“Really?” She sat back, eyes full of sympathy. “How about your father?”
I jiggled my leg. “I’d hardly call him family. He started an affair with his coworker when my mom’s depression got bad. He left for good when I was three.” I picked at a scab on the back of my hand—I’d burned myself last week helping Debbie remove a few trays of chicken from the oven. “He calls us on our birthdays and Christmas. My sister talks to him, but I don’t pick up.”
Rebecca played with a silver pendant dangling near her cleavage. She had a small birthmark in the middle of her chest. “And your mother?”
I stiffened. Mom was never the first to let go of a hug. She had taught us how to build a fire and roast marshmallows. She told ghost stories that made us squeal but wouldn’t cause nightmares. She took us camping in the backyard, sleeping with us in the tent. We used to fight over who got the last kiss from her before bed—she’d move back and forth between our little cheeks until we were both asleep, so we never knew who did.
“She was amazing,” was all I could manage.
Rebecca tilted her head, considering me. “I know she was, but she missed out on a lot too, didn’t she? Dance recitals, school plays, and the like?”
My mouth fell open. How did she know?
“She did the best she could.” I clutched Mom’s scarf.
“Was the best she could good enough?” She gazed at the silk around my neck.
“I can’t bad-mouth my mom.”
Rebecca’s violet-gray eyes glittered. “I know this is difficult. The goal of these meetings is to help you achieve fearlessness. As you work the path, you’ll find that the more honest you are with others and especially yourself, the faster you’ll progress. Your mother had weaknesses.”
“We all do.”
“She chose victimhood. She turned away from you when you needed her most.”
“You don’t choose depression. Just like you don’t choose cancer or ALS. She fought hard her entire life.”
“Kit, who got you ready for school in the morning?” Rebecca smiled sadly. “Who put your outfits together and made sure you were fed?”
I bowed my head. “Mom and Nat both did.”
“From what I understand,” she said kindly, “your sister took on the bulk of the responsibility.”
“How do you know all of this about me?” The only people I’d confided in here were April and Georgina. I didn’t think either of them would divulge my secrets, but now I was doubting myself. I hadn’t explicitly asked them not to share my stories about Mom—but come on, that was common sense. This stuff was personal.
“Does it matter?”
“I told my friends those stories in confidence.”
She leaned in again. The pendant swung across her breasts. “You should be careful who you call a friend. And even more careful about who you trust. How well do you know any of these people?”
I flinched. April hadn’t said a word about her loved one’s drowning since the transference exercise, and I didn’t feel right pushing for more details. That class had taken on a sacramental quality—what was shared in the trailer stayed in the trailer. Still, though we hadn’t discussed April’s accusation, the three of us had discovered a lot of common ground in two weeks. April’s parents had also divorced when she was young. Georgina had been caught shoplifting as a teenager, same as me. They both wished their first times had been with someone different. I did too. I stared at my feet. I thought we were friends.
“Listen to me: this conversation is not an indictment of your mother. She clearly had many strengths if she raised a daughter as strong and bright as you.” Rebecca ducked her head, trying to get me to look at her. “Resist the urge to defend her in here. We’re all conditioned to accept bad behavior in order to maintain peace within the family unit. To present that unit as happy and functional to the rest of society.”
“Is that conditioning or loyalty?”
“Conditioning. Sugarcoating our memories only impedes us on the path to our Maximized Selves. I don’t want you to condemn your mother—only to admit that, at critical times in your life, she failed you.”
I blew out a long, reluctant breath. “I guess you’re right.” If what I’d admitted was true, why did it feel like a betrayal?
Rebecca closed her eyes. “You’re tougher than you know, Kit. I have no doubt you’ll work the path quickly.”
I brightened. Some of the uneasiness subsided.
“Now about your sister. Natalie, isn’t it?”
I glanced at her warily.
“She’s always been available if you need her, but doesn’t she admonish you every time you try to explain your unhappiness, your desire for more from the world?”
That had definitely come from April or Georgina or both. I’d said as much about Nat when we were talking in my room the other night. The duplicity stung.
I gnawed my bottom lip. “She wants to make sure I’m healthy and happy.”
“Are you?”
I stared.
“Happy?” she prodded.
I gazed at the bookshelves behind her. Random titles jumped out at me: Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer, Can’t Hurt Me by David Goggins.
“For the most part,” I said too late.
She leaned forward to finger the rubber band around my wrist. “What about this?”
My stomach turned. “What about it?”
“You snap it to stop yourself from pulling out your hair, do you not?”
My face flooded with red-hot shame. I’d tried to be careful, to keep it private. The urge to pull coursed through my fingers. I sat on my hands again.
“When did you start?”
Talking about it deepened the urge, like thinking about an itch you weren’t supposed to scratch. “After she died.”
“Do you feel guilty about her death?”
“I feel guilty about a lot of things.”
“Then you’re not happy, Kit, are you?” She sat next to me on the couch. “Not if you have to punish yourself like this.”
I willed the heat to leave my cheeks.
“Don’t be embarrassed.” Rebecca pulled my hand from under my leg and held it. “We’ll work this out together. By the end of your time here you won’t need that anymore.” She gestured to the rubber band. “You’ll see.”
The mix of mortification and hope and mortification at my hope—the way I glommed onto any glimmer of it so desperately—brought tears to my eyes. I blinked them away before she could see. I would never be as strong as Rebecca.
“Let’s bring the conversation back to your sister.” She patted my hand. “She wants you to be her version of happy, not yours. How many times have you tried explaining as much to her?”
This process wouldn’t work unless I made myself vulnerable. If I couldn’t be as strong as she was, I could at least be as honest. “Many.”
“How many times have you gotten through?”
I pressed my lips together, sending a silent apology to Nat. “None.”
“What does Natalie think about you being here?”