Allyson In Between ✔︎

Chapter Eleven

|photo by Walter Randlehoff from Unsplash|

Lindsay extends her arm, and it's almost like she's asking me to take the joint out of her fingers. But then she pulls it back and exhales, sending a translucent cloud of acrid smoke in my direction. "I'd offer you a hit," she says, "But I don't think that's a good idea with your brain issues."

"You'd offer me a..."

I raise my arms above my head—because I'm having a hard time breathing. 

There's a piece of paper, like a written procedure in the manila envelope Dr. Greene gave me at our last session. The acronym spells out a word I can't remember, but I know one of the letters is A—for accept or maybe acknowledge. My chest hurts but I'm not having a heart attack. This is panic. My body's fight or flight response to situation that's freaking me out.

It's uncomfortable, yes. Very much so. But I am not going to die.

"Ally, are you okay?" 

Lindsay is standing right in front of me now. And I have to step back because she's too close. Because the smoke is all around her—it's around me, burning my eyes. "I can't...I'm not..."

I shake my head and turn away from her, wanting so much to run. But my legs are wobbly and the gravel pathway back to the street is peppered with fallen limbs and tree roots. I have to walk—carefully, so I don't trip and re-injure my stupid head. I focus on the concrete culvert, on the open space at the end of the tunnel, while I try to remember what else was written on that piece of paper.

"Ally! Hey, wait up."

Lindsay catches me easily. She grabs my arm and I yank it away. "I can't. Deal," I say, panting. "Smoking weed is...it's not a good idea for you, either."

"I didn't think you'd have a problem with it," she says. "You never did before." 

I stop. Because I can't walk and process the thing Lindsay just said to me. I didn't have a problem before. With my little sister doing illegal drugs. "You were...doing this...before?"

And I knew about it?

"Hey, calm down," she says, holding up both palms to show me her hands are empty. The joint and the lighter are gone. But her eyes are narrow and her tone is judgmental. She thinks I'm overreacting.

Maybe I am.

This isn't the ten-year-old Lindsay who lives so vividly in my memory. I have to remember that she's a teenager now. This kind of thing happens all the time in movies and books.

I try to think of a specific example. Or an actual person I knew when I was the age Lindsay is now. Kara's older sister went to a lot of parties, and I'm pretty sure she experimented with drugs. But she was eighteen and a generally happy person. Lindsay is obviously troubled and she's out here doing this by herself.

"No," I say, shaking my head for emphasis. "The person I remember—the person I am right now—has a problem with my little sister smoking weed to escape. And I have an even bigger problem knowing that the person I can't remember, the Allyson in between, knew about this and didn't tell anyone. That's exactly why I don't want to talk to Samantha. I don't want to know that person—and I don't want to know this Lindsay."

My little sister flinches, takes a step back and crosses her arms like I've just punched her in the stomach. But then her expression morphs from shock to anger. Her features twist into disgust, so acute my stomach sours.

"That came out wrong," I say. "I just mean that I left Faircrest...I'm here because I want to help you. I think if we could spend some time together and get back to the way things were before the move, then none of this other stuff will—"