‘It is fine,’ she repeats. ‘What I need to do is rest it. Doctor’s orders, which I’ve maybe ignored a little bit since I got back home.’ I don’t yell at her. She’s in pain so I let this one slide.
‘Then rest,’ I reply. ‘No more pottering around the garden or popping out until it feels better . . .’ She sees the second I remember what’s supposed to happen today.
‘Yep,’ Mom says.
‘Ugh. I have a therapy appointment.’
Forgotten again.
What is it about Luke that sucks away part of my memory? Is this normal? On The Hub, people talk about kissing. The kids who are lucky enough to have evaded detection by family members sometimes post about reaching second base. They talk a lot about where they eat and post the funny snippets of conversation they have, but to the best of my knowledge, no one has ever mentioned memory loss. Mental note: after my date, research the side effects you encounter when in the presence of good-looking guys.
So today I get a date with Luke, and, seeing as how Mom can’t walk, let alone work a brake pedal, an impending free pass on therapy, maybe?
‘Don’t get too excited, missy . . .’ Maybe not. ‘I really don’t think you should be skipping a session right now. I’m going to call and ask Dr Reeves if she wouldn’t mind paying one last visit to the house instead.’ It’s like spending all of your allowance on a triple-scoop ice cream cone with hot fudge sauce only to drop it before you get a single lick. Don’t get me wrong, Dr Reeves is great, but I could have done without the emotional trauma of a session today. Damn. So close.
Dr Reeves won’t mind. She’ll come over, I know she will, because despite the fact that Mom pays her, I think she quite likes me.
‘Maybe we should wrap-up early?’ Dr Reeves says. At least, I think that’s what she says. Her words are warped, sliding into my ears but getting caught up and mangled in my mind mess. I’m too busy wondering where Luke and I will sit when we watch the movie tonight. Not too close, for obvious reasons. But not too far away either. Also for obvious reasons. Maybe I should suggest we sit at the table and watch the TV in the kitchen. But then, those chairs are uncomfortable after prolonged exposure.
‘Norah.’ I’ve never heard Dr Reeves raise her voice before. It startles me, makes me tune out the insanity and tune into her instantly.
‘I’m sorry. Really. I don’t mean to ignore you. I want to hear what you’re saying, but I’m finding it hard to concentrate on anything.’
‘I get it,’ Dr Reeves says as she collects her sheets of paper and shuffles them into a leather folder. I look at the little black lion embossed on the front and get all dreamy because its shaggy mane reminds me of Luke’s dark locks. ‘Please don’t apologize. It’s good to see you getting all glassy-eyed over a boy.’ I flush and wonder if I could get away with wearing sunglasses on my date so Luke doesn’t see. ‘But I’m starting to get worried about your scratches, and it’s my job to make sure you’re not a danger to yourself.’
Whoa. Wait. What? Now she has my attention like she grabbed my chin and yanked it around to face her.
She’s looking at my arms, but I feel like I’m laid on a gurney, legs spread, and she’s rooting around down there, like a gynaecologist, inspecting my scars with a flashlight.
‘Scratches?’ I bury my hands between my legs, convinced my little scars are what we’re talking about. But that’s impossible. I cut up there deliberately so no one will see.
‘It’s something both your mother and I have noticed you do when you’re anxious.’
Stop.
I’m confused.
Mom and the doc are smart, but this isn’t the X-Men. I joke about it sometimes, but they’re not really mind readers. And they don’t have a super-ability to see through walls or items of clothing. Besides, I’ve only cut a handful of times, and the last time Mom was miles away, laid up in a hospital out-of-state.
She picks up on my confusion like it’s fired off a flare.
‘You don’t know you’re doing it,’ she says, a hooked finger starting to stroke her invisible beard as she assumes her making-mental-notes face.
‘Doing what?’ My tone is laced with frustration.
When she’s done analysing, her hands come together in a praying position and she throws me a sympathetic smile.
‘Sometimes, when you start to panic, you scratch patches of your skin until they bleed.’
‘So? Everyone itches.’
‘That’s true, they do. Do you have an itch right now?’ She flicks her eyes towards the table. I follow her gaze, see my finger scratching aimlessly across my thumb. My stomach lurches.
‘Are you familiar with the term self-harm?’ She’s using Mom’s your-rabbit-just-died voice.