5. Lennie
Lennie
THE NEW YEAR
“ H ow were your holidays?” Janis asks.
It’s a frigid, gray January day. Janis’ office is in a repurposed warehouse. It’s tiny and cramped, yet somehow cozy with a dark green and purple color scheme.
My therapist is roughly my age, twenty-six, which should scare me. I’ve found it helpful, though. Janis isn’t pretentious or stuffy. It’s easy to talk to her.
I think deep down I always knew I needed therapy. That constantly crying when I’m alone in my room at night isn’t normal. That feeling on fire isn’t either. But I kept putting it off.
Then one day last year, as I walked into the train station, I thought I saw an old classmate from high school. I hadn’t seen them in years, but the moment I thought I recognized the brunette, I tucked myself into an alcove, my chest squeezing tight.
Would it be that bad if I came face-to-face with this person? Probably not. But I hid.
And I’m so damn tired of hiding.
Janis has helped me a lot. We started by identifying emotions. It turns out there’s a lot more to being just a gray blob of lonely.
She’s the one who keeps pushing me out into the world. Left to my own devices, I’d never leave my room, but she’s the one who challenged me to go to book club. When that failed, it was Fujimori’s.
I’m a disappointment to her now, though.
“They were nice. I got Beyonce’s new album on vinyl.”
She smiles at that. “Did you do anything for New Year’s?”
Abe threw a party at Fujimori’s. But I didn’t want to deal with the craziness so I tucked myself away with a book.
I shake my head no, my brown hair brushing my left cheek.
Janis smiles again, but it’s softer. Like she knows not to push, though, I’d say our definition of the word differs.
She tilts her head sideways, studying me. “You know, I’ve always wanted to ask you this. Does your hair not bother you?”
“Huh?”
Janis has short hair, dyed silver. It’s drastically different from my long dark locks.
She motions to her hairline. “I’ve never seen you wear your hair back. It’s always down. Doesn’t it get into your eyes?”
Probably.
“I always wear it down, so I guess I’m used to it.”
“Always?” There’s an inquisitive look on her face I’ve started to dread. “Why don’t you like wearing it up?”
I shake my head, not having an answer. My hands rub together as I sit back in the chair.
“You said your mom was big on the importance of appearances. Does your messy hair never annoy her?”
The ghost of my mother’s fingers, smoothing my hair in front of my left cheek sends a shiver across my skin.
“She just knew I always liked it down.”
Janis nods, but her narrowed eyes don’t go away. She goes in for the kill. “You’ve always used it to hide your scar?”
We’ve touched on the scar once or twice. It’s hard not to when you come to therapy with something so noticeable.
After eighteen years, it’s still a gnarly-looking thing. It’s grown white with time, but there’s a chunk of skin missing.
I’d like to say the Frankenstein appearance doesn’t bother me anymore. I’m not the only person in the world walking around with a facial scar.
It never goes away, though. Not the scar itself. The way people act around it. Yesterday, a kid stared at me in the store. That’s par for the course, but the eyes lingered on me long after I walked away.
Mom’s my biggest champion in so many ways. When other mothers asked if she’d considered plastic surgery for me, she’d roll her eyes and say we don’t mess with God’s beauty. But she frequently smooths my hair over my left cheek and asks what moisturizer or topical I’m using.
“Remind me again, how it happened?” Janis asks.
“I was eight and with a bunch of kids.”
Dad dropped us off at the Zimin’s. During the summertime, we’d go over there more often. There were a bunch of us kids, all of our parents connected in some shadowy way.
“There were some kitchen knives. And. . . it was just an accident.” I wave at my face, shrugging.
“You guys were just playing with kitchen knives?” Janis frowns.
This is the hard part about therapy. I can easily explain my parents are well off and lie about our family business. That day, I was one of the youngest there, and by that point, we all had a basic concept of handling weapons.
Though, that wasn’t exactly what was going on.
“One of the guys, was just being stupid. Running around, he grabbed the knife. And then. . .”
Somehow Elijah got a hold of it. He turned, and maybe he wasn’t expecting me to be so close.
He was thirteen and taller than me. A coldness swept over his face when he stared down at the blood all over the serrated knife.
In my memories, I remember staring up at him, a hand clamping down on my sticky cheek. There’s no memory of pain, at least not in those first few moments as I watched Elijah. Watched his face darken, like he was pissed at me.
Things went black, not because I passed out, but because I swear a halo of darkness exuded from him.
But that’s just Elijah.
Even at thirteen, his reputation as a sly, strange child preceded him. You didn’t fuck with him or else your parents went away. Or maybe you did.
He wasn’t a mafia prince like his brothers. He was a fucking warlord. A pure mixture of his effortlessly powerful father, Lev, and his Uncle Dima, the strategist.
The story of my scar makes him sound ruthless, but truthfully it was an accident. I know it. He knows it. My mother does too, on the rare occasions she admits it.
But Elijah never shied away from using the story to his advantage. He took it and twisted it to fit into his villainy.
Elijah told people he’d scarred me on purpose. Everyone believed him. Why wouldn’t they? Everyone knows Elijah can ruin a person’s life if he really wants to.
No wonder I kept my distance throughout the years. There were times I wanted to rage at him, but looking back I think I only ever emulated my mom’s anger.
It was just an accident.
“Did it hurt?” Janis gently asks.
“There were a lot of stitches.”
“Why do I get the feeling you internalized the pain?”
“Because that’s what I do,” I say quietly, sighing.
“Does it still hurt?”
Physically no. But I know that’s not what she’s asking.
“I don’t mind having it.”
She levels me with a look.
“I mean.” I try to find the right words. “In the scheme of things, it’s not the worst thing that could have happened.”
“That’s a pretty positive way of looking at it.”
I think that’s a good thing, but Janis says it weirdly.
Sometimes I hate this. She teases things out or alludes to stuff I don’t understand.
“Does your hair get in your way?” she asks.
I sigh. “Yes.”
She smiles coyly, her spine straightening. “I think we have a new challenge for this week.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“Style it differently. It doesn’t always have to be up and it can be simple, but let’s have a hair moment.”
“I can barely do my hair as it is.”
“Watch some videos,” she suggests. “Put the internet to use.”
She pulls a scrunchie from around her wrist and throws it to me. It lands on my lap and I stare down at it.
My therapist grins. “You’d be amazed at what can happen on a good hair day.”
Sometimes I think Janis is full of shit, but a week later I’m walking to catch my train home when I cross paths with Leopold Stuart.
We went to university together and I’m pleased when the nerves that normally go haywire, settle for only a slight flurry of butterflies.
“Hi.” He wrinkles his brow slightly like he can’t believe who he’s seeing. Which in all fairness, we haven’t crossed paths since graduation, years ago. “I didn’t know you’d moved back.”
We went to college in upstate New York. It was always my plan to move back, so it’s more of a surprise to see Leopold in the city.
“Are you?” He points over his shoulder toward the train.
“Yeah.”
Mom hates that I commute and would rather an armed guard drive me in each day. I keep telling her that not only is that overkill, it’s also terrible for the planet. I can grab the express train like the thousands of other commuters.
We shuffle out of the way of annoyed pedestrians as we try to catch up with each other. Ferdinand, the guard almost constantly with me, keeps his distance, but I see him eyeing Leopold.
As if he has anything to worry about.
Leopold only goes by his full name, never by Leo. He’s tall with gorgeous curly golden hair and kind blue eyes.
He’s a shining example of polite and friendly. I’m certain it’s because he treats everyone this way, that I’m able to talk to him without being my usual socially awkward self.
“I like your hair,” he mentions.
It’s pulled into a high ponytail. After leaving my last therapy session, I spent the first few hours annoyed at Janis before begrudgingly going online. Turns out I’m shit at braiding and messy buns are way harder than they seem.
Today’s high pony isn’t as pretty as the chignon I managed to create yesterday but I woke up like a zombie this morning after staying up late to read.
“Thanks.” I hope my cheeks don’t turn pink. “How have you been?”
“Great.” Leopold’s always had an easy air about him, a light smile brightening his face. “Hey, we should catch up. Get something to eat sometime.”
And for the first time in forever, I have a date.