Authors: Ilsa J. Bick
Pain‘s not all I remember, of course. There were bright lights. The beep of monitors.
Needles and tubes. Lots of faces . . . God, now that I think of it, they brought me to this same ER. Maybe these are the same doctors, but I don‘t know because I faded in and out. I do recall that everyone,
every face
, was grim, like they‘d read this story before and knew the end wasn‘t pretty.
Later, the doctors said how lucky I was that my mom and Matt had decided to pick me up from Grandpa‘s early. Lucky to be alive. Lucky, lucky, lucky.
Yeah, that‘s me, Bob. I‘m just so,
so
lucky.
I‘m beating around the bush. I know I am. I don‘t want to tell this story, Bob, and you know why? Because this is a fairy tale with teeth and claws, and here‘s what completely sucks: you‘re going to want black and white, Bob, right and wrong. I‘m not sure I can give that to you. That‘s the problem with the truth. Sometimes the truth is ambiguous, or a really bad cliché.
But
this
is the truth, Bob: I‘m a liar.
I am lucky, a liar, a good girl, a princess, a thief—and a killer.
And my reality—my story—begins with Mr. Anderson.
2: a
Of course, the library doors were locked.
Score another point for Psycho-Dad, who got impatient when I reminded him to double-check and make sure the school librarian would be there to let me in. ―Stop worrying about it,‖ he‘d said the night before. ―I talked to the school last week. They said there was no problem.‖
Well, wrong-o there, Dad.
Turing High was one of those Psycho-Dad command decisions, same as us moving to a new McMansion ninety miles north of Milwaukee after my stint on the psych ward. Or was that my breakdown? No, no, it was my ―little episode,‖ Psycho-Dadspeak for my stay in the place where the nuts feed the squirrels. My father always called it a ―
little episode
,‖
as if my life was a sitcom and we could simply channel-surf right on past.
We were in Rebecca‘s office when he first floated the idea in March, and although I hadn‘t known it then, I‘d only see my therapist twice more: another linchpin in Psycho-Dad‘s clean-slate campaign.
―Turing makes sense,‖ he‘d said. ―Jenna‘s a bright, sensitive girl. She‘s just had a . .
. little episode, that‘s all. When she was on the, ah . . .‖
―Ward?‖ I prompted. I was sprawled in my usual spot, a plump, brown leather armchair. ―Unit?‖
Dad‘s lips set in this line above his chin, a fissure in granite. I never talked to my father like that at home, not unless I wanted Psycho-Dad to pay a visit. Of course, the go-to for
that
is he‘s a shock trauma plastic surgeon and and screws his nurse and has temper tantrums because he‘s just under so much stress. Not that we talk about the blow-outs or the affairs. All that‘s no one‘s business. It‘s a family matter. You know what I‘m talking about, Bob.
But Rebecca‘s office was my turf. Dad had to behave himself. Doctors are very sensitive about their reputations in front of other doctors, even if the other doc is a shrink and the lowest form of life because all docs know that the med students who become psychiatrists were always pretty squirrely to begin with, the ones who went all girly around blood and guts. Rebecca
being
a girll. . . well, that was proof.
―Yes,‖ he said. ―Your teacher
there
said you were light-years ahead of the other kids.‖
This was true, though that wasn‘t saying much. In the four months I‘d been an inpatient, there were only two kids who stayed long enough to need more than their regular homework delivered. One was eleven and manic half the time—when he wasn‘t in the quiet room, threatening to blow up the joint, that is. The other girl was seventeen, had gotten pregnant, and then started throwing up to stay thin. The baby finally starved, and she miscarried. Only she couldn‘t—wouldn‘t—stop puking. I think there was only one week where she wasn‘t walking around with a feeding tube taped to her nose, and a psych tech within arm‘s reach.
―I‘ve had a long talk with the principal and guidance counselor at Turing,‖ Dad was saying. ―They‘ve assured me that they are accustomed to dealing with kids who‘ve had . . .
problems.‖
―You
told
them about me?‖ I shot a glance at Rebecca, who was scowling. ―Did you know about this?‖
―Not exactly,‖ Rebecca said. ―Dr. Lord, don‘t you—‖
―I didn‘t think it was necessary to involve Becky in the preliminary stages.‖ Dad never called Rebecca
Dr. Savage
and even Rebecca didn‘t call herself
Becky
. ―This isn‘t Becky‘s decision to make anyway.‖
―But you didn‘t ask me,‖ I said, stupidly believing that maybe, oh, all those hours of family therapy had made a dent. ―We didn‘t discuss it.‖
Mom, the apologist, jumped in. ―Your father didn‘t mean any harm.‖
―Why can‘t I just go on being homeschooled?‖
―That‘s a nonstarter,‖ said Dad.
―Why?‖
―Because. Emily has her hands full with the bookstore. I‘ve got surgeries scheduled every day, and that‘s not counting emergency reconstructions. I‘m at the hospital six, sometimes seven, days a week. Neither your mother nor I have the time to babysit you.‖
That drew a little blood, as Dad had intended. I looked away, chewing on my lower lip, willing the tears not to fall. I turned to Rebecca. ―Please. Say something.‖
Rebecca sighed. ―Unfortunately, your parents have a point, Jenna. You
do
need to be around kids your own age, and preferably ones without serious problems. You won‘t get that if you hide in your house. Being alone is when you‘ve run into problems.‖
―Yeah, but I was in
school
when it hap—‖ I let that die. I couldn‘t argue. Even though I hadn‘t cut for over six weeks—a new record for me back then—the urge was there, all the time. It was like what that bulimic girl from the ward said:
If I go an hour and
don’t think about throwing up, I worry there’s something wrong. Puking’s the new normal.
Slicing and dicing myself would land me back in the hospital, though, and I knew it.
All the doors in the new McMansion had locks, but I wasn‘t allowed to use them.
Sometimes after I showered, my mom would barge in as I was toweling off with her patented: ―Oh! I didn‘t know anyone was in here.‖ Uh-huh. I saw how her eyes flicked fast, up and down, searching for new cuts, fresh scabs. I knew she checked the trash for bloodied tissues or used Band-Aids. Heaven forbid they ever looked behind the false panel beneath my vanity and found my nail scissors. I hadn‘t used them since I‘d been home, but they were . . . insurance.
I thought of something else. ―Wait a minute,‖ I said to Rebecca. ―Don‘t you need my permission before you release records or something?‖
Rebecca shook her head. ―Not technically. You‘re only fifteen.‖
―I‘ll be sixteen in September.‖
―It doesn‘t matter. Until you‘re eighteen, your parents have full say over release of your records. Legally, I can‘t stop them.‖
Dad snapped his fingers to get our attention. ―Let‘s stay on track, shall we? The point is, Jenna, you are perfectly capable of being around kids your own age, and Turing‘s an excellent private science and tech school.‖
―Who said I‘m going into science?‖ I demanded, although that was probably the stupidest thing I could‘ve said. The best Christmas gift I‘d ever gotten was this Edu Junior Scientist Kit Matt bought with his own money when I was five. Mom had a fit when I filled the basement with orange smoke. ―Doesn‘t
my
opinion count?‖
―She has a point,‖ Rebecca said. About time, too. ―I‘ll be honest, Dr. Lord. I was under the impression we were
discussing
Turing. I had no idea Jenna‘s records had been released, much less that she‘d been accepted. I haven‘t even gotten a request for a summary letter from Turing‘s guidance counselor.‖
―Wait.‖ Mom looked at Dad. ―They don‘t have a letter from Rebecca?‖
―No,‖ Dad said, and then he sighed as if he was just so
sick
of having to get us all up to speed. He spoke slowly and distinctly, like we were morons. ―It‘s bad enough that Jenna‘s wasted
months
of her life, recovering from her . . .‖ He waved a hand to swat my past away. ―I see no reason why we should burden her further by prejudicing them with Becky‘s observations. Jenna‘s out of the hospital. She‘s on no medications. She‘s at home, not in a straitjacket. She comes here, what, twice a month? Becky, no disrespect, but there are one hundred and sixty-eight hours in a week, out of which my daughter spends,
exactly
, one hour with you. No, less than that: fifty minutes. Your involvement is minimal. I doubt you have much of an impact at this point.‖
―I see.‖ Rebecca‘s tone dripped acid. ―So what, exactly, is your point, Dr. Lord?‖
―My
point
is that we are grateful to you. We acknowledge the help you‘ve given Jenna. But her future will not depend upon the fifty minutes she spends here, nor an assessment based on limited exposure.‖
―In other words,‖ I said to Rebecca, ―you‘re fired.‖
Psycho-Dad blustered a little bit, said things like
outgrown
and
hatched
and
time to
spread her wings
, like I was some kind of baby bird Rebecca just wouldn‘t let out of the nest, she was so protective. But it all boiled down to this: Dad decided I needed a fresh start. Turing was in, and little Becky was out. My opinion didn‘t count. God hath spoken.
Something that happens a lot when your dad‘s last name is Lord.
That summer, I stayed put in my parents‘ new McMansion, which never felt like home. While I was an inpatient, Dad had gotten rid of all my old furniture. I now had a four-poster with a frilly canopy that I completely hated, which was kind of ironic considering how hard I‘d begged when I was younger because all princesses had canopy beds.
I weeded the garden, mowed the grass, clipped around the trees, painted the picnic table that no one sat on. Given my mom owned a bookstore, there was always plenty to read, so I devoured at least three books a week. When I wasn‘t reading or doing chores, I single-handedly kept Netflix in business.
And I e-mailed Matt, although I didn‘t tell anyone. I‘d never even mentioned it to Rebecca, who would‘ve freaked. All our e-mails were on a separate e-mail account that I set up on this ghost server run out of Israel, if you can believe it. I know it sounds like overkill, Bob, but I had to be über-careful. My parents hated that Matt enlisted. I think what really ate at Psycho-Dad was that once Matt was eighteen, he was free and our father couldn‘t do a damn thing about that.
And what Matt wanted was to run; to get the hell out. It didn‘t work out the way he planned—or, maybe, you know . . . it did. Once he was in Iraq and gone, my parents wouldn‘t talk about it, or him. So, if they found out we were keeping in touch, my mom would‘ve had a nervous breakdown. Dad‘s head would explode. Really, I didn‘t need the headaches.
I didn‘t blame Matt for running. Before my life came crashing down around my ears, I was on the cross-country team. That summer before Turing, I thought about starting up again, doing some serious training. Except I never did—not then, anyway—because I think I knew, somehow, that I could run and run and run away into forever and still never get anywhere.
The truth is, Bob, that no matter how far or fast you go, the past always follows: an inky, faceless thing tacked to your shoes that only the harshest light can kill, and then just for those few moments when there is nothing but the strongest fire from the brightest sun, breaking over your shoulders, burning that shadow—and your past—to ash.
So now, at quarter past six in the morning, I stood in the semi-dark of a strange high school, staring at locked doors and wondering what to do. Mom was long gone, her taillights flashing as she took the circular drive and headed back down the access road which bled into the highway and east toward her mother‘s—my grandmother‘s—old bookstore. Mom wouldn‘t be back for another twelve hours when we would wash, rinse, repeat every single school day for some unspecified time in my bright, sunny future. That is, until she—or more likely, Dad—decided I was normal enough to get my license. Given everything that had happened, I thought that would be a long time coming.
Where was everyone? My watch said I still had almost ninety minutes before that first bell. The office staff probably wouldn‘t show for at least a half hour. I could sit tight except my backpack weighed a ton and I had a cup of sickly sweet cappuccino I didn‘t want, but Mom had insisted on buying—like coffee was some kind of rite of passage, a ticket into my new life. Maybe I could put away some of my notebooks at least? I remembered from orientation that my locker was upstairs and to the left. The stairs I needed were all the way down this next hall, I thought, past the cafeteria and—
―Hey!‖
I whirled, a scream-bubble at the back of my throat. The guy was squat and burly, with a bottle-brush mustache and a grimy red rag threaded through an empty belt loop.
―I . . . uh . . .‖ I swallowed my heart back into my chest. ―I came early. . . I have. . . I have permission. . . uh. . .‖
―Doors don‘t officially open for almost another hour.‖
―They were open. My dad was supposed to arrange it. Me waiting in the library, I mean, so I thought I could come in.‖ This was crazy. Did this creepy guy want me to go back outside and wait on the curb while he locked the front doors?
―Librarian isn‘t here.‖ His eyes kept drifting from my face to my chest.
Maybe he was a little slow. ―I know.‖
―Didn‘t anyone tell me.‖
―I‘m sorry. The doors were open.‖
―You said that,‖ he said, speaking to my breasts. ―That‘s not supposed to happen either.‖
―Well, there are two cars in the lot.‖
―The pickup‘s mine.‖
Which left a Prius with an empty bike rack on its roof. ―So maybe one of the teachers came in early and left the door open?‖
―Maybe.‖ His face folded in a scowl. ―You got ID?‖
All I had was my learner‘s permit, which I fumbled from my wallet. He stepped close, squinting at the picture, his eyes clicking from it to me and back again. He stank of cigarettes and sweat and ammonia. Finally he said, ―Okay. Library‘s down the end of the hall.‖
―I know. It‘s locked.‖ When he opened his mouth again, I said, ―Yes, the librarian doesn‘t come in for another hour, I know. Do you have the key?‖ He nodded. ―Can you unlock the door?‖
He shook his head. ―The librarian has to be there.‖
―Well, can I go to my locker, please? Maybe by the time I put my stuff away, the librarian will be in.‖ I could tell he didn‘t like the idea, but I was already moving away, heading for the stairs, not waiting for permission.
He let me get maybe ten feet then called, ―Hey!‖
Now
what? I looked back. ―Yes?‖
He held up that damn coffee, the one I‘d set down when I tried the library doors.
―This yours?‖