Unpossible Read Free

reality, they have already been told what to do. They’re already reaching for their glasses of water."

    I pad down to the kitchen in bare feet, wearing Therese’s sweatpants and a T-shirt. The shirt is a little tight; Therese, champion dieter and Olympic-level purger, was a bit smaller than me.
    Alice is at the table, already dressed, a book open in front of her. "Well, you slept in this morning," she says brightly. Her face is made up, her hair sprayed into place. The coffee cup next to the book is empty. She’s been waiting for hours.
    I look around for a clock, and find one over the door. It’s only nine. At the hospital I slept in later than that all the time. "I’m starved," I say. There’s a refrigerator, a stove, and dozens of cabinets.
    I’ve never made my own breakfast. Or any lunch or dinner, for that matter. For my entire life, my meals have been served on cafeteria trays. "Do you have scrambled eggs?"
    She blinks. "Eggs? You don’t—" She abruptly stands. "Sure. Sit down, Therese, and I’ll make you some."
    "Just call me ‘Terry,’ okay?"
    Alice stops, thinks about saying something—I can almost hear the clank of cogs and ratchets—until she abruptly strides to the cabinet, crouches, and pulls out a non-stick pan.
    I take a guess on which cabinet holds the coffee mugs, guess right, and take the last inch of coffee from the pot. "Don’t you have to go to work?" I say. Alice does something at a restaurant supply company; Therese has always been hazy on the details.
    "I’ve taken a leave," she says. She cracks an egg against the edge of the pan, does something subtle with the shells as the yolk squeezes out and plops into the pan, and folds the shell halves into each other. All with one hand.
    "Why?"
    She smiles tightly. "We couldn’t just abandon you after getting you home. I thought we might need some time together. During this adjustment period."
    "So when do I have to see this therapist? Whatsisname." My executioner.
    "Her. Dr. Mehldau’s in Baltimore, so we’ll drive there tomorrow." This is their big plan. Dr. Subramaniam couldn’t bring back Therese, so they’re running to anyone who says they can. "You know, she’s had a lot of success with people in your situation. That’s her book." She nods at the table.
    "So? Dr. Subramaniam is writing one too." I pick up the book. The Road Home: Finding the Lost Children of Zen . "What if I don’t go along with this?"
    She says nothing, chopping at the eggs. I’ll be eighteen in four months. Dr. S said that it will become a lot harder for them to hold me then. This ticking clock sounds constantly in my head, and I’m sure it’s loud enough for Alice and Mitch to hear it too.
    "Let’s just try Dr. Mehldau first."
    "First? What then?" She doesn’t answer. I flash on an image of me tied down to the bed, a priest making a cross over my twisting body. It’s a fantasy, not a Therese memory—I can tell the difference. Besides, if this had already happened to Therese, it wouldn’t have been a priest.
    "Okay then," I say. "What if I just run away?"
    "If you turn into a fish," she says lightly, "then I will turn into a fisherman and fish for you."
    "What?" I’m laughing. I haven’t heard Alice speak in anything but straightforward, earnest sentences.
    Alice’s smile is sad. "You don’t remember?"
    "Oh, yeah." The memory clicks. " Runaway Bunny . Did she like that?"

    Dr. S’s book is about me. Well, Zen O.D.-ers in general, but there are only a couple thousand of us. Z’s not a hugely popular drug, in the U.S. or anywhere else. It’s not a hallucinogen. It’s not a euphoric or a depressant. You don’t speed, mellow out, or even get high in the normal sense. It’s hard to see what the attraction is. Frankly, I have trouble seeing it.
    Dr. S says that most drugs aren’t about making you feel better, they’re about not feeling anything at all. They’re about numbness, escape. And Zen is a kind of arty, designer escape hatch. Zen disables