In Riptides

29 | twenty-four days

N A T E

Twenty-four days.

Twenty-four days since I carried Lia across the beach, since I thought she would die in my arms.

Twenty-two days since she walked into rehab.

I sit on my surfboard with my legs dangling in the water, the salt lapping over me. Low swells roll under my board, lifting the nose and setting it down again, the sea breathing. The horizon stretches out in a clean blue line, the sky barely streaked with pale orange from the early sun. A seagull glides low across the surface, its wings barely moving before it dips and disappears farther down the coast. The beach behind me is quiet too, only a couple early surfers scattered across the break.

Normally I'd already be chasing waves, but today I just sit here. Watching. Thinking about her, how she asked for help.

"I can't keep hoping that I'll just forget about everything. That I'll wake up and suddenly be okay," she had told me. "I don't trust myself anymore."

My mom worked fast to find her a place in a rehab facility out of town, but things move fast when you have hospital connections and a willing patient.

I stood in the parking lot outside the place with her family, the building looking way too normal for something that held so much pain and challenge. Beige walls. A little garden by the entrance. Like it was just another doctor's office.

Lia stood at my side, clutching my arm as if our clothes had been stitched together. She looked pale and tired. Nervous, but ready. Her mom looked more anxious than she did, like she was still trying to comprehend the reality of what was happening. The fact the Lia even needed treatment in the first place; it was a lot for her family to digest. Except for Rob. Knowing Haley, I think he figured Lia had a problem long before her overdose. Although he never knew how to approach it with her.

There hadn't been any drama or tears when we said goodbye. There was an air of acceptance as she hugged each of us, holding onto me for a breath longer.

And then my mom walked her inside. It's hard to get to that point of being able to walk in, but what's even harder is staying.

I exhale slowly, watching the sun creep higher over the water, casting glimmers across the surface.

Most people imagine rehab with detox beds and shaking hands and counselors with clipboards, but they don't know what it really feels like. How in the beginning, every moment is agonizing. The first week I was there, all I could think about was how to get out. Every second felt like someone had peeled my skin off and left the nerves exposed. My body screamed for something to numb it, my brain told me I didn't belong there. Mom had to practically shove me through those doors after Wes died, and I hated her for it back then.

Now I know it saved my life.

Another swell rolls under my board, rocking me gently.

Lia was completely cut off from us for the first week while she went through the initial detox. It was hard thinking about her then. How much pain she was in, how she would have been a ball curled on her bed, sweating through the night, pleading for relief.

Since then, she makes contact when she can. Short calls between therapy sessions and group meetings. Lately she's managed to call in the early evenings for a little longer. Some days she sounds stronger. Some days she sounds tired. But she's still there, still trying. And that's all that matters right now.

A small wave rises in the distance, curling lazily before dissolving into foam. I watch it fade, my fingers trailing through the water. Somewhere a mile down this coastline is the stretch of beach where I had found Lia sitting on the shore. The image is still as vivid as the anything.