Love Rewards The Brave (21 page)

140.

Next is Margot, after work, as we’re closing up shop.

I have to give her props

because so far she’s the least annoying.

“Louisa, look, I know you’re pissed. I’m pissed about all of this too –– but this,” she circles around my face with her finger, “is getting really old.”

I turn and walk away

blankly staring at the nothingness ahead

forgetting the life

I lived where I always did as

I was told.

Because that’s getting

really old, too.

141.

Jess finds me after school, doing an awkward

take of someone who has clearly

pondered

long and hard about what to say.

“Louisa, I called your house the other day. I never heard back. Maybe we can hang out over the weekend?”

Clearly someone put her up to this.

Why can’t she just move on

forget and dismiss?

142.

The fringe folks come last.

Toby doing his best good guy

helping out a wayward teen

scene.

Social worker guy shows up at Ms. Francine’s

asking if I would like to see

another counselor

therapist

psychologist

psychoanalyst

since I’m

detachedanddisconnected

from the people in my life.

My answer

surprises no one.

What does that say about me?

I don’t want to know.

143.

I should have seen it coming.

I guess good-girl-gone-numb

works better in movies or television shows

because the intervention happens sooner than

I know

what hits me.

It’s like I’ve barely had time

to perfect my rolling eyes

slamming doors

don’t care about school or following

your

orders.

I know I’m pretty shitty at it anyways

I mean, I’m all talk.

Part of me is pissed that they’re sitting

around Ms. Francine’s

living room

when I walk in after work.

Part of me wants to be mad that they are dissecting my moves

attempting to piece

together my broken

heart

but the other part is

hurt and betrayed

because when I look around the

living room

all I see are the people who chose to

stay.

Which points out to me the people who chose to

walk away.

144.

“Louisa, come in, we’re all here for you.”

Ms. Francine directs me

showing me where to sit.

I don’t think what’s happening here is

Agency-Foster-Kid

protocol.

In the circle sit Terry, Margot, Jess and her mom, social worker guy and Toby.

Then there’s Ms. Francine.

Now there is me.

They go around the room

one by one

telling me the reasons they

CARE

about me.

Are willing to

FIGHT

for me.

Want me to be

HAPPY.

I sit stoically.

Arms crossed

book bag still hanging on my shoulder

trying to maintain composure

as the people around me

speak words

they hope will shake me

from the numb

blindblankstate

I’ve been

living in for the past

month.

Through their eyes

and mostly their tears

I see

because they’re letting me know that

when I push them away

I desert them.

When I push them away

I alert them.

But mostly I hear them saying that

I hurt them.

When they finish going around the room

they ask me to say something.

Anything.

I shrug my shoulders, fearfully.

Not knowing how to say

what is true.

“You can do this, Louisa,” Margot says to me.

145.

Like it’s easy to talk to the people

you know you’ve

hurt.

I spent my life being hurt

I know how that feels.

Ashamed.

Defeated.

Used.

Uncovered and Undone.

I spent the last month doing

that
to the people
here.

Why are they back for more?

Don’t they know that once someone starts

they can’t stop?

I must be looking like a

crazy person

dazed person

because so many things are jumbled in my mind

and I feel like I am running out of time

and I don’t want to hurt them more

and I feel it in my core

and I want this to stop so

I speak.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

146.

I’m a crying mess of hot tears on my cheeks

but no one is yelling

or telling

me

there is a price to pay.

Instead there is a chorus of

Oh No Honey

That is not what you need to say

You aren’t hurting us like that

Not in that way

Don’t you ever think that, not for a day

Sweetie

You are okay.

I look at them

not computing their sentiments

with my list of negligent

behavior.

“Louisa, when we say we are hurting, or are hurt, by you –– it isn’t the same as the hurt you have inside from being a victim of abuse,” Terry says.

“Louisa, we hurt
for
you,” Margot says.

“Louisa, we hurt because we love you,” Ms. Francine says, taking my hand.

Hugging me.

Holding me.

Loving me.

Knowing me.

147.

I’m not sure where I am supposed to go

from here.

Jess and I are back on solid ground.

I have new found

respect

for the adults who are doing their best

to take care of me.

But still.

I keep walking through the kitchen and see Ms. F’s

list of intentions,

the dreams she hopes come true.

I keep wondering what that means

when the thing missing from the list is

You.

Half of me wants to go ask her what

is up

the other part wants to make my own list,

tape it up,

see what she says.

But if I want to be bold,

you know,

by making the list myself,

the first thing I have to do

is figure out

how to learn

about oneself.

Like who I am?

What do I want?

It’s trickier now ––

the thing I’ve always wanted

was Benji.

If I’m not

living

fighting

dreaming of

reuniting

with him…then what?

I take out my old musty journals

the box that has sat in my closet since my

pre-Christmas melt down

when I got stripped down

to nothing.

Somewhere in here

there must be something that can

clear

ly point out

who I am

without him.

I thumb through the pages

getting all achy inside

knowing there’s no reason to hide.

No one is going to come get me,

my parents are locked away.

So I stay in my room for

the rest of the night

hoping to find traces of myself

pieces that might

help me figure out

who the

hell

I am

besides the

shell

of a girl

lying on the bed.

148.

The knock on the door

startles me

awake.

“Can I come in?”

Ms. Francine carefully

crosses the threshold to

a teenage riot scene.

The room is trashed.

I traded tidiness the last few weeks

for a steady job

that kept me busy enough

to obliterate

anything

inside.

“Sorry about the mess. I just, you know, with work and school...well everything, I’ve just....”

Ms. Francine holds up her hand for me to stop

stumbling for words

that I hope will insert

her vote of confidence in me.

As a roommate or otherwise.

“I’m sure with your day off tomorrow you can clean this place up. In other news, I wanted to talk to you about something else. Now that we have had our big pow-wow the other day, maybe this is a good time?”

I’m glad that two days ago

everyone huddled around

to
dissect
intervene

on behalf of my

irrational behavior,

but it does make me feel under the microscope.

I would be crazy to hope

that they won’t always think of me like that ––

a victim of my own story.

Hell, that’s how I see myself.

“No, it’s cool. I’m just you know, going through stuff.”

I point to the journals scattered

around the bed

wondering where this conversation is headed.

She sits down next to me

breathing out gently.

“Louisa, I don’t know if you had a chance to see that list of intentions on the fridge?”

I nod my head up and down, slow enough

to let her know

in no uncertain terms that I had
.

“You have? Well do you have any questions about them?”

I shake my head no

instinctively.

Like, before I think I automatically

choose

No.

“You don’t?”

She sounds surprised

or like

she knows

I’m full of bullshit.

“Nope. It seems like you have a plan. That’s cool Ms. F.”

My heart says,
Just ask her what it means.

But my head says,
Shut it down.

My head wins.

I’m a scaredy-cat

afraid of my own shadow

because shadows don’t lie.

“Okay. Look, Louisa, I can’t force you to have a conversation with me. I can’t make you want to open up and ask questions. But this is your life.
Your life.
Nobody else’s. So, if you want to know what’s happening with
your life
you need to use your words. You need to ask the questions. The hard ones. I’m not going to be the one to bring it up again.”

She’s mad.

It’s like she wants to stay calm

and she is trying so hard

and I know me not talking is

driving her crazy.

I don’t want to do that to her

the going crazy part

but it’s impossible to do what she wants.

ASK.

Because I’m so scared of

what the answers

might be.