She had a fleeting glimpse of her mother’s hurt face before she managed to wiggle her way past a cardboard box of Christmas ornaments and into the hallway. Guilt flooded her. She knew her mom was sick, that this was an illness, as Dr. Fielder had said, but Julie couldn’t help but feel angry at her.
She squeezed into the bathroom, which smelled like the bleach she’d scoured the small room with and was stuffed full of bulk boxes of macaroni and cheese, opened bags of kitty litter, used toothbrushes, empty shampoo bottles, and god knew what else.
She took a deep breath and looked at herself in the mirror. Her glossy auburn hair was sleek and straight. Her pale green blouse was crisp and wrinkle-free.
“You are not your mom. You will not become her,” Julie repeated to herself. She calmed down a little, but she knew she had to get out of the house to keep from losing it. Pulling out her phone, she dialed Parker. “I need some retail therapy—stat. You in?” Julie said when Parker answered.
“Sure. Pick me up?” Parker said huskily. “But I have to be done by six. I’m seeing Dr. Fielder then.”
Julie shut her eyes and said a silent thank goodness. “Done. I’m leaving now.”
Twenty minutes later, Julie and Parker were cruising the aisles of Tara’s Consignment, a secondhand boutique in Beacon whose owner had a thing for Gone with the Wind—there were posters of the movie all over the walls, famous quotes in the dressing rooms, and a Scarlett O’Hara doll behind the counter. It was Julie’s favorite store, partly because it was on a nondescript side street away from the main shops—meaning she could slip in without her friends seeing her and asking the obvious questions of why someone like her would shop consignment—and also because it was where the rich residents brought last year’s castoffs to make room for this season’s line. Tara’s was how Julie, who basically lived off her lifeguarding wages, could afford Joe’s Jeans, Diane von Furstenberg dresses, Joie blouses, and Elizabeth and James accessories.
“How about this?” Julie asked, holding a canary-yellow dress up to Parker’s skinny frame.
Parker made a face. “Have I ever worn yellow?”
“Not in a while,” Julie said quietly. “I’m glad you’re seeing Dr. Fielder today. Are you nervous?”
Parker shrugged and walked toward the shoe racks at the back of the store. Julie followed her, knowing she shouldn’t push.
She thought of her own session with Elliot Fielder. Unlike a lot of things that were a stigma in Beacon Heights, having a shrink wasn’t one of them. Nyssa, who’d had eating issues, talked about hers all the time. There was even a rumor that Nolan had had a shrink, though Julie doubted it was true. The guy wasn’t human enough to need counseling.
Call me Elliot, Dr. Fielder had said, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. Julie had been surprised at how young he was when she opened the door to his small but cozy office.
Elliot had made Julie feel so comfortable as she’d explained her family history to him. All her worries about her mom. I’m scared that I’m going to be like her, she’d said. She used to be so gorgeous, successful, perfect. But then . . . something changed.
Long ago, her mother had looked just like her. Acted just like her, too, caring about her looks and her home. Caring about what people thought. Julie wasn’t sure when she’d started to slip, only that it had been bit by bit. If someone had told her ten years ago that they’d be evicted by the California health board because their house was unsafe to live in—because of her mother’s cats—Julie would have told them they were a big, fat liar. She hadn’t seen her mother’s condition coming. And now, she had no way of dealing with it except to breathe . . . and count . . . and hide.
“Have you talked to anyone else about this?” Elliot had asked her.
Julie lowered her eyes. Her secret was horrible. People had dropped her in California, made fun of her relentlessly, teasing her on the playground, writing gossip about her on the chalkboard when the class broke for lunch. They all assumed she was as dirty as the house she lived in. That last year felt like a prison—she’d had no friends. Her mom was a stranger now. She literally had no one.
“Only my friend Parker. And now I just need to know if what happened to my mom will happen to me,” she said softly, gathering her courage.
Elliot had been understanding and reassuring. “You know, from a clinical perspective, you don’t fit the mold of someone poised for a mental break,” he’d said. “You seem like a high-functioning, extremely smart teenager who is balancing a lot of really heavy problems.” In other words: You are not your mother.
Julie paused in front of a photograph of Vivien Leigh standing in the doorway of Tara, a wistful expression on her face. If only she could adopt the Gone with the Wind mentality that tomorrow was another day. Another day without worries of Nolan or her dirty little secret.
Julie cleared her throat and picked up a studded bracelet from a tray of jewelry on a table. “What do you think about this?”