Dear V,
I got the tattoo! Can you believe it? It hurt so much, but just like you said, the hurt was a good kind of hurt. Of course, my mom saw the bandage and insisted I tell her why there was a butterfly outlined in blood on it. I showed her, and she promptly freaked out. She insisted I have it removed, made an appointment at this fancy dermatologist, but I said no way. Stood up for myself, like you always tell me to. She’s still acting like I committed some sort of heinous crime, like she caught me plunging a knife in someone’s throat. You should have seen her face, it really was priceless. I mean, you’d think I pierced my nipples or some such horror. She swore not to let me out of the house for months, and not to let me get my license. I told her should she lock me inside her dank, dreary mausoleum of a house, I would promptly slit my wrists and lie down on her precious Aubusson carpet to bleed out. (It’s the pretty silver and pink one I told you about.) Heh, she didn’t like that image, broke down in tears, apologized. Like I care what she thinks. She then took me for my learner’s permit. I passed! I’m one step closer to freedom.
So I am now the proud owner of a tattoo that looks just like yours, (we’re twinsies for real!) and a learner’s permit that allows me to drive with a sanctioned adult in the car.
I don’t ever want to be back in there, but I miss you. When are they going to let you out?
Love,
Liesel
Mindy sets the letter in her lap. Her mother does not have a tattoo. She cannot be this Liesel person. Mindy feels lighter already. Her mother is holding these letters for someone. A friend, perhaps someone she met in school—the boarding school Juliet said she attended. Mindy remembers when they had “the purge” and emptied out her mother’s old pre-Dad boxes, the ones with photos of her with other men, other boyfriends, and Lauren had given them a single glance, then thrown them into the massive black contractor’s bag with a mischievous grin. Lauren didn’t have a lot of attachments to her past, preferred the now. Holding something for someone else makes the most sense. Why it would make her cry is another question, one Mindy will puzzle out later.
Wait. Maybe this is something to do with her birth mother?
She turns the page to the next missive.
January 1994
Dearest Liesel,
So proud of you standing up for yourself! Your mother is a witch. She wants you to be just like her, a perfect little china doll, and you don’t ever need to capitulate to her. If she was so perfect, she wouldn’t have chosen that dickhead to be your stepfather. Keep working on finding yourself. You’re smart, smart enough to get out of here, smart enough to be someone. You have talent, kid. You don’t have to get married and produce 2.3 children and own a slobbery dog and a house in the suburbs. You want a bigger life than that, I know you do. Don’t ever let her tell you otherwise.
There’s big news here. Ratchet is knocked up. She refuses to say who the daddy is, but I think we all know it’s Dr. Freakazoid. She’s been mooning after him for months. Now she smells like vomit all the time. It’s disgusting. They’ve been making us eat in the dining room again, no more food in our rooms because the smell “offends her sensibilities.” Like we should be punished because she doesn’t know how to take her birth control pills? Fucking bitch. I hate her. I hate it here without you. It’s not worth it, you know? They’re never going to let me out. I will die in here. Sooner, rather than later.
Sorry about the baby news. I wasn’t thinking.
V
March 1994
V, where are you? I haven’t heard from you and, after your last letter, I have to admit I’m worried about you. You didn’t sound good. Please let me know you’re okay. Mother won’t let me visit, I begged and pleaded, but she refuses. I’m going to steal the car keys if I don’t hear from you soonest. You promised me you wouldn’t hurt yourself again. I’m holding you to it.
Love, Liesel
April 1994
Liesel,
I’m so sorry to have worried you. I know it’s been weeks since my last letter. Ratchet told me you called the ward, and I appreciate it. As you probably figured out, I had an episode. I got really down. Like, really, really down. I was just so tired. I had nothing to look forward to. Nothing to be happy about. So I tried to hang myself in the closet.
It worked great, too, except Ratchet, with that fucking bizarre sixth sense she has, came by unannounced and found me. I was kept sedated for a few days while the swelling went down in my trachea, and I’m still a little hoarse. Ratchet says I sound sexy.
The good news is, I am starting to feel better. They did shock therapy, and it helped. Sort of. You know how afraid I was to try it, and I know how against it you are, but it wasn’t any big deal, and after the first few treatments, I did start to feel better. I wouldn’t say I’m crapping bluebirds of happiness, but I want to try to get my shit together.
Please don’t be disappointed in me. I’m trying very hard. Our plans are still a priority. I want to get out, and I want to run away with you someplace warm where we can wear bikinis every day and live by the water.
And yes, I did say something nice about Ratchet. She has been really cool through all of this. She even said she knows how good you were for me, and she’s going to keep a special eye out for me to make up for your absence. She’s getting round as a basketball, it’s hysterical. We’ve been doing the GED program since there’s no way in hell I’m going back to school. If you can believe it, I will have my certificate by the end of the summer. They might let me out then, too.
I wish you could visit me. I miss you.
Love,
V
April 1994
V,
You could never disappoint me, not unless you weren’t here at all. I’m very glad Ratchet found you in time, and that you agreed to the shock treatment, and that it’s helping. The medication I’m on is helping, too. I’m actually down to only two antidepressants. Mother says my hormones are sorting themselves out–she still thinks my mood swings are just a phase that I’ll grow out of–but the meds are okay. Side effects aren’t too bad, and I am also pretty stable right now.
And now it’s time to share my bit of bad news. We’re moving. She’s decided it would be better for me to be in a different environment. She hasn’t told me where we’re going, says she hasn’t settled on a job yet, but the house is on the market. Mother still refuses to let me visit, but I’m going to do everything I can to come see you before we go. I’m just so angry at her for doing all this behind my back, but I also feel a little relieved. Like maybe I’ll be able to put this whole chapter of my life behind me and start fresh with people who don’t know me as “the criminal who tried to kill herself.” You know?
But that means I won’t be able to see you for a long time. And that’s not making me happy at all. If they let you out, will you come visit me?
Love and stitches (or should we say belts?),
Liesel
May 1994
Dearest Liesel,
Oh, you make me laugh. Love and Belts! I actually did it with a sheet, which Ratchet tells me was the reason she came into the room. She thought she saw my blanket on the floor. Whoops!
I’m devastated you’re going to move. Devastated. Please don’t forget your friend, who loves you very much, and would like to come visit when she’s deemed safe to herself and others. I had a meeting with Dr. Freakazoid today, actually, to discuss a possible transition to a halfway house. Yes. I am doing that well. So don’t move before I get out!
All my love,
V
PS: Almost forgot, Ratchet had her baby! I heard the nurses talking about it after group. It’s a boy. She’s going to be out for a few weeks on maternity leave, so things are going to be very slow and dull around here. Write soon!!!!
August 1994
Dear Liesel,
My last few letters—
“Mindy? Where are you, honey?”