Getting Better

The sensation was akin to drowning. Gert and the counselor blurred before her eyes; she could no longer breathe. Sophie came to understand that even if she could find her voice, it would not carry.

Her legs appeared to want to run from the room but she opted instead to sit with head in hand as if in contemplation.

"Are you okay?" The counselor's voice was still unwavering, serene.

The clock ticking, the sound of Gert breathing beside her on the couch, the stare of the counselor, all irritated her.

She took a deep breath and looked up.

Gert said, "We all want you to be ok." He turned to her and placed his hand on her knee.

Sofie's eyes scanned the room, finally coming to rest on the bookshelf behind the counsellor, who sat in a wheeled office chair before them. It was a tall, burnished shelf in some dark stain, with rings of oak showing throughout; it looked expensive, and it was filled to completion by books, no gaps. Had the counselor read all of these books, or none of them? Put together, how much did they weigh? Sophie wondered what would happen if the counselor was careless in her wheely chair, feet pushing a little too hard off the floor as she shuffled back to her desk. Sophie saw her bump into the bookcase, saw it rocking slightly at first and then in larger and larger seesaw arcs until it fell forward. Surely, the counselor would be crushed beneath its weight. Was it tall enough to reach her and Gert, where they sat on the plush, teal colored sofa? She wanted to discuss the pretentious bookshelf, how it wasn't necessary. She would've asked an open-ended question like "What do you think about that bookshelf?" but instead said "I'm ok, thank you," and placed her hand on top of Gert's.

***

Sophie pulled her large nosed Buick over a rare curve in I-90 where Louisiana and Texas would soon meet.

The car was an '87, with roll down windows and wide seats. The sun was hot on her left, ears and neck burning as the sun took a throne high in the cloudless sky. She thought of California and wished to feel the damp sand beneath her feet and the foamy surf. Unlike the feeble coastline of her hometown, she knew she would appreciate the endless horizon the Pacific Ocean would provide. When people asked her "Why California? It's so far," she'd reply for no other reason than she hadn't been there before. Sophie leaned on the doorframe and pulled her fingers through her curls, singing the words she knew to Tina Turner's, You Better be Good to Me and humming the rest. She'd need gas in another couple hours, but nothing else until she pulled into Houston for the night. "Good job old girl," she said, patting the molded plastic dash that was cracked at its base.

She had two rules: stop at everything interesting, and don't depend on anyone, especially a man. Her sister's words of years ago rang in her ears: "You don't know what it's like. To have to do things on your own," and so that had become her mantra, the second rule of this trip and her life. That rule had been tested just south of Nashville with a soft tire.

The land here was strewn about with wooden homes set haphazardly on plots of land. The gravel paths surrounding them were overgrown with weeds, signaling their lack of occupancy. Tradition was losing its grip, no doubt to the promise of nearby industrial and port way stations. After having seen nothing but burnt sugar cane and dead grass for miles, a solitary turquoise house caught Sophie's attention. It faced traffic without the customary long driveway signaling a private residence, but in every other way it was a traditional southern home with broad porch and overhang, its single-paned windows wide as an unblinking eye. A hand-painted sign hung crookedly on its front.