch at the sound of the creaking step was just a muscle twitch.
She waits until she's sure her parents are both upstairs together before taking out her cell phone and copying down the numbers she saved in a note onto a piece of paper. She'll call every one in the morning, but for tonight she needs to research them, figure out which one might be a good fit.
"Damn good thing I have a steady income for this," she mumbles, slightly amused that she only just now appreciates her job answering the phone at the hotel down the street. She's not sure why she doesn't want her parents to know about this, but she doesn't. Maybe she's ashamed, or maybe it's her independent streak showing up at an inopportune time; whatever it is, she's alright with it. Maybe this is one her parents don't need to know about.
The infernal shrieking of her alarm clock startles her clean out of her cocoon of blankets and pillows. Miranda rubs her backside and shoulder where they hit the floor and tries not to think about how she's never fallen out of bed from her alarm clock before.
She doesn't waste any time in dialing the number for the counselor she decided on last night. A woman in her thirties with a wealth of experience in trauma, stress, and anxiety, if the website bio was accurate.
The receptionist's voice is much peppier than she'd have thought anyone could be in the early hours of the morning. It makes scheduling a visit easier than she thought it would be. She'll be going after school; she can skip math club just this once. It's important, but she'll have to come up with a plausible excuse by lunchtime, when she'll be able to let the other club members know.
Oddly enough, this time she's alright with lying to them. It's just a little fib.
She refuses to think about how much she hates fibbing.
After school, she drives to the counseling office with a guilty sort of determination that churns her stomach and makes goose-bumps pop up on her arms.
The drive is right through town, almost a straight shot. She'll be going through a rough patch, but she's driven through there before and been just fine.
When a gold car cuts her off, she's surprised to find that she doesn't swear at it for cutting her off, but because it's making her vision go fuzzy and her palms go sweaty.
"Dammit," she hisses. Unless she gets a grip, she'll have to pull over and then she'll be late for her appointment and then they'll be angry and she'll probably never be able to go back again and…and…and she's not sure what else, but it's sure to be awful, isn't it?
She breathes long and slow, but her heart still beats desperately against her ribs. Glancing back in her rearview mirror turns out to be a bad idea; it shows her a white car that's old and ratty with chipping paint, that's too close to her bumper for comfort. How close does another car have to be for it to be considered tailgating? She can't remember for the world; all she can think is that what if she's being followed, and what back roads she can wind through at fifty miles-per-hour to lose them.
"There is no one following you," she tells herself sternly. Maybe if she says it strongly enough, she'll force herself to believe it and she can get to her appointment in one piece.
She doesn't even notice that her foot is clamped on the accelerator until the car starts to swerve, and she can't seem to find the brake to slow it down.
A crash echoes in her ears before everything fades away to black.
Banana - Thanks for all the detailed feedback, it was really great to get your thoughts! Sorry you weren't big on the 'and's, that's what sounded right as I was writing. Again, I really appreciate hearing your thoughts!
Review!