These are sugar pills, from the Latin word meaning “to please.”
It’s a placebo.
“I think that’s all the time we have for today,” Dr. Smith announces, ambling back toward the door of his office and opening it for me. “That was a difficult session, but I think we made a lot of progress.”
“I think so, too.” I climb to my feet. “I’m gonna focus on stamping out temptation instead of making excuses.”
“That’s great to hear,” my therapist replies, placing his hand on my shoulder, making my skin crawl. “I’ll see you in two days, Rose.”
I leave, Dr. Smith closing the door behind me, then make my way down the hallway before heading up into an empty church outreach center. It’s late, the shadows stretching like long fingers as the sky blooms above them in glorious purple and orange. Objectively speaking, it’s a breathtaking display, but my mind is humming along too fast to pay much attention.
Head spinning, I make my way out into the parking lot. There’s so much to unpack that it feels as though I might fall over, my legs threatening to buckle under me at any moment.
One thing’s for sure, I’m in no condition to drive.
Still, I climb into my car and sit for a moment, allowing this anxiety to pump through me in the hope that it might run its course and fade away. I start running through my finger patterns, counting them down over and over again, but the solace this typically provides me comes on muted and slow.
It’s not working because another pattern keeps getting in the way.
11, 14, 15.
This is likely a cheeky reference to Numbers. I cannot carry all these people by myself; the burden is too heavy for me. If this is how you are going to treat me, please go ahead and kill me—if I have found favor in your eyes—and do not let me face my own ruin.
Therapist humor?
It could theoretically connect to any volume in the Bible. I consider Second Corinthians.
And no wonder, for Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light. It is not surprising, then, if his servants also masquerade as servants of righteousness. Their end will be what their actions deserve.
Who knows if there’s any real connection to be made here. After all, this combination of digits could easily be nothing more than Dr. Smith’s three favorite football players, but lately I’ve been enjoying this feeling of trusting my instincts.
Not some abstract cosmic faith, but my own instincts.
This recognition sends another shockwave through my body.
It’s getting dark, and I should be heading home, but right now going home to my parents feels like a bridge too far. Instead, I pull out into the unknown.
I turn on the radio and start driving, allowing the road to lead me wherever it desires.
Righteous, thundering drums flood the vehicle as a slippery vocal line begins to croon across the top, rhythmic and precisely tuned.
I used to love this song, a rousing pop-rock anthem that could just as easily be about letting Jesus into your heart as letting someone into your bed. I try focusing on the former interpretation, but by the time they start belting out “fill me with your love, spill your grace into me,” I have to turn it off.
It feels like I’m seeing through everything.
The car plunges into silence once more, my only soundtrack now the soft hum of asphalt under tires.
I’ve always been wise for my age, and part of that wisdom came from having a profound sense of who I was and what I liked. I understood my place in the world: I was a daughter, an American, a member of the congregation. I played soccer and loved brownies. I was curious and full of joy. I was excited to try new things and I had a past, present, and very specific future laid out for me. I was committed to the Lord.
Some of those things are still true, of course, but as more and more of my characteristics fall into question, I find myself testing the relevance of them all. What happens when every identity marker slips away?
Do you disappear?
I glance down at my hands as they grip the steering wheel, double-checking that the appendages haven’t faded into mist.
Still here.
On the passenger seat, my phone buzzes. It’s my father calling, likely wondering how my session with Dr. Smith went and worried about where I am. A brief moment of panic vibrates through me as I recognize that I’ve already been gone for way too long, but the anxiety is swiftly quelled as I reconnect with my own needs.
Not the needs of my parents.
Not the needs of the church.
Not even the needs of God.
I reach out and dismiss the call.
* * *
My body is on autopilot as I drive into the blossoming sunset. I’m off the main highway now, twisting and turning through a generously forested region on the county line. This place is familiar, but not in any specific way, just a strange aching memory that seems to hang over everything.
Soon enough, I arrive at a small hillside park, this modest view offering a nice enough glimpse of some trees and a winding creek that slices through its lush green field. There’s a playground to the left, and half a basketball court to the right, both of which are being used while the citizens of Neverton fight valiantly against the looming nightfall.
I pull into the parking lot and stop, a bizarre surge of déjà vu pulsing through my body.
Climbing out, I take a deep breath of the cool evening air, smelling the sweet pine of the forest around me. I’ve lived in Neverton all my life, and I still can’t get over this glorious landscape I’ve been blessed with.
Who blessed you? comes a deep and powerful voice from the back of my mind.
I don’t know.
I walk to the front of my car and perch on the hood, pulling my legs up as I sit and watch the happy people below me going about their business. Out on the open field some Kingdom of the Pine members throw a Frisbee back and forth, hoping to get a few more tosses in before heading home in the dark.
Gradually, my gaze drifts from one side of this park to the other, taking in the whole scene as indigo hues gradually leak into the purple above, swelling and overtaking the last ounces of light in this vast Montana sky.
The scent of pine inhabits my nostrils, carried on the gentle breeze that tickles my skin.
Eventually, my eyes come to rest on a young woman in the grass nearby, her eyes transfixed by the same glorious sunset as she leans back on her elbows and gazes skyward. There’s a blanket laid out below her and a bottle of beer held loose in her hand, a bold move in Neverton even on the distant edge of town. Jet black hair tops her head in a short, chin-length cut, this stark color matching her equally dark sweater and torn charcoal jeans. She looks to be around my age, but I don’t recognize her from the congregation, or from school.
She must be a nonbeliever.
An old film camera sits to this stranger’s left, suggesting she’s come here on a photographic expedition.
Somehow feeling my gaze against the side of her head, the figure turns and glances over at me. The two of us freeze clumsily, our brains struggling to keep up with the visceral reaction of our bodies.
I’ve seen her before, not in any concrete sense, but in the abstract depths of my mind. This girl has haunted my imagination, and there’s no mistaking that stunning face with huge features and deep, soulful eyes. She was lurking in the back of my mind at the party, and before that I saw her in the living room when Pachid made her frightening house call.