The seniors are all hugging, shaking their heads at how fast it went. The juniors, my classmates, are running around in a tizzy announcing that the Class of 2016 has officially taken over. “Get ready to be hazed,” Jake taunts, knocking the baseball cap off a kid I don’t know. Kara shrieks the words as if over and over about some freshman who made a pass at her. She’s clearly started drinking already, which is bold even for Kara. They all sound like assholes. When the big metal door shuts behind me, I’m numb.
I once saw an Ellen DeGeneres where kids cut themselves with knives. There were pictures and video clips, but I still didn’t buy it. I figured if they were really cutting themselves it was to get on Ellen and not, as they claimed, for the pleasure of feeling something, anything. Now I’m not as sure. I walk to the car, letting my backpack dangle from my elbow and smash uncomfortably into my legs with each step. It hurts, but it’s better than nothing. Mom sometimes carried pots off the stove with her bare hands. She claimed her skin was callused from years of cooking, but maybe the burn made her feel alive. I can practically hear her denying it, begging me to take better care of myself. It’s a new low: I’m so desperate for affection I’m inventing conversations with a dead person. I pinch my arm to distract me. Indifference is scarier than pain. It makes you think there’s no point being here.
*
I stupidly left my writing final on the kitchen counter and when I come down for dinner, Dad has it in his hand. “Wow, Eve. This is poignant.”
I refuse to turn it into a whole big talk, so I say nothing.
He squints his eyes like he’s afraid of the words that want to come out of his mouth. “I’ve been thinking you … well, you and I, should go to therapy.” I stare at him. “Not together or anything. On our own.”
I laugh. He doesn’t. “Does the poem worry you?”
“Not at all. The poem is fine. Beautiful. It’s the note from your teacher. She’s right. You probably have a lot to say. I know I do. But who am I going to say it to? You’re the only one who can relate, and I don’t want to be a burden.” He shakes his head to show that’s not what he meant. “Not that you’d be a burden to me. You can talk to me anytime. I-I hope you know that.” He’s flustered. “God, my sales pitch stinks, but will you go? To counseling?” He extends his arms in a whaddayasay gesture.
“Whatever.”
“Whatever as in you’ll go?” he confirms, unable to hide his shock.
“Sure.”
I play it cool, but the truth is, it sounds like a damn good idea. I’m not completely losing it, but my masochist moment this afternoon was pretty close. And a couple nights ago I woke up obsessing over an old picture of my mom and Gram cooking. I needed to find it. Right then. It felt enormously important. I got up and emptied an entire bin of prints from the guest-room closet, flipping through each one, as if this random photo held the secret to their deaths, as if this random photo would bring them both back to life. Eventually sunlight filtered through the window, snapping me out of it. Hours had passed. I was ankle deep in photos, sweaty and tired, but mostly confused. I couldn’t remember why I wanted to see the stupid thing in the first place. When I calmed down, I remembered the picture was in a frame at Aunt Meg’s. I don’t know how I’d forgotten (or how I suddenly remembered). The whole thing was flat-out psycho.
Dad was expecting a fight. He stands there, holding the counter as if he might need it for protection. When he processes that he won, that I’ll go to counseling, he pulls out a copy of an email from his briefcase.
“Here’s a list of all the local therapists covered by our insurance.”
This went from casual idea to concrete plan mighty fast. “God, Dad. How long have you been, like, scheming for this?” He confesses it’s been a few weeks. I arch my eyebrows. “And … you never said anything … why?”
“I booked my appointment already, but I’ve been waiting for the right time to ask you.” He stops there but then pushes on. “Admit it, Eve, you’re temperamental. I never know how you’ll react to stuff.”
It’s true, and he called me out the way my mother would have, so I pick up my cell and book an appointment with the first female shrink on the list. I love shocking my dad. It’s one of my few remaining kicks.
That night, to prepare for therapy, I write in my new journal for the first time. I only get out fifteen words:
June 15, 2015
There are so many things I dare not say I have quietly stopped being me.
I stare at the sentence for a long time, questioning what it is I want to say. Who was I, really, before my mom died? I was a self-absorbed, materialistic, conceited, na?ve child. So maybe what I want to say is simply that I’m sorry. Only the person I want to say it to is gone.
Brady
I fired Paula. It’s not what I put on the paperwork, but she knew too much and dug too deep. She had come to think of us as confidants. We talked casually before Maddy died, but asking how my weekend went is a little different from asking if I’m eating enough. Then today she started in on Eve. When I said she was hanging in there, Paula had the nerve to reply, “I lost my mother too. I’d be happy to talk to her if you think it’d help.”
Eve would destroy her. “How old were you when your mother died?” I baited.
“Thirty-nine.”
“What did she die of?”
“Cancer.”
I scratched my chin. “I’m no professional, Paula, but I’m going to take a swing here and say that losing your mother to disease when you’re a grown adult with children of your own is, just maybe, a little different from losing your mother a month before you turn seventeen to suicide.” It was the first time I’d said the word out loud and I despised Paula for putting me in the position. We can’t work together anymore. I’m the asshole, but it’s easier to change my assistant than my personality.
I tell Eve at dinner, sans all details.
“Is it hard to fire someone?” she asks. A thoughtful question.
“Yes,” especially when they don’t deserve it. I take a sip of wine to ease my guilt. “She has a family too, you know?”
Eve smirks. “Can I make a joke that you promise to take as a joke?”
“Shoot,” I say, nervous I won’t be able to deliver.
“Who’s going to wipe your ass now?”
I don’t miss a beat. “I’ll probably get a temporary ass-wiper until I can find someone to take over full-time.” We laugh, but the sound is so foreign it prompts a moment of silence. Eve spins a fork around in her pasta, but doesn’t take a bite.
“Can I read some more of Mom’s journal?” she asks. I expected this request, and earmarked one a couple days ago that I thought could serve as a foundation for Eve and me to have, as Maddy would say, a serious talk. I bring it back to the table, already open to the page.
June 25, 2013
Eve got sent home from her boyfriend Aaron’s house because they were caught kissing. Aaron’s mom escorted Eve to the door like a common criminal, reporting the aforementioned kissing like it was a close second to murder. Poor Eve’s face was red as a fire truck. I’d never met the woman before, so I thanked her for giving Eve a ride home and reached to close the door.