Two or Three Things I Forgot to Tell You (4 page)

She'd have to tell Hannah that
of course
she was only kidding. Wasn't serious.

At Quaker Heights there was a kind of red alert:
If anyone you know speaks of suicide, please do not keep this information to yourself but tell a parent, a teacher, or your guidance counselor.

How embarrassed and ashamed Merissa would be, if her careless words got her into trouble!

If her father found out. Oh God.

Of course, Merissa's father had promised he'd make up for missing her birthday—he'd bought her a silver bracelet with
MERISSA
engraved on it.

(Merissa suspected that her mother had bought the bracelet, right here in Quaker Heights. Though the box was a fancy Tiffany box.)

Tonight she'd caught a glimpse of herself downstairs in the kitchen in the shiny copper bottoms of frying pans hanging from hooks in the kitchen.

Ugly! A twisted-looking face with bug eyes, little slit for a mouth.

One little turn of the dial, a beautiful face can turn ugly.

 

At last, the Unspoken was Spoken.

For it happened that Morgan Carmichael was “moving out”—“temporarily”—from the house on West Brook Way.

Moving out? Daddy, but why?

He tried to explain to Merissa—his decision had certainly had nothing to do with
her
.

He tried to explain to Merissa—this was a “joint decision” of his and her mother's.

(But where was Mom? Why wasn't Mom here, to make this easier?)

“Sometimes it's a good, healthy thing to put a little distance between ourselves. To get a new perspective. To see where improvements can be made in a relationship.”

Merissa listened, stunned.

She could not bring herself to ask,
Is there another woman, Daddy? Is that what you are trying to tell me but don't have the nerve?

“. . . terrific new condominium village by the river. As soon as I get settled, you'll come to visit, okay?”

Merissa's mouth was numb. Her tongue felt as if it had been shot with Novocain.

“. . . really convenient, just a mile from the train depot. An hour from the airport and New York City.”

Still, Merissa was silent. For what she wanted to ask, she could not dare ask. A flicker of impatience came into her father's face.

“We'll talk more, Merissa. A lot more. Okay? And you'll come visit—soon as I get settled?”

 

Now, in the days following, Merissa heard her mother on the phone, often.

Not talking with her father, though. But talking.

(To her women friends? To those friends who, like her, had husbands who'd “moved out—temporarily”?)

Laughing, or maybe crying. Breathless and dazed-sounding and trying even so to be amusing.

“One of his closets was almost empty, and I was so shocked, I said to him, ‘Morgan, what? What is this? Are you moving out of our house without telling me?' and Morgan laughs in that way of his like I've said something ridiculous and tells me straight-faced, ‘My clothes are at the dry cleaner's, Stacy—I've been forgetting to pick them up.' And I was so pathetic, wanting to believe him, I said, ‘Oh, I'll pick your clothes up at the cleaner's, I'm going into town tomorrow morning,' and Morgan says, like it's all he can do to force himself to look at me, ‘Stacy, I don't have the receipt—I'm not sure which dry cleaner it is.' And I say, just so naive, ‘But why isn't it Kraft's? We've been using Kraft's for years.' And I said, ‘There are only two dry cleaners in Quaker Heights, or maybe three—if you count the one out on Route 27—but you wouldn't have gone to that one, would you?' And Morgan says, ‘I'll take care of it, Stacy,' and shuts the closet door.”

Merissa thought, This does not sound like a joint decision.Merissa thought,
Pathetic!

More coolly, calmly:
He wouldn't do this to us, really.

 

Text messages flew. So many, within an hour. Merissa's thumbs ached. Her head ached. Within minutes of sending a text message—within seconds of receiving one—Merissa forgot what the message was, to whom and from whom.

TINK—HEY. GUESS WHAT. YOU NEVER LIKED MY FATHER—(IT'S COOL, IT'S OK, HE NEVER LIKED YOU EITHER, DUDE!)—SO YOU WON'T BE SURPRISED. I GUESS HE'S IN LOVE WITH SOME YOUNG BEAUTIFUL MODEL LIKE A TV HAIR SHAMPOO MODEL ALL GLOSSY SWINGING HAIR AND PERFECT SKIN. AND BOOBS! YOU BET.

LOVE FROM

THE PERFECT ONE

 

Merissa reread her message to Tink. Laughed and wiped at her eyes. No address for Tink! No choice but to delete.

More calmly, Merissa thought really,
really
this could not be so. Hadn't her father said it was a joint decision? He would not have lied to Merissa's face, would he?

Tink had told many tales of the Enemy: the Male Sex.

But you couldn't believe Tink much of the time. She'd been a TV child actor, and you'd think she'd been a stand-up comic, the extravagant and shameless way she exaggerated things.

All men are beasts. But not all beasts are men.

Definitely—they will bite the tits that feed them.

(Was this funny? Or vulgar? Merissa had laughed at the time, but she'd been just a little put-off by Tink, then the “new girl” in their circle who talked, talked, talked rapidly when she was—as she didn't hesitate to inform them—in her manic bipolar state.)

Oh but it was sad: pathetic. Here in the Carmichael household.

Nothing funny here. Even Tink would agree.

Merissa's poor mother, Stacy Carmichael, was that age—forty-five? Older?—like one of those still-attractive-but-fading middle-aged women you saw in TV advertisements promising miracle medication to combat migraines, hot flashes, insomnia, and depression.

In one of the scarier TV ads, a ghost-cloud of gloom hovers about the head of the afflicted woman—OBSESSIVE THOUGHTS, SUICIDAL IDEATION, INSOMNIA. Merissa never watched the advertisement beyond the first two or three seconds, quickly switching channels.

She was sure: Her mother was taking some sort of prescription medication.

But this was not
new
—was it?

Even on lovely, sunny days the ghost-cloud hovers. It is not suggested that there is a reason for the ghost-cloud—depression—for the ghost-cloud just
is
.

Merissa had not heard of SUICIDAL IDEATION before—she was sure. She supposed that Tink had.

All this made Merissa feel so sick and sad—and sort of disgusted—with her mother.

And with
herself
.

9.

“NO ONE WILL EVER KNOW”

It had begun by accident—almost.

Distracted, coming down a flight of stairs at school the previous year—just after chemistry class, in which midterm tests had been handed back and Merissa's grade was a disappointing 91—that is, an A-minus—though she'd studied hard and had expected she'd done better, and the thought came to her swift as a razor blade.
Who's “perfect” now? Who's stupid and ugly and worthless now? Who gives a damn if you live or die?—
and somehow she missed a step, fell hard, and struck her forehead on the railing, then fell several steps more to the floor; and there was blood on her face, on her hands—so quickly had it happened, Merissa felt more surprise than pain, and embarrassment—for people were staring at her, and several had stopped to help her—

“Hey—is it M'rissa? You okay?”

“Wow. You're bleeding. . . .”

Merissa insisted she was fine. She was deeply embarrassed to be dripping blood in the school corridor as people gawked.

At a little distance, guys were watching. Merissa didn't want to know who they were. A girl whom she scarcely knew, one of the popular seniors at Quaker Heights, was pressing a wad of tissue against the cut in Merissa's forehead, saying in a concerned voice that they'd better take her to the school nurse, but Merissa stiffened—“No. No thank you. I'm r-really all right—I don't want to miss my next class.”

“C'mon, we'll take you! You're
bleeding
.”

The girl, Molly O'Hagan, was taller than Merissa and known for being strong-willed; in fact, Molly was a senior class officer, but Merissa insisted that she was perfectly all right—she'd just missed a step and fallen.

It was thrilling—in a strange, edgy way—to be pushing away from Molly O'Hagan, gently but firmly. To be the center of this sudden and unexpected attention, to see such
sympathy
in the eyes of Molly O'Hagan and others. To say, with a resolute little smile, even as she held the wadded tissue to her bruising face, “Thanks so much, but
no
.”

The cut bled for a while but wasn't deep at all—hardly more than scraped-away skin. In a field hockey game Merissa could expect to be more bruised, on another part of her body; but still, it was nice to be fussed over, and by a girl and her friends whom Merissa didn't really know—nice to be
touched
.

Otherwise, being
touched
made Merissa feel anxious.

And how thrilling—to feel the blood-trickle down the side of her face that was so startling and unexpected, and drew the sympathy of others.

And not long afterward, feeling a bump the size of a quail egg on her forehead, throbbing with pain.

But a quick, sharp, visible pain. A pain that didn't
really hurt
.

Back in the junior corridor, Merissa got plenty of attention from her friends. By this time she was laughing lightly—“Oh, hey, guys, it's
nothing
. C'mon!”

It hadn't been just the chemistry test that Merissa had been obsessing over but—oh, who knows what?—each day, each hour, it had begun to seem that there was more, more, more. “Think of your résumé for college applications, Merissa! Your résumé,
résumé
,
RÉSUMÉ
”
—
not only Mrs. Jameson, whose job it was to get Quaker Heights seniors into the very best, the very most competitive universities, but Merissa's parents also; not only her father, who was C O M P E T I T I V E as hell, but lately Merissa's mother as well.

We need you to do really, really well, sweetie. Daddy is counting on you, and so am I.

Which was why, for the sake of Merissa's college application résumé, she was taking as many honors courses as she could and was involved in as many extracurricular activities as she could be, plus JV (Junior Volunteer) projects that took her, by chartered bus, on alternate Saturday mornings, to devastated urban areas in Newark and New Brunswick, where prep-school students like Merissa assisted adult volunteers in tutoring (black, Hispanic) teenagers who were said to be “functionally illiterate.”

Merissa had complained to Tink, “You'd think my mother is entering me in some kind of
horse race
, and
little horsie
had better do well or the
horsie owner
, that's to say my father, will fire us both.”

Tink snorted with laughter. Not that she thought this was funny.

“Dude, you got it. So what're you going to do?”

Just run the horsie race. And hope I don't stumble and break my neck.

And Merissa felt anxiety not just about the college application résumé but anxiety about boys: the boys who asked Merissa Carmichael out whom she didn't really much like, and the boys who didn't ask her out whom she liked a lot more, or thought she did—at this time, sixteen, Merissa hadn't really been out with any boy, only just with a group of friends, and no one actually “with” anyone else.

Since ninth grade, she'd been in love with Shaun Ryan.

And it was clear, at least most of the time, that Shaun liked Merissa, too. In any gathering, the two just naturally gravitated toward each other. Nobody made Merissa laugh quite the way Shaun did when he was in a funny mood.

In the life of a popular girl, there are always boys who like her—in some cases,
a lot
—whom she doesn't like but doesn't want to offend, either.

For instance, Gordy Squires.

For instance, Virgil Nagy.

These were nice—brainy, boring—guys. Every time Merissa seemed to turn around, there was Gordy, or there was Virgil—awkwardly smiling at her.

Merissa murmured
Hi!
with an excuse about being really, really in a rush, and escaped.

Even Alex Wren, whom Merissa sort of liked. But felt self-conscious when Alex fell in step with her, walking with her and trying to talk about—whatever it was Alex was always trying to talk about with Merissa.

The poor guy's crazy about you. Face it, M'riss!
Tink had jabbed her in the ribs.

Merissa had laughed. Not wanting to be cruel, but for God's sake, what could she do about it? Half the guys in Merissa's grade school (for instance) had had crushes on her, even the short boys whom she'd towered over.

If only Shaun felt that way about her. Or if only she felt that way about Alex Wren.

Her father had said, “You are not to go out with any boy until I have checked him over—and not before your thirtieth birthday.
Comprendez?
”

But Daddy had been joking. Of course.

For Daddy wanted Merissa to be popular, too.

It just did not make sense—(Merissa wanted to protest)—that her father wanted her to be beautiful, and popular, and (she guessed) “sexy”—but at the same time, he didn't want her to go out with boys.

The way he'd been jealous of her mother, Merissa's mom had told her, when they'd first been married; though he'd encouraged her to wear “sexy” clothes, paint her finger- and toenails, and wear high-heeled shoes she'd hated.

All these things, Merissa had been thinking about when she'd fallen on the stairs. Thoughts like angry hornets buzzing inside her head.

So, falling and hurting herself so publicly and, for the rest of the day, feeling her head pound, touching the bump on her forehead and the little scratch that had ceased bleeding but felt like fine stitching in her skin, had been, unexpectedly—
pleasurable
.

And the attention! Not for scoring high on a test, which makes everyone hate you, but for
bleeding, being hurt
, which makes people feel sorry for you and want to help you.

And you can say, with a little stoic smile,
Thanks, but I'm fine. I really am! It's nothing.

It was punishment for being an essentially worthless, ridiculous, and not even very good-looking person, but at the same time, it was a reward.

“M'rissa? Hey—I heard you hurt yourself. . . .”

“Shaun, hi! No, it's like—really nothing. . . . It didn't even bleed much.”

“What happened? Somebody said—you were pushed on the stairs?”

“No! I was not pushed! Who told you that?”

Shaun shrugged. Just something he'd heard.

“Of course no one pushed me. Why would anyone push
me
?”

“Maybe jealous of you? There's lots of . . .”

Shaun was joking, of course, but his voice trailed off as if he thought better of what he was saying.

. . . lots of people who hate you.

Shaun peered at Merissa's bruised forehead. There was an anxious moment when Merissa thought—half thought—Shaun might lean forward and kiss it.

If he had—(but Merissa knew he wouldn't: She and Shaun didn't have that sort of relationship)—she thought she might
faint
.

“Wow! Does it hurt?”

“I told you, Shaun—no. It's nothing compared to being battered out on the hockey field.”

Later, Merissa would regret having spoken so assertively.

Shaun had shrugged, laughed, and backed off. Merissa had wanted to call after him—
Oh, Shaun, wait! It does hurt. I think I'm going to faint.

But she went away in a state of near euphoria, thinking,
Shaun does like me! He cares.

This was a surprise—wasn't it?

Come off it, M'riss. Shaun is crazy about you too, except the poor guy is scared of you—the Perfect One.

And at home there was Merissa's mother, near hysterical at seeing such a “lurid” bump on her precious daughter's forehead. And there was Merissa's father, home for dinner that night, blinking and staring at her forehead before asking, in a faltering voice, what had happened. And when Merissa told him, insisting that it was really nothing and didn't hurt—(which was more or less true: the little injury looked worse than it was)—Daddy cried, “Hey! Let Daddy kiss it and make it well.”

Which Daddy did.

 

Daddy loves me. He does!

That was proof.

 

Soon after, Merissa began the cutting.

Why? Because she couldn't fall down the school stairs every day and hurt herself.

And she needed to be
hurt
. She needed to be
punished
.

She needed to
bleed
. And she needed to
cease bleeding—to heal
.

She needed
a secret world
.
A world to hide in.

She needed to
seize control, to defy others' control of her
.

She'd heard of girls who
cut
themselves in secret, as she'd heard of girls who starved themselves, or stuffed themselves and forced themselves to vomit; and there was the example of Tink Traumer, who spoke openly of her several
suicide attempts
—but with such an air of gaiety and drollery, you were led to conclude that of course she wasn't serious!

(So, when news came that Tink had at last k****d herself, that Tink was at last d**d, the first thought that came to her friends was,
Oh Tink, come
on!
You're not funny.
)

Merissa had heard of these girls and had always thought they must be mentally ill, or neurotic—to
cut themselves
with something sharp! It had seemed just too weird, like pulling out your hair a single strand at a time—why would anyone want to do such a thing?

Eating disorders were so common, no one was particularly surprised or judgmental. In Merissa's circle of friends whom she'd known since middle school, there were several girls, including Chloe, who had a tendency to be anorexic, and others who overate and induced vomiting. (Merissa wondered about Hannah, sometimes. And Nadia Stillinger, who looked so, well—
soft
.)

Merissa could go without eating for hours—she never ate breakfast and often felt too restless to sit still to eat a meal, especially when it was just her mother and herself. Merissa's metabolism burnt up calories in a sort of nervous combustion, and she supposed she was—just slightly—anorexic, or would be, except
cutting
was so much more thrilling, because it was so much more dangerous, and forbidden.

It happened several days after she'd fallen down the stairs at school.

It happened when the swollen bruise on her forehead was faded, and the little cut that had trickled blood down the side of her face had healed.

It happened when Merissa was feeling so high-strung and tense—like the string of a bow pulled back, and back, and back, the arrow about to fly—and she knew she'd never be able to sleep.

Preparing for midterm tests. Or maybe it was preparing to get the tests back, next day at school.