Letter Twenty-Four #5
Over the next few days, there were no coffee dates or strolls through the park to feed the squirrels.
I did that stuff with Hal while you studied at the library or went to your therapy sessions.
Our only real outing together consisted of a trip to DeLuca’s Market to pick up some last-minute ingredients for dinner.
I followed you through the store, wishing you’d talk to me.
But you didn’t, not really, only asking if I preferred penne pasta to fusilli or freshly grated Parmesan to shaved.
Everyone else avoided me, too. My dad. Michael. Bree. Even Tinsley, who texted to say, I can’t believe you did that, Ellie, before going radio silent on me.
It was like that awful week at the beach when everyone believed I’d cut myself on purpose—only this time, I deserved to be ostracized.
I kept waiting on my dad to mention Dr. Goldstein, but he never did. So I ventured into his office one day, planting myself in one of the worn brown leather chairs in front of his desk. Curious to see how long it might take him to acknowledge me, I silently watched him answer emails.
Ten minutes passed before he said, “Can I help you with something?”
The cold, impersonal tone of his voice gutted me.
“When are you taking me to Dr. Goldstein?”
Without glancing away from the computer screen, he said, “I’m not.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t see the point anymore. What good has it done you?”
“But that’s what I’m supposed to do when I hurt people.”
“It’s a lost cause, Elliot. A waste of money and a waste of time.”
“What are you saying?” Had he just called me a lost cause? A waste of time?
“It doesn’t work,” he said, finally lifting his gaze to mine.
He leaned back in his chair, all casual-like, crossing his legs.
“The next time someone makes you mad, you’ll do it again.
It’ll be the same shit, just a different target.
No matter what I do, you’ll continue to hurt people…
and yourself.” He studied me a moment. “I bet there’s a bruise or a cut somewhere on your body right now. ”
I dropped my gaze to the desk, unable to face the knowing look in his eye.
“That’s what I thought,” he said. “You made a promise to me, and you’ve already broken it.”
“Just send me back to Dr. Goldstein, okay? I’ll apologize to you and Libby—John, too. The whole family. I’ll apologize for everything.”
How messed up is that? My dad had finally decided to do away with the apology routine, and I wanted it back.
Without it, I felt unclean. More importantly, I couldn’t let him think I felt zero remorse for my actions.
Couldn’t let him give up. Couldn’t let him dismiss me as a lost cause or a waste of time.
Couldn’t be those things in addition to a hard no, a psychopath, a freak.
“Nah,” he said with a shrug. “I can only hear I’m sorry so many times before I start to question whether or not you actually mean it, and I’m not sure you do mean it. If you did, you wouldn’t behave like this anymore.”
This ripped my heart out.
“I’m partially to blame for all this,” he added. “I should’ve known better than to believe you would ever be able to keep your promise to me.”
“What does that mean?”
Nic pulled a stack of papers from the top drawer of his desk. “I reached out to that hospital in Arizona again.”
My stomach dropped. “You’re sending me away?”
For a long time, Nic stared at me, his expression sad. More than sad: tired and resigned. “It’s the one thing I haven’t tried yet.”
“Legally, I’m an adult,” I said, clutching the arm of the chair. “You can’t do that. You can’t send me there against my will.”
“Of course I can,” he said with a nonchalant tilt of his head. “I know a judge who’ll sign off on it.”
That weekend, I locked myself in my room, didn’t exit for more than a day and a half, not to eat or anything, surviving only on the metallic-tasting water from my bathroom sink and a smushed protein bar I found in the bottom of my crossbody bag.
And what killed me, Casey—what really hurt—was that neither you nor my dad bothered to check on me.
My sudden departure from your lives didn’t even warrant a You okay up there? text.
But that was fine. The indifference made me all the more focused on hatching my getaway plan.
No Arizona for me. I’d run away before I’d allow Nic to banish me to the desert with scorpions and shit.
I’d sneak out in the middle of the night, maybe convince Willoughby to loan me enough cash to take the commuter rail and hole up in a hotel somewhere.
Salem or Concord. Somewhere no one would ever think to look for me.
Before brunch that Sunday, I emerged from my lair wearing a robe over my pajamas, my braid hanging limp and disheveled over my shoulder. As I passed the Garland Room, I spotted you guys out of the corner of my eye, sitting in the wingbacks beneath Garland. You both perked up as I walked past.
In the kitchen, I waited for Henriette to turn her back, snatching the Johnnie Walker from the cabinet and slipping the bottle behind my robe.
When I strode past Garland again, it looked as though you and Nic were leaned forward in your chairs, watching out for me. Nic called my name, but I ignored him.
I carried the bottle into the shower, taking small swigs as I washed myself.
With no food on my stomach, the alcohol hit me fast. I stumbled getting out of the shower, feeling lightheaded and wobbly on my feet.
Drying my hair was a chore, the hairdryer too heavy, so I gave up halfway through, lacking the energy—or the dexterity, for that matter—to braid my hair.
I left it down and threw on the first items I swiped off the floor of my closet: an old wrinkled t-shirt, some black leggings, and your cardigan.
Gripping the banister hard, I staggered downstairs just in time for brunch. But near the bottom, I slipped on a step, tottering backward and landing on my ass.
And Michael, who happened to be passing through the entry hall at that moment, witnessed it. “Whoa,” he said, rushing over to help me up. “Are you okay?”
I swatted him away. “Fine.”
Michael drew back, studying me closely. “You don’t look fine.”
That’s when you walked up, halting at the sight of us.
“What’s wrong with her?” Michael asked.
You looked me over. “What—what do you mean?”
“She isn’t well, Casey,” he said. “What’s going on?”
You took my chin, tilting my face up to yours and gazing deep into my eyes. “You’ve been into Nic’s scotch again, haven’t you?”
“What do you care?” I snapped, slapping your hand away.
Still wobbly, I shoved past you two and headed for the dining room, then plopped down next to Bree, who immediately leaned back, startled by my appearance.
“Get up,” Michael told her, rushing to my side again. “Switch places with me today. I need to sit by Elliot.”
Bree obeyed, moving to Michael’s seat—the one between yours and John’s—without a word. You studied me as you joined us at the table, sporting a deep wrinkle of concern between your eyebrows. When the adults filtered in, Nic’s gaze shot directly to me.
“Here,” said Michael, snatching bacon, scones, and anything else he could reach, and placing it all on my plate. “You should eat something.”
“What’s going on, Michael?” Nic asked, taking his seat.
Michael paused. “Um—nothing, Nic. Everything’s fine.” He sat back and grabbed his water glass. “Elliot looks like…she really needs to eat. That’s all.”
“As she should,” you muttered. “Hasn’t eaten in nearly two days.”
But everyone had become so used to this behavior from me that they loaded up their plates without comment.
Eleanor wrinkled her nose at my disheveled appearance. “Shall we make a toast before we begin?” she said to the table, picking up her flute of champagne, its golden bubbles rising to the top. “To our dearest new mayor?”
All the adults beamed, holding up their glasses. Us kids, too. Together, we all said, “To Libby.”
But when I went to drink mine, Michael pushed down on my arm. And my dad, of course, noticed. “Okay, what’s going on?” he demanded. “What are you doing over there, Michael?”
Michael blinked at him. “Nothing.”
“Michael,” said John. “Spit it out.”
“Elliot’s already been drinking,” Michael said. “So she probably shouldn’t have any.”
Nic drew back, saying, “Is that true, Elliot?”
I didn’t answer, but I did veer sideways in my chair a little. Which was an answer in and of itself.
Nic sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Take her upstairs, Michael. We’ll send food and water up.”
Michael tried taking my arm, but I shrugged him off.
“I want to stay,” I said—or maybe slurred. “I want to apologize to Libby.”
Nic shook his head. “Absolutely not. This isn’t the time.” He nodded at Michael. “Take her.”
I snatched my arm from Michael again, leaning past him to address Libby.
“Libby, I’m so sorry I publicly humiliated you,” I said, tripping over the words.
Turns out publicly and humiliated are challenging words to pronounce while drunk.
“Casey over here”—I gestured to you with one finger, elbow lazily propped on the table—“thinks I should’ve asked you guys to sit down for a chat rather than punish you for lying.
That I should’ve nicely pointed out what a fraud you are to your face rather than, you know, writing it on a sign. ”
“Ah, okay,” you said, holding both hands up. “That’s—um—that’s not exactly how I put it.”
“So let’s do that,” I said with a grin. “Let’s all have a little chat.
” Libby stared back at me, her expertly made-up face set into a scowl, one of her recently waxed eyebrows twitching.
She looked pretty irritated already, which was fine by me, because it made that next part really fun to say: “Say, Lib, when was the last time you fucked my dad?”
If I was going out, I figured…
I might as well go out with a bang.