And she liked equally-not more and not less, because it was just the same sensation backward-the moment she became re-certain that those things were true-this is me, this is really me-when the hole closed, and the anchor caught, and she could smell the eggs her father was scrambling downstairs. It was, Meredith had decided, precisely like sucking on a giant, whole-body Mentho-Lyptus cough drop, the way it cleared her out, head to toe. It was a physical sensation, as real as cresting the first incline of a roller coaster, the momentum shift from ascending to descending. She would say these things to herself because she liked the moment when she suddenly became uncertain that those things she was saying were in fact true, liked the way it made her feel unmoored, the hole of doubt that opened up inside her, and the wind that blew through that hole. Sometimes in the morning, while she waited for her brother to get out of the bathroom, Meredith Oliver would stand in front of her bureau mirror, lock eyes with her reflection, and say, “This is me.
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