Artist's Daughter, The: A Memoir by Alexandra Kuykendall Page A

knew I was in trouble. The air going in my lungs seemed to be decreasing with each breath. I’d like to say it was altitude sickness—I was too newly arrived from sea level—but really I was out of shape with a terrible bike and no gloves, riding in the biting cold. I quickly fell behind the rest of the group, and the pity riders started showing up—guys who had no problem riding extra by doubling back to ride with me and bring up the rear.
    “How you doing?” one asked as he pulled up next to me and slowed down to match my sluggish pace. I could tell the lilt in his voice was forced, like being friendly would somehow make up for my lack of athleticism.
    I could feel myself getting more annoyed with every push of my foot. What was up with everyone else? With all these other girls? Did I miss the fitness test when I was out for my interview?
    The gap between me and the next person ahead continued to grow until I could no longer see her. I felt vomit rising in my throat. I tried to swallow and hold it back—I didn’t want to throw up in front of the pity rider of the moment—but I finally had tostop my bike, lean over, and let it out. It became clear the only way I was going to go over Vail Pass was in a motorized vehicle.
    “Alex needs to stop.”
    “She can’t go any farther.”
    “Derek, can you drive her to the end?”
    I heard these statements floating above my head as if they were about somebody else. So relieved the torture ride was ending, I still wanted to shrink into oblivion with each declaration. And now I was going to be alone with Derek in the van? Looking like this? With no makeup, clothes that weren’t flattering, and dark circles under my eyes? Failing at any attempt to be outdoorsy and cool? So pathetic? Really?
    And then once we were in the van, he had to be nice about it, to try to make me feel better. “I wanted an excuse to stop riding,” he said.
    Still shivering, I thought I might disintegrate from embarrassment. I looked straight ahead out the windshield and tried to think of something witty to say. Nothing came to mind.
    My discomfort was heightened by what had happened the night before. The staff sat in a large circle around the living room of the house where we were staying, going around and one by one answering a question to get to know each other. Many of us had arrived in the last month, and though I’d only been there a few weeks, after spending every minute with the staff in such an intense environment, I felt like we were building rapport quickly. But not so quickly that I was ready to share my biggest hurts with everyone at once.
    It was my turn to answer the question, and within the first minute I felt my voice cracking. Within two minutes I couldn’t talk; the crying was getting in the way. I don’t remember what the question was or even my answer, really. I remember the ugly, snotty, messy sobbing that forced others to scramble to find me tissues and lean in to listen with concerned expressions. And that it was about my dad. I remember I was embarrassed by this sudden and unplanned show of vulnerability. It came on so quickly, whichmeant it was close to the surface. And there was so much snot. How was I supposed to clean it up with everyone looking at me?
    I didn’t want to talk about my dad. I hated talking about him. And I was afraid the way it came out would make me look out of control, too broken myself, too vulnerable to help the kids we were there to help. And it was the only show of emotion of that level that night. It felt too exposed and too intense for what the sharing time was supposed to look like. I couldn’t talk and motioned with my hand to move on to the next person. I hoped she was as messed up as I was. I was disappointed to hear she wasn’t.
    After everyone shared and the circle broke up, a few people approached me to ask if I was okay. I wanted to scream, “Of course I’m not okay. I’m a mess!” but I’d already made a scene. All of the years