Damsel Distressed (10 page)

I take a deep breath and blow it out in a narrow stream.

“Yeah. I should call TG. Thank you. Again. I'm sorry I ran into you.”

She smiles at me gently. “It's nothing. Anything you need, you can come to me, okay?” Every part of her face is soothing except for her eyes. She is looking at me so intensely it makes me want to look away.

“Actually, there is something else I need.” I pick at the skin on my left thumb. “I was hoping you could call the school for me? I need to…I need to change my first period class.”

“Is something wrong? Are you not getting along with the teacher?” Her face is contorted with concern, and the longer I look at her the more I see Carmella's features lingering on her skin. Their eyes are the same color. Carmella has her mother's nose, too. It makes me want to shut down completely.

“I'm having some weird anxiety flare-ups in there. I don't do well with change, and there are some changes in there and some kids have been saying some things that have made me uncomfortable. Triggering things.” I throw out the buzzword and hope it works.

“Avoidance is an easy way to block off healing. Have you thought about what you might be avoiding by changing that class?”

Uh, yeah. Your daughter
.

She's reaching out and holding my shoulders while I try with all of my willpower to keep looking in her eyes. A moment ago, she seemed so sincere, but now all I see is the mother of the villain in my story. And I just feel so crazy. Things have gotten so bad so fast. And it's all because of Carmella. And by extension, Evelyn, too.

“Gen! I can't be late to this meeting!”

“Coming!” I scream at him, causing Evelyn to jump back as if she'd been slapped.

“Sorry, I have to go. Grant's got a meeting before first period, so I'm dropping him off, and then I'm going to swing by George's office. I need to see him. If I go, he'll see me. Please call the school about my schedule. Please.”

I push out of the chair and take note of my heartbeat. It feels steadier already. She pulls her lips together in a tight line. I can smell her disapproval at my “avoidant” behavior, but she offers me a tiny nod.

She doesn't understand me. And I know that. And the way she looks at me as I gather my things makes me feel confident she never will.

10

A
t 8:56, after dropping Grant off at school, I walk into the waiting area of Therapist George's office. I sit on the stupid chair covered in stupid fabric and stare up at his stupid painting of a stupid dog, and my left leg bounces uncontrollably. When I met Grant in the car, he asked what was wrong. If anyone can tell when I've been crying, it's him. I told him I'd hurt myself when I ran into Evelyn and bumped my head. I don't think he bought it, but he had the decency to let it go.

The entire ride to school I asked myself why in the world I wouldn't want to tell Grant about the horrible, threatening, unacceptable things Carmella said to me in the kitchen. For the first time in my life, I can say I totally understand that “shamed into silence” mentality I've heard mentioned.

Even though I know she's the one who crossed the line—she's the person who violated human compassion and who lashed out with cruelty—it feels like I'm the problem. It feels like there's a whisper of truth in the idea that things would be better if the weak would just stay out of the way.

When I came in today, Sarah, the girl behind the counter, asked me if it was an emergency, because usually, I don't miss school for appointments. Sometimes I have them during our open lunch block and sometimes I come after school, but it's pretty rare to just blow off a class for therapy—contrary to Carmella's belief. But every time I tried to answer Sarah's question, I got so blinky that, eventually, I just turned away from her and went to sit down. Right now, I can't stop blinking. I'm blinking so fast and so often that Sarah looks like a stop-motion cartoon version of herself.

Exactly four minutes after I arrive, his office door swings open, and TG gestures me in.

“Imogen, it's nice to see you. Come on in.”

George looks exactly like he always does. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, giving me the impression he's been working hard all day, even though it's only 9:00 in the morning. On his desk, I notice his cufflinks—today's are in the shape of beer mugs.

As I walk to my seat on his tufted leather sofa, he closes the door behind me and asks, “So what's going on, Imogen? I wasn't expecting to see you so soon after our visit on Saturday. Are you okay?”

“I guess so.” I feel my bottom lip begin to quiver. Just being in the room with one of my “trusted adults” gives me the same sort of feeling I have when Grant is nice to me and I'm trying not to cry. It just makes it harder to hold it all together.

I reach into my bag for my journal, and a sigh escapes my lips. I can't bring myself to look at him. I can't shake the shame that is sticky, all over me.

Blink. Blink.

“Imogen, are you sure you're all right?”

“I'm—no, TG. I'm not.”

“You're here now. I'm here. Would you like to tell me what's the matter?”

Blink. Blink.

Maybe coming here was a bad idea. All he wants to do is pull this out of me, and all I want to do is leave.

“I…it's time for writing. I should write. I'm fine.” I say it over and over in my head. I'm fine. I'm fine. I don't believe a word. “Can I start?”

George has his hand on his chin like he's scrutinizing a painting hanging on a museum wall. What is Imogen thinking? What is Imogen doing? Why does she keep blinking?

“Sure. Go ahead. I'll stop you in ten minutes.”

I scribble my pen across the page, making small, meaningless circles at the top of my paper in an attempt to convince him I'm journaling. I blink and blink and try to keep tears from falling onto my paper because then I'll have to see them. Those wet spots. Those paper-wrinkling wet spots mean I'm crying. Because of her. Again. My doodles turn into words.

She's in my head. I see her perfect hair and her skinny legs and I can't stop seeing her every time I look in my mirror. I'm basically the old witch who is looking into the glass but instead of asking about who is the fairest, I'm looking at my own reflection and saying, “Oh, you know who the fairest is, cupcake, and it' s not you.” And she hates me. But she doesn't need to hate me. It' s entirely unnecessary. Girls like her don't have to spend time hating girls like me. They're perfectly fine to just go about their business and look down their noses at us. Hating is a complete waste of energy.

I am made of glass.

And I've been broken before.

I've been in a million little razor-cut pieces and I've been totally lost and alone.

I've screamed for a mother I remember more as a dead woman than I remember as alive.

I was swept up by loving hands and painstakingly glued back into a shape that looks mostly like me. I'm mostly myself, but there are still cracks.

Glue is fine and useful and I'm glad I've mended well, but don't be fooled: I'm just barely holding it together. And she is this tiny, little, hiho-bag pickaxe and she's tapping on me. And I'm breaking.

“I'm breaking.”

The sound of my voice cuts through the silent room like a solo microphone that's up too hot in an empty theatre.

“Imogen?”

My chin lifts, and I look at George through a blur of tears. His face is hard to see, but his voice is tender and full of worry. I can't make out much through the tears, but his shoulders are wide like my dad's. And I can't stand it. Any of it. The sadness, the disappointment, the fear. It weighs me down, causing my chin to lower again, and when it does, the tears finally fall.

“I can't,” I whisper into my hands. I watch as fat circles drip onto my palms. I catch my tears like precious objects. Symbols of what I have to lose.

What Carmella says weak people never manage to hold onto.

“Tell me what's happening. I'm here. I am right here, Imogen. Look at me. You are not alone.” George pulls his chair forward across the floor—something he's never done before. He is almost knee to knee with me, but never touching. As much as he cares for me, I know there is a professional limit he'd never cross. And the fact that all I want is a hug just makes me miss my actual dad even more.

“George, I'm worried. I'm really worried. Things haven't been this bad in months and months, and now I feel like I'm back to square one. I can't hold it together. Not with her around. I can't. She's killing me.”

“Who, Imogen? What's changed since we talked on Saturday morning?”

I ignore his question and just let the words flow. It feels more important that I get the words out than I answer his questions. George is holding his luxury pen and twirling it between his fingers. A rare gesture of stress. He's worried.

“I know she's my stepsister, and we're supposed to be family now or whatever, but I can't look at her without seeing every single thing I'm not. I hate myself when I see her. I hate how I feel when I'm anywhere near her because I will never be what she is.”

“So you want to be what she is?”

“I should have been! I should have been, George! And I hate that I want to be. Or that I might want to be. Because she's mean. It was not just a misunderstanding at Christmas. I wasn't confused. She hates everything about me, and maybe she's right! If I weren't trapped in this skin, I'd probably hate me, too!”

I wipe my eyes on my sleeves and feel the rush of adrenaline recede. George is looking at me with patient eyes. I want to look away, but I force myself to keep my eyes locked on him. I try to remember all the things I'm not doing right now that I should be.

I count as I inhale and exhale, keeping my breaths slow and steady. I visualize my little heart pumping gently. I try and make myself still, even though my skin still feels the tingle of oxygen deprivation.

“George, I would have been her. If my mom hadn't—if I hadn't fallen apart, that girl who is pretty and smart and driven—that girl would have been me. And now I'm living next door to the person I might have been and I don't know what to do. And she hates me, George. And that makes me feel like I'm somehow hating myself.”

I purse my lips together while I close my journal and re-cap my pen.

“What am I supposed to do, George? I was doing okay, right? After Christmas, we worked so hard. You and my family and me. By May, I was going to school more, and I stopped flushing my meds, and I remember the day I gave you and my dad my blades and I really believed that maybe this disease wasn't permanent. The thought of waking up one day and leaving sadness and worry in the bed behind me was incredible. I had hope for the first time in my life.”

But the only me I really remember being is this.

My lips shiver as tears fall into my lap.

“I had hope. I felt like I had climbed out of this giant cave I never, ever thought I'd get out of. I didn't even know people
could
get out. But now I'm there again, right at the edge, and if I make one wrong step, I'm going to fall back to the bottom.”

George's hands are folded carefully on his notepad.

“You are doing all the things you're supposed to be doing. You are coming to talk with me, and you are working with your school case manager, you are journaling, and you are taking your prescribed medication. You have tools, Imogen. You are not alone in this.”

“But I feel alone. I feel it. And it doesn't matter what you say or what should be, George.”

I'm fighting in this horrible war alone. All anyone can do is hand me weapons and shields and Band-Aids, but I'm standing here, begging someone to help me fight.

“George, I'm tired. I'm so tired of fighting this, and it seems like the whole world thinks I should be able to snap out of it. And I know there are people who care, but in these moments…” I gesture to the ground and grit my teeth. “In this specific moment, I am in a battle, and I am absolutely by myself. And if you can say I'm not alone, then you don't understand anything at all.”

He pauses and looks at me without moving a muscle or saying a word. I expect him to argue or try and soothe me again, but eventually, he just nods.

“You're right. But don't underestimate how strong you are. How much you know. Okay?” He points at me with the end of his pen.

We sit in silence for a moment. I find myself staring out the window and watching the morning clouds pass through the sky. Autumn in Texas is always mild, and the first crisp breezes are finally pulling the leaves off of the giant oak tree outside of George's building. A few fly past and scratch at the glass on their way to someplace new.

“You okay?” he asks after several more minutes of silence.

“Yeah.” The only good thing about fighting alone is when I'm done with a bout, I'm fully exhausted and there aren't really any feelings left to feel. The numbness that comes after an emotional breakdown is such a welcome relief. It almost makes the entire thing bearable.

“I know you think it's cheesy, but did you try saying your affirmation? You wrote it to guide your thinking in moments just like this one. Maybe you could say it now, so it will be fresh in your mind before you leave today.”

“I really don't feel like—” He sits there with his crisp shirt and his shiny shoes, and he's waiting for me to say his magic words. And I realize that by me saying them, he'll feel like he's done something. Plus, the sooner I say them, the sooner I get to leave.

And there's also the part about when I get through a therapy session, I get to hit up whichever drive-thru I want.

“Yeah, yeah. I'll say the thing.” I drone the words I've said over and over through the years. “I am whole. I am more than just the pieces that I see. I am so much stronger than I seem.”