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  As I did this, Lee walked around the board, using her foot to rock it from different angles. She rocked it harder and harder, then started pushing me, laughing, saying, Don’t fall, Gidget! Don’t fall!

  I didn’t fall and was even ready for the bodycheck when it came. Lee was several inches taller, but I bore down and leaned into the impact.

  Don’t fall—umf!

  We crashed hard. Lee bounced off me. I held my stance and grinned. She looked a bit surprised as she rubbed an elbow. Alright, Gidget, let’s see what you can do on the water. Grab your stick.

  We started down the beach, which was now, with the tide flowing in, reduced to half the width of the night before but still a good hundred metres that stretched from road to water. A few of the young guys from the hostel were nearby, looking unsure on boards in hip-deep water, falling and laughing.

  I wondered if the waves were even big enough to surf on.

  Big enough for you, Gidget, trust me.

  Okay, seriously. Why do you keep calling me that?

  You like Barney better? Or Kook?

  Not really.

  Just means newbie. Got worse words for it. Okay, walk out to like chest height, and then—see that line of white, where the waves are just starting to break? Get on your board and paddle to just outside of it.

  I did as I was told, walked out through the breaking surf until the water was well above my waist. I jumped up, belly-flopped onto the foam board and promptly went right over on the other side, the board flipping on top of me.

  I came up sputtering to the sound of Lee’s barked laughter. I clenched my teeth and growled.

  The second time, I slid the board under me and managed to keep it there. I rocked it cautiously back and forth, testing for the limits of balance. Lee was already paddling out ahead of me, moving her arms like she was swimming the front crawl. I followed her, and when we were out past the white water, she told me how to watch the waves, what to look for in the texture of the water as it swelled and bent and rolled.

  But no one can really, like, you either feel it or you don’t, hey.

  I’d forgotten to attach the board’s leash to my ankle, so I did so now, nearly falling off again in the process.

  If you’re gonna eat it, just bail, stay behind your board. Alright?

  Alright. I had playoff nerves, ramped up.

  When you see a wave coming, get in front of it, paddle fast, fast, fast and then ride it in. Do that a few times before you try to stand up, just ride in on your tum. Got it?

  Okay. I saw a cluster of waves moving towards us.

  That’s all there is. You’ll do great. Here—get this one—paddle! Paddle!

  I saw the swell coming, turned my board around and paddled towards shore as hard as I could. I felt the board surge up, rising, accelerating, I whooped with adrenalin as I coasted with the top of the wave on my belly, there was air beneath me and I floated, my arms spread wide. Then the wave bottomed out and I grabbed the sides of the board in an instant of panic as I dropped, almost fell off, recovered, splashed down, then coasted into the shallows. Lee was right: these waves were higher than they looked.

  I turned around to paddle back and saw Lee farther out and off to my left, cutting in, crouched on her board. As I watched, she twisted up the lip of her wave and flew, board first, several feet in the air, twisted around again and cut down onto a curl of surf, her body almost horizontal but her feet on her board, her crouched stance intact. She slid down the inside of the wave and sliced her board in and out across the breaking edge of it as she rode in towards the beach, standing more upright as the water flattened.

  Holy fuck, I muttered, grinning into the wind.

  I paddled out past the break point again, turned to watch the swells roll towards me. I thought they were already bigger than a couple minutes ago. At what point does the tide turn, I wondered? Was this a safe time to be out here? Weren’t riptides something people frequently died in? But the moment I recognized Jules’s voice in my head was the same moment I heard Lee yelling, Go! GO!

  I turned my board around, started paddling furiously, again felt the swelling ocean buoy me up, saw the nose of my board come out of the water, point straight forward as I rose and rose. Fuck the baby steps, and I popped up to my feet, left foot in front, stayed in a squat—

  And I flew, I was flying, the nose of my board sliced only air, the wave lifted me, the ocean embraced me, beneath me, behind me, pushing me, following me, exhaling—

  A shadow to my left dropped in fast on the wave—my wave. I tried to swerve and felt my balance go, the board left my feet, I saw pale sky, felt the leash pull my ankle, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get upright, grasped for the surface, blue light, white shadows, an underwater voice that might be my own—

  A sharp pain behind my left ear and a flash

  Neck.

  Jules woke up Sunday morning with a sense of dread, of deep regret, with the knowledge that something was terribly wrong. The right side of her neck. Yesterday it had been the left side of her neck, twinging when she turned her head in the wrong direction, disciplining her like an invisible electric fence.

  But this was different. There was no escaping this long and unrelenting twinge, this ghost made manifest. The screeching hellmouth in the middle of her back ripped along her nerves, in under her shoulder blade, up her neck, into the bone behind her ear.

  She thought about calling Rod. Maybe she had some kind of latent whiplash from the accident yesterday. But she didn’t feel up to negotiating his hidden labyrinth of expectations, making fake apologies as part of some unspoken bargain. She pushed herself out of bed, fell back with a gasp as her shoulder seized. The whump of a flame as gasoline hits it.

  She had protocols for moments like this. Jules made it downstairs to the fridge for an ice pack, slipped it into the cotton sleeve, used its hook-and-loop straps to wrap it around her back and shoulder. Got a glass of water and went back up, into the bathroom.

  Out of Oxy. Right. She rummaged for some old Percocets, came up short. But she had some Tylenol 3s, so she took a couple of those. Better than nothing. Then she went back to bed, lay there with the ice pack and felt some of the burn seep out, the fires of hell cooling into a hard knot, intense but inert. Back downstairs, she switched it to a heat pack. She went back up and lay there for another hour or so; some of the spasming loosened, uncramped. Repeat: ice, heat, ice, heat. Eventually she could lean against some pillows comfortably enough to watch TV. Cop shows, lawyer shows, extreme weight loss shows. Reruns flickered past her, formulae numbing her with spectacular predictability. Rape, murder, torture. Bodies punishing themselves.

  When the codeine started to wear off, she took two more. She did some gentle stretches, tried to move around a little. Took a hot shower. Around three thirty in the afternoon, she poured herself a Scotch. There was only one way to survive days like this. Just get through it.

  Six a.m. Monday, her alarm rang. She went to sit up in bed and pain shot down her back. She swore, but it felt limp in her mouth. Nausea made her stomach cramp fiercely. And she was now out of Tylenol 3s.

  She dug around in the bathroom and found some regular-strength ibuprofen. Wouldn’t help her stomach, but you do what you have to do. She took four.

  She stood in front of her espresso machine, made and drank three single shots in a row. Somehow, she had to get to work.

  She texted Rod:

  Meet me for coffee? 8 am at Café Au Lait?

  She named the little place right near his hospital. She thought that, as text messages went, it managed to sound contrite while remaining succinct.

  She took a hot shower, which loosened her up enough to get dressed.

  By the time she got out, he had answered:

  C U there.

  Jules always took the time to write out whole words like “see” and “you,” but Rod prided himself on using the short forms popular with Chloe’s generation. Even though he eschewed much of said generation, really, and quite pr
obably Chloe herself, although he knew better than to go there with Jules. But if—when—Jules complained about her daughter, he never hesitated to agree that Chloe was being horrible, or selfish, or rude, or foolish.

  The new suit she’d worn to Drew’s was crumpled on the floor and reeked of cigarette smoke, so she was back to the navy blue blazer and pants, which she had always thought was her most comfortable work outfit, but today, under siege from her own body, it made her feel old, dumpy and underdressed. It was the very jacket that had made Drew send her shopping: “grotesquely unfashionable,” with a boxy cut that hung tentishly over her wide hips and protruding tummy. But Rod’s eye for women’s fashion was non-existent, and at the moment she didn’t give a shit.

  THE COFFEE SHOP smell, usually a boon to her morning senses, brought fresh bile to the back of her throat. She spotted Rod sitting at a tiny round table at the back, cupping his Americano in his hands and searching its depths. The café was noisy with hospital staff, greeting each other and joking around as they came off night shift or fuelled up for the long day ahead. Rod sat in the middle of the bustle, a charcoal-suited stone in a field of green scrubs and white lab coats.

  He looked up as Jules reached his table, stood to touch her lips with a kiss. She lowered herself into the seat across from him. Her lower back felt stiff. Her neck was winched in spasm. Come to think of it, her whole body was aching like she had the flu. She really needed her meds. But looking into Rod’s face, she saw she’d made an error in judgment.

  When did you run out?

  Jules deferred answering by ordering an Americano and a croissant from the gum-chewing pre-med waiter. It hurt to look up at her.

  I just wanted to apologize, she said.

  It was noisy enough to feel private. Striations of worry lined Rod’s forehead.

  How much have you been taking?

  Jules’s croissant arrived. She had ordered it out of habit, but right now it looked like shiny plastic, the sight of it made her stomach cramp. She pushed it away.

  Not hungry?

  Jules shook her head. She felt feverish, septic. Her coffee came, and she gripped the mug tightly with both hands to hide their shaking.

  I really did something to my neck when that car hit us. Pain’s making me nauseous.

  You should probably get that seen to.

  He tracked her movements diagnostically. But his shoulders were pulled back, his mouth a hard line.

  You’re still mad.

  Well. I’m trying to figure out if you’re lying to me, lying to yourself or just stupid.

  His voice cut and she flinched. She felt pathetic, suckered in. He leaned forward.

  Look at yourself. You’re sweating buckets, your hands are shaking, your face is green. I’ll bet all your muscles and joints hurt, right? Couldn’t sleep last night? Stomach cramps?

  He was smug as he detailed the symptoms of her misery.

  What’s your point?

  You’re in opiate withdrawal, Jules. I’ll ask you again: how much have you been taking?

  In the last two weeks she had been more than quadrupling the prescribed dose. So she told him:

  Maybe double? My neck really hurts.

  Rod sat back again and looked at her skeptically. And is that the only reason you wanted to meet me? He folded his arms across his chest.

  No, I told you, I wanted to apologize.

  For what?

  Jules took a long, deep breath and stared at a spot over his shoulder. The truth was, she didn’t really want to apologize for anything specific. She just wanted to make everything okay again, put it back the way it was so that she didn’t have to explain and Rod would just refill her prescription and go back to work. She tried to think of what she should say to make that happen, what vague blanket apology would appease him.

  Right, Rod finally said. Well, you think on that for a moment.

  He got up from the table and took the few steps to the door marked Men. An intern stepped out and they talked for a moment, the younger man paying him obvious deference, wide-eyed and nodding repeatedly. Jules cupped her coffee in her hands, steadying herself with its warmth. She noticed Rod’s lab coat, draped over the back of his chair. His stethoscope was curled up in one pocket. In the other, on the side opposite the men’s room, the top edge of a small pad of paper.

  Time slowed as she realized: his prescription pad. He had it with him. Reflexively, she glanced over at Rod, who simultaneously looked over the shoulder of the intern, trapped her stare in his.

  There was a lot of understanding in that moment. Rod’s face was lined with palpable concern, and a sadness that she could disappoint him so much. He felt betrayed, probably, or used. But it wasn’t like she was some kind of addict. Lots of prescription meds came with withdrawal symptoms if you came off them too quickly. That’s why you tapered off.

  Maybe if she told him she wanted to come off the Oxy, that he was right that she was taking too much, maybe he would give her a little bit, so she could come off it more slowly—not right away, maybe, but once this thing in her neck calmed down.

  But as Rod broke her gaze and went into the bathroom, the thick door closed with a clicking thunk behind him and that, somehow, brought home the realization:

  He would never give her what she wanted.

  The young intern, abandoned mid-sentence, made it back to his table with a smirk and an eye roll to comment to his colleague that Doc Scott had his panties in a knot, to which the second intern replied with brutally accurate mimicry of Rod’s voice, That’s why he talks like this.

  And it was the aggravating laughter that did it.

  Jules leaned over in her chair, as if to rummage in her bag, but then she remembered she didn’t have a bag, so she pretended to tie her shoe instead. The pockets of Rod’s lab coat reached the floor. The one holding the prescription pad was inches from Jules’s hand. She couldn’t twist her head around much, but she sort of jerked it, chicken-like, in either direction, to make sure no one was watching, before reaching over and slipping her hand into the pocket. She felt for the bottom of the pad then peeled back a sheet, but the top page stuck to the ones underneath, so she ended up with a small wad. She quickly ripped the whole thing off and pulled it out in one smooth motion. Under the table she saw the bottom of the men’s room door swing open. She yanked up her pant leg and stuffed the blank prescriptions into her sock, gave the laces on her loafer another unneeded tug and sat up. Slowly, one hand supporting her lower back.

  As Rod sat back down, he grimaced at her obvious discomfort.

  Don’t worry about it, she said.

  Anyway, I’ve been meaning to tell you—they’re taking it off the market.

  What—just like that? What am I supposed to do?

  Well, you know, there’s been some controversy, so. They’re replacing it with this OxyNEO. Same drug, but it’s supposed to be tamper-proof.

  Tamper-proof. She knew what that meant, but it had never occurred to her to do it herself, grind it up and snort it or whatever.

  Also supposedly not habit forming.

  Oh, come on, it’s not like I’m a junkie.

  The paper in her sock poked, making her itch urgently. She made fists under the table, dug her nails into her palms. Rod tilted his head at her, his mouth a grim line.

  Yes, well. We need to get you off it. Supervised. One pill at a time. He’d gone into Sympathetic Doctor mode. Sympathetic Boyfriend seemed to have slunk away, but the Doctor was always on duty.

  I’m fine, Jules said, suddenly worried he would pull out his prescription pad and notice that it was significantly thinner. It looks worse than it is.

  He reached across and squeezed her arm. Pale, uncalloused fingers.

  You could get much sicker before you get better. Let me help.

  His eyes went to her forehead, she was starting to sweat and wondered if the sheen of it was visible.

  No, really. Jules pulled out her wallet and rifled through it. I’m sorry for putting you in this pos
ition. She figured her bill at seven dollars, but all she had was a ten. She put it on the table. She was grossly overpaying for something she hadn’t even enjoyed, but she didn’t care.

  That’s what you wanted to hear, right?

  The words pushed him away with a physical force. He fell against the back of his chair, his face looked slapped.

  The two young interns at the next table got up to go, and one of them shot a look her way, and the look was full of pity. And all of a sudden, or maybe not so suddenly at all, Jules needed to get away from Rod, away from his guilt, from his condescension. She stood up.

  You’re the one who prescribed them. If I’m some kind of addict, whose fault is that?

  I didn’t call you an addict.

  But you think it.

  She turned away, too quickly, winced as her neck punished her.

  You just need to— Jules—

  He could see that she was leaving, and she could see that it made him uneasy that the situation was slipping out of his control. She wondered how she had gotten under this particular thumb in the first place, how she had ever thought that this—any of this, the intertwined relationship between her body, her boyfriend and his pills, its laced and hidden trappings of guilt and dependency—could be something that she wanted. She turned back, gritting against her body’s response to her imperfect angles.

  Forget it, Rod. That’s it. Cold turkey.

  Pharmacy.

  But Rod was right about one thing: she felt worse and worse. The hour commute to Toronto usually passed in that semi-aware state unevenly divided between preoccupation with the day to come and reflexively avoiding highway collisions. Today, every second slammed her between the ears, throbbed out to her fingertips, making her fervently wish she could curl into a ball. Even at the excruciating twenty-five kilometres an hour, she was gun-shy behind the wheel of her rental and tried to avoid changing lanes.

  SHE COULD HAVE tried to get more meds at a Hamilton pharmacy, but she was already running late. She also thought she had a better chance of passing off the forgery in the bigger city. Farther from Rod’s hospital.