Letter Three #2
One Sunday, Eleanor asked why you looked so tired, and when she said it, I noticed the dark circles underneath your eyes, too.
You hesitated to offer Eleanor and the others an explanation, so Michael provided one for you.
He told everyone you bartended, often working until three in the morning on weekends and picking up double shifts whenever you could, even throughout the week.
Nic perked up, impressed by your work ethic.
He asked if you made good money bartending, and you admitted you did.
John pointed out how challenging it must be to work so often to afford rent in a place like Boston.
He wanted to know how you ever found the time to hang out with Michael, let alone sleep.
You unclenched your jaw long enough to force a smile, turning your water glass around and around on the tabletop, as if you were annoyed by all the scrutiny.
This, coming from a group of people who’d never struggled to make a living wage in their lives.
You admitted to sleeping very little, actually, but insisted you were fine.
John asked where you were living at the moment, and when you hesitated, Michael spoke up here, too, saying you were stuck in a house-share in Somerville with four other people, two of whom were pill addicts who kept breaking into your room when you weren’t there.
Libby said that didn’t sound like a safe living arrangement, and Michael insisted he’d been telling you the same thing—he’d been telling you for weeks to search for something better—but you wouldn’t listen to him.
You shot Michael an imploring look that said, Please stop talking.
“You can’t keep living there, Casey. Not when some ass—” Michael glanced apologetically at Eleanor, then started over. “Not when people keep stealing from you.”
“It’s my problem,” you said, “and I’m handling it.”
“I don’t understand why you won’t get a place with me,” Michael said, the wounded tone of his voice causing me to lower my silverware.
Bree and I exchanged a look, because Michael’s comment shocked her, too. For Michael to bring a friend over was one thing, but for him to exhibit emotion over a friend? Especially a guy friend? That wasn’t like him at all.
Your friendship obviously meant a lot to him, and I’d been a bitch to suggest that he shouldn’t bring you to brunch.
Across the table, you shook your head at Michael, as if you’d already laid out the reasons for wanting to live on your own, and you didn’t want to do it again in front of everyone else.
My dad told you he owned several properties in Somerville, along with a few vacant properties in Beacon Hill, where we lived. He said he’d be happy to offer you a safer place to stay so you wouldn’t have to tolerate shared housing anymore.
“What if we work something out?” Nic suggested. “Agree on a number that’ll allow you to work less, so you have more time to rest and focus on school?”
“That’s very generous of you, but I don’t want to impose. Really, I’m managing just fine on my own, thank you,” you said, then politely excused yourself from the table. You’d promised your sister a phone call, and it was getting late in England.
Later, as the others cleared our dishes off the table, I found you with Garland, perusing the mahogany bookshelves along the back wall of the room.
“Are you okay?” I asked, arms crossed over my dress. Another Stepford-wife one, but with a houndstooth pattern instead of floral.
“Just fine,” you said, but it sounded forced. Something on the bookcase caught your eye, and you leaned forward to get a closer look. One corner of your mouth lifted as you lifted a silver picture frame off the shelf. “Is this you?”
I grimaced at the picture. “Yeah, that’s me. I was six maybe?”
You slid your gaze away from the picture to study me, and my heart fluttered.
You put the picture back, then picked up another one. “It’s—you know—you looked quite similar to that little girl from The Addams Family. The resemblance is…uncanny.”
You were right. Growing up, I’d looked very similar to Wednesday Addams. Severe hair part down the middle.
Two dark braids. Collared dresses, tailored to fit the primmest of little girls.
Cardigans, too, often fully buttoned up.
It wasn’t until after my tenth birthday that I’d ditched the pigtails for a side fishtail braid, made to look messy on purpose.
“Don’t get me wrong,” you said. “You were very cute.”
“Cute—but scary.”
“Not scary. Just…serious. You’re not smiling here.” Your gaze drifted over the other framed photographs. “You’re not smiling in loads of these.”
“Yeah, I rarely smiled as a kid. No wonder I didn’t have many friends.”
“You didn’t?”
“I had Bree, Tinsley, and Michael. But all the other kids I knew were scared of me.”
“Why?”
“Well, because I looked like that. Then the whole disappearing-mother and rich, powerful, single-dad thing. We lived here,” I said, sweeping my hand across the room, “in this dark house with the giant eye in the ceiling. Also—Eleanor. You’ve met her.
She’s kind of scary, too. I guess my life looked like something out of a horror movie, and I actually frightened people.
Tinsley told me so once, when the kids in our class stopped inviting me to their parties. ”
A deep crease formed between your eyebrows. “That’s maybe the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” you said, your gaze softly dancing over my face. “It was rotten of your schoolmates not to invite you to things. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. They had reason to be frightened of me, and even if they weren’t, their parents were.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because of what I did at my eighth birthday party.”
Your eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”
“Have you ever noticed the scar on Michael’s neck right here?” I asked, pointing to a spot right below the jugular on my own neck.
“I have, as a matter of fact.”
“Well, I stabbed him there—with my fork.”
You blinked at me. “You did not.”
“Yes, I did. I stabbed him.”
“With a fork,” you said.
“With a fork,” I repeated.
“You’re fucking with me again.”
“I wasn’t fucking with you the first time, but this is true. Ask anyone. People love telling this story about me. I’m the girl who stabbed a boy at her birthday party.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “Why would you do that?”
“Because he swiped the frosting on my chocolate ganache cake before the candles were lit.” I moved down the wall, located a specific picture, and brought it over to you. “Here we are. Me and Michael—Bree, too. Right before it happened.”
You took the picture and studied it closely.
Bree, wearing a soft pink dress, the only one smiling.
Michael, in a pale blue button-down and chinos, standing beside me, looking bored.
With my blue floral smocked dress and expertly styled French braid, I didn’t look like a child capable of violence, but I didn’t look especially happy, either, despite it being my birthday.
My eyes held the hard glimmer of a child who wasn’t having a good time, but still being made to pose for a picture.
“In this one,” you said, “you are a bit scary. Tell me, why did you really stab him?”
“I already did.”
You shook your head. “That can’t be your motive. No way you stabbed him over a bit of frosting. I’d like to hear the real reason.”
You were doing it again, Casey. Trying to tug the truth loose when I only wanted to give you the lie.
But I’d promised Michael I’d give you a chance, so I did.
“Jealousy,” I admitted. “Michael had been going through some rebellious phase with his mom. Libby would ask him to do something and he’d roll his eyes at her, or she’d tell him he couldn’t go somewhere and he’d give her hell about it.
They were always fighting—because he was always fighting her, trying to get her to leave him alone.
The day of my party, he didn’t even want to be there.
He was only ten, but he already thought he was too cool for a little kid’s party—for my party.
I saw Libby in the entry hall, trying to talk to him, and even though he was being a total dick to her, she still lovingly brushed his hair back into place with her fingers.
He swatted her hand away and told her to stop, said she was embarrassing him.
I saw that, and I thought, ‘How dare you?’ He was lucky enough to have this complete family with a mom and a dad and a sister.
He had this wonderful mom who obviously loved him, and he did nothing but give her shit.
He had something I wanted more than anything in the world, and he didn’t even appreciate it.
Why did he get to have a mom, and I couldn’t have one at all?
It wasn’t fair. He never swiped the frosting on my cake.
That’s the lie I tell people, because it’s easier than telling the truth.
He was standing by the cake, looking all pissed while he watched Libby light my candles, so I broke free of my dad, grabbed a fork off the table, and stabbed him with it. ”
“Jesus,” you said, shock clouding your face. “Please tell me you regretted it.”
“Of course I did,” I whispered, blinking back tears. “He went down, and I immediately regretted it. Immediately. I thought I’d killed him. I wanted to take it back.”
“What happened after that?”
“Honestly? Pandemonium. All the kids started screaming and crying, their parents scrambled to cover their eyes, to get them out of there, and I started crying, too. I turned to face my dad and he had this horrified look on his face, like he’d just watched me turn into a monster.
He snatched me up, carried me to his office, and locked me in there, all alone, while he went to help with Michael.
They called an ambulance and rushed him to the emergency room, but I’d stabbed him below the jugular, so they were able to pull the fork out, and he was fine.
My dad took me to see a psychiatrist two days later. ”