Fly Away (19 page)

“I get it. Okay. Maybe he’s Johnny Depp under all that makeup.” Tully turned to her.
“So, you know how to get back to my place? It’s eight blocks up First. The doorman’s
name is Stanley.”

Marah nodded. Her mother would never have let her be alone in this part of town after
dark.

Slinging her fringed leather purse strap over her shoulder, Marah walked away. The
building in front of her was like many of the early brick structures in Pioneer Square;
the interior was dark and the hallway was narrow and windowless. A single lightbulb
hung overhead, casting a meager light below. In the foyer, a huge board was cluttered
with scraps of paper and notices for AA meetings, lost dogs, cars for sale, and the
like.

Marah followed the stairs down into a vaguely musty-smelling basement.

At the closed door, upon which had been tacked a notice for
TEEN GRIEF GROUP
, she paused and almost turned around. Who the hell wanted to be a part of
this
group?

She opened the door and went inside.

It was a big room, fluorescently well lit, with a long table at one end that held
a coffeemaker, cups, and what looked like a high school bake sale array of treats.
Several metal chairs formed a large circle in the center of the room. A box of Kleenex
was positioned on the floor by each chair.

Great.

There were already four kids here, seated in the chairs. Marah looked at the other …
patients? participants? nutcases?… through the black hair falling in front of her
eyes. There was a very large girl with pimply skin and greasy hair who was chewing
so hard on her thumbnail she looked like an otter trying to open an oyster. Beside
her was a girl so thin that if she turned sideways, she’d vanish. She had a bald spot
on the side of her head. Next to her sat a girl dressed all in black, with magenta-colored
hair and enough facial piercings to play tic-tac-toe. She slouched away from a plump
boy in horn-rimmed glasses beside her who was playing with his phone.

Dr. Bloom sat in the circle, too, wearing fitted navy pants and a gray turtleneck.
As neutral as Switzerland. Marah wasn’t fooled: there was nothing casual about the
eagle-eyed way Dr. Bloom looked at her.

“We’re glad you could join us, Marah. Aren’t we, group?” Dr. Bloom said.

A few of the kids shrugged. Most didn’t bother to even look up.

Marah took a seat by the heavy girl. She had barely taken her place when the door
creaked open and Paxton walked in. As before, he was dressed like a goth, in black
jeans and unlaced boots and a poorly fitted black T-shirt. A tattoo of words snaked
over the ridge of his collarbone and curled up his throat. Marah looked away quickly.

He sat down across from Marah, next to the girl with the magenta hair.

Marah waited to the count of fifty to look at him again.

He was staring at her, smiling like he thought she was hot for him. She rolled her
eyes and looked away.

“Well, it’s seven o’clock, so we can get started,” Dr. Bloom said. “As you can see,
we have a new member: Marah. Who would like to make the introductions?”

There was a lot of looking away and chewing on nails and shrugging. Finally, Magenta
Hair said, “Oh, hell. I’m Ricki. Dead mom. The fat chick’s Denise. Her grandma has
Parkinson’s. Todd hasn’t spoken in four months, so we don’t know what his problem
is. Elisa stopped eating when her dad killed himself. And Pax is here by court order.
Dead sister.” She looked at Marah. “What’s your story?”

Marah felt everyone looking at her.

“I … I…”

“Mr. Football didn’t ask her to the prom,” the heavy girl said, giggling nervously
at her own joke.

A few of the other kids snickered.

“We’re not here to judge each other,” Dr. Bloom said. “You all know how much that
hurts, don’t you?”

That shut them up.

“Cutter,” Pax said quietly. He sat slouched in his chair, one arm draped across Magenta
Hair’s chair and one leg crossed over the other. “But why?”

Marah looked up sharply.

“Paxton,” Dr. Bloom said. “This is a
support
group. Life is hard. You’ve all learned that at an early age. Each of you has experienced
a profound loss and you know how hard it can be to keep going when a loved one has
died or someone charged with caring for you has betrayed that sacred trust.”

“My mother died,” Marah said evenly.

“Would you like to talk about her?” Dr. Bloom asked gently.

Marah couldn’t look away from Paxton. His golden gaze mesmerized her. “No.”

“Who would?” he said quietly.

“How about you, Paxton?” Dr. Bloom said. “Do you have something you’d like to share
with the group?”

“Never to suffer would never to have been blessed,” he said with a negligent shrug.

“Now, Paxton,” Dr. Bloom said, “we’ve talked about hiding behind other people’s words.
You’re almost twenty-two years old. It’s time to find your own voice.”

Twenty-two.

“You don’t want to hear what I have to say,” Paxton said. Although he was slumped
down and appeared uninterested in everyone around him, his eyes held an intensity
that was unnerving, almost scary.

Court order
.

Why would the court order someone to grief therapy?

“On the contrary, Paxton,” Dr. Bloom said evenly, “you’ve been coming here for months
and you haven’t talked about your sister once.”

“And I won’t,” he said, looking now at his black fingernails.

“The court—”

“Can order me to come, but it can’t make me talk.”

Dr. Bloom pursed her lips in disapproval. She stared at Paxton for a long moment and
then smiled again, turning slightly so that her attention was on Stick Girl. “Elisa,
perhaps you’d like to tell us more about how eating went this week…”

An hour later, as if by some secret alarm, the kids lurched out of their seats and
rushed from the room. Marah hadn’t been prepared. By the time she bent down to retrieve
her purse from the floor and stood up, only Dr. Bloom was still there.

“I hope that wasn’t too painful,” the doctor said, walking over to her. “Beginnings
can be difficult.”

Marah looked past her to the open door. “No. Fine. I mean yes. Thanks. It was great.”

Marah couldn’t wait to get out of this room that smelled of stale cookies and burnt
coffee. She ran outside and came to a sudden stop. The streets were crowded. On this
Wednesday night in June, Pioneer Square was full of tourists and locals. Music spilled
out of the taverns and bars.

Paxton appeared out of the darkness beside her; she heard him breathing a split second
before she saw him. “You’re waiting for me,” he said.

She laughed. “Yeah, because guys in makeup really rev my engines.” She turned to face
him. “You were waiting for me.”

“What if I was?”

“Why?”

“You’ll have to come with me to find out.” He held out his hand.

In the yellowy light from the streetlamp, she saw his pale hand and long fingers …
and the scars that ran like an equal sign across his wrist.

Cut marks.

“Now you’re scared,” he said quietly.

She shook her head.

“But you’re a good girl from the suburbs.”

“I used to be.” As she said the words, she felt the tightness in her chest ease up
a little. Maybe she could change herself somehow, become a different version of herself,
and maybe if she did, it wouldn’t hurt so much to look in the mirror and see her mother’s
smile.

“Marah? Paxton?” Dr. Bloom walked up the sidewalk behind them. Marah felt a strange
sadness, as if a beautiful opportunity had just been lost.

Marah smiled at the doctor. When she turned back, Paxton was gone.

“Be careful,” Dr. Bloom said, following Marah’s gaze across the street, to where Paxton
stood in the shadows between two buildings, smoking a cigarette.

“Is he dangerous?”

It was a moment before Dr. Bloom said, “I can’t answer that, Marah. Just as I wouldn’t
answer a similar question about you. But I would ask you this: Are you looking at
him
because
you think he’s dangerous? That kind of behavior can be risky for a girl in a vulnerable
situation.”

“I’m not looking at him at all,” Marah said.

“No,” Dr. Bloom said. “Of course you’re not.”

At that, Marah resettled her bag over her shoulder and headed up the dark street for
home. All the way back to Tully’s she thought she heard footsteps behind her, but
every time she turned around, the sidewalk was empty.

*   *   *

On the way up to the penthouse, Marah stared at her reflection in the elevator’s mirrored
walls. All her life she’d been told that she was beautiful, and for most of her teen
years, that had been what she wanted to hear. In the years BC—before cancer—she’d
spent hours studying her face, making it up, fixing her hair so that boys like Tyler
Britt would notice her. But AC, it had changed. Now all she saw was her mother’s smile
and her father’s eyes and it turned every glance in a mirror into something painful.

Now, though, she saw how thin she’d become, how pale, in the twenty months since her
mother’s death. The bleak look in her eyes depressed her. Then again, everything depressed
her these days.

On the top floor, she exited the elevator and went to Tully’s condo. Unlocking the
door, she stepped into the bright apartment and went into the living room.

Tully was there, pacing in front of the wall of windows that overlooked the city at
night. She had a glass of wine in her hand and she was talking on the phone, yelling,
actually, saying, “
Celebrity Apprentice
? Are you
kidding
me? I can’t be that far gone.” She turned, saw Marah, and flashed a brittle smile.
“Oh. Marah.” She laughed and said, “I have to go, George,” and hung up the phone.
Tossing it onto the couch, she met Marah with open arms and hugged her tightly.

“Well, how was it?” she said at last, stepping back.

Marah knew what was expected of her. She was supposed to say,
It was great, wonderful, perfect. I feel better now,
but she couldn’t do it. She opened her mouth and nothing came out.

Tully’s gaze narrowed, became that journalist-on-a-story look Marah had seen before.
“Hot cocoa,” she said, and led Marah into the kitchen. Tully made two cups of hot
cocoa with whipped cream and carried them into the guest bedroom. Just like when she
was little, Marah climbed up onto the bed. Tully did the same. They leaned side by
side against the tufted gray silk headboard. A large window framed the Seattle skyline,
which glittered in vibrant neon against a starlit sky.

“So, tell me everything,” Tully said.

Marah shrugged. “The kids in the group are pretty messed up.”

“You think it’s going to help you?”

“No. And I don’t want to see Dr. Bloom again, either. Can we cancel tomorrow’s appointment?
I mean, what’s the point?”

Tully took a sip of her hot cocoa and then leaned over and set her cup on the nightstand.
“I’m not going to lie to you, Marah,” she said at last. “Real-world relationship advice
has never been my strong suit, but maybe if I had learned how to deal with things
at your age I wouldn’t be as screwed up as I am now.”

“You really think talking to a stranger and sitting around with a bunch of crazies
in a moldy basement will help me?” The minute she said
crazies,
she thought about the guy, Paxton, and the way he looked at her.

“Maybe.”

Marah looked at Tully. “But it’s therapy, Tully. Therapy. And I … can’t talk about
her.”

“Yeah,” Tully said quietly. “But here’s the thing, kiddo. Your mom asked me to watch
out for you and that’s what I’m going to do. I was her best friend from the David
Cassidy years to the second George Bush years. She’s the voice in my head. And I know
what she would say now.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t give up, baby girl.”

Marah heard her mother’s voice in those few words. She knew Tully was right—that was
what her mom would say now—but she wasn’t strong enough to try. What if she tried
and failed? What then?

*   *   *

The next day, her dad was set to arrive. Marah couldn’t stop pacing. She chewed her
fingernails until they bled. And then, finally, he was there, walking into Tully’s
beautiful condominium, giving Marah an uncertain smile.

“Hey, Dad.” She should have been happy, but seeing him made her think of her mom and
all that had been lost. No wonder she’d been unhappy for so long.

“How are you?” he said, approaching her warily, pulling her into an awkward hug.

What should she say? He wanted a lie.
I’m fine
. She glanced at Tully, who was uncharacteristically quiet. “Better,” she said at
last.

“I’ve found someone in Los Angeles, a doctor who specializes in teens who are in trouble,”
Dad said. “He can see you on Monday.”

“But I have my second appointment with Dr. Bloom today,” Marah said.

“I know, and I’m glad she could step in, but you need to see someone regularly,” he
said. “At home.”

Marah smiled shakily. If he guessed how vulnerable she felt right now it would only
hurt him more. But one thing she knew now for sure: she couldn’t go back to Los Angeles
with him.

“I like Dr. Bloom,” she said. “And the group is kind of lame, but I don’t mind.”

Dad frowned. “But she’s in Seattle. This doctor in L.A.—”

“I want to stay here for the summer, Dad. Live with Tully. I like Dr. Bloom.” She
turned to Tully, who looked thunderstruck. “Can I live here for the summer? I’ll keep
seeing Dr. Bloom twice a week. Maybe it will help.”

“Are you kidding me?” Dad said. “Tully is no chaperone.”

Marah dug in her heels. Suddenly she was certain: this was what she wanted. “I’m not
eleven anymore, Dad. I’m eighteen and I’ll be starting the UW in September anyway.
This way I’ll be able to make new friends and see my old ones.” She went to him. “Please?”

Tully said, “I think—”