100 Proof

I would not want me as my patient. I fight illness until it pushes down on me like a giant hand, holding me under the water. I thrash my legs and arms, trying to regain my rightful control. I have been known to give in, but only in a grudging, grumbling way. I have faith that I will slip free on the other side, but it’s faith as thin as a cough, and as rasped. When pressed, I will always choose ripples over stillness.

On occasion, sparely written words aren’t nearly enough. They can’t capture the breadth of the betrayal, what it means to run across someone trusted in an untrustworthy space. They don’t tell the story behind months of recon, years of recovery. They glance off truth, then spin away like misfired bullets.

I have spent years battling my instincts, but not now, not this time. They have never been wrong before. But I was wrong every time I chose not to protect myself from the enemy in my own encampment.

I hold the dates at the tip of my tongue: April 8. December 18. August 13. March 31. And, though it wasn’t a birthday, August 14. Always August 14.

None of these dates taste as bitter they used to. They were hardest to swallow the first year without celebration. Then they became more bland, year by year, like old chewing gum.

But I remember the loss’ grit between my tongue and teeth. I remember how I, too, had to retreat from table, pull myself into a ball until my mouth was ready to eat again.

At the base of The Man, the Ranger imparted information in an accent spiked with flatness and a hint of the colonial, his hands clasped behind him, his open smile friendly and warm, even though he was behind a caution-tape barrier.

“Where are you from?” she asked. After all, it seemed we had already run into so many Canadians, as if the borders had opened up all at the same time, flooding Nevada with our Northern neighbors.

“My mother,” he said, straight-faced just long enough to see our mouths drop open before bursting into loud, warm, staccato laughter.

The bass drew me in, clicking fast to the treble of my heart like a magnet. “Can we please go?” I begged my friends. “It’s so much better over there!”

Over there, the bass took hold of our ankles, our knees, our stomachs, our shoulders, our heads. It compelled as the moon set over the dance floor. The DJ shot fire over our heads. We raised hands in communion.

I put a hand to my chest, almost certain my heartbeat matched that rhythm. Where the music went, I could not help but follow.

I had deemed it the all-nighter. We left the camp with water, drinks, snacks and jackets, in for the long haul, taking the turn toward the Playa on our bikes, sizzling with pent-up energy.

“It’s on,” I shouted over my shoulder. “I am a machine!”

“Machine!” echoed a guy riding in front of me, just before he disappeared into the crowds parting before us.