Letter Fifteen #4
My stomach fluttered. But you know me—rarely willing to show it. “This sounds made up.”
You sighed. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Elliot. It’s not made up.”
“Well, it’s not a nightmare if it has a happy ending.”
You sounded thoroughly exasperated as you said, “It’s a nightmare because it’s recurring. And creepy. And it ends well, sure, but then I wake up, and you’re bloody giving me that look, first thing in the morning—” You stopped. “Why are you smiling?”
“You’re really cute when you get all flustered. Why do you think I mess with you so much?”
You squeezed your eyes shut. “Jesus.”
I reached across the countertop to twist your bracelet. “So I haunt your dreams, huh?”
Your expression turned serious. “Every single one.”
When I climbed into bed a little while later, still warm from the tea and the unexpected comfort of your voice, it took me no time at all to fall asleep.
Late the following morning, we were back to our normal routine: your copper kettle coming to a boil while you scrambled my eggs, me fussing that I only needed the yogurt I was already eating while you insisted yogurt wasn’t an acceptable breakfast. I’d just finished rolling my eyes when we heard the front door slam, and Nic called out my name.
“We’re in the kitchen!” I called back.
My dad rushed in and stopped, a crazed look on his face, shoulders sagging with relief. He strode over to the kitchen island, jerked me out of my stool, and crushed my body to his. Then he pushed me back, grasping me by the shoulders.
“Don’t you ever do that to me again,” he said, voice shaking with emotion. “Don’t you ever disappear and turn off your phone, do you hear me? Do you have any idea how scared I was? I thought I’d lost you. I thought you were gone.”
He didn’t give me time to answer.
“My entire life revolves around you. What happens to me if something happens to you? Have you ever stopped to consider that?”
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” I said quietly.
He picked up my bandaged hand. “Do you know how it makes me feel when you do this to yourself? It hurts me, too, Elliot. It breaks my heart. Do you care? Do my feelings not matter to you at all?”
My dad, who rarely cried, was on the verge of tears, and I had caused that. I’d made him think I didn’t care about him at all.
“How can you ask that? Of course I care. I love you, Dad. I’m sorry. It’s just—”
You won’t let me be free.
That’s what I wanted to say. What I always wanted to say, but I couldn’t, too scared he’d tell me why and it would confirm my worst fears about myself.
So I hugged him instead. Until your kettle whistled behind us, and we drew apart.
“Tell him about our deal,” you said, leaning back against the counter with your arms crossed.
“I promised Casey I would talk to someone if he does, too—if he promises to talk about his issues.”
Nic stepped back, impressed. “That’s great, Casey. I’m relieved you’re finally agreeing to this. Therapy will be great for you.”
“I don’t know about that,” you said. “I’m only doing it for Elliot’s sake.”
It sounded as if you and my dad had discussed therapy before—and apparently you hadn’t been on board with the idea. That you were willing to put yourself through something so invasive and uncomfortable for my sake really touched me.
“Regardless,” Nic said, walking over to grip your shoulder. “I’ll arrange everything.”
Over Thanksgiving break the following week, we went to our first sessions. I spoke with a lady therapist while you spoke to a man. Their offices were right across the hall from each other.
Afterward, we huddled close on the bridge overlooking the sparkling Lagoon in the Garden, sipping on honey cinnamon lattes while fallen leaves floated through the air, caught by a sudden breeze.
Brilliant fall foliage surrounded us, reflecting off the surface of the pond.
As we watched a few kids playing underneath one of the giant weeping willows nearby, I felt a pang of nostalgia.
I used to play hide-and-seek under those trees—with Michael and Bree—while our parents sat on a bench, watching us.
“So how was it?” I asked you.
You turned your head and squinted off into the distance. “It was okay,” you said, gripping your latte.
I nudged your arm with mine. “I can tell you’ve been crying.”
You snorted. “I have not.”
“Have, too. Your eyes are especially blue, and your eyelids are puffy. It’s okay. You can admit it, Casey.”
You turned to the side, leaned against the railing, and studied my face. “What about you? How’d yours go?”
“Nice way to change the subject,” I said with a sigh. “I told her I blamed myself for the attack. When she asked why, I told her that when something bad happens, I usually am to blame.”
“Elliot, it wasn’t your fault.”
I shrugged. “She asked me a couple of questions, too—and they really made me think.”
“About what?”
I hesitated, not quite sure how open I wanted to be.
“You don’t have to tell me,” you said softly. “But you can, you know? You can talk to me about anything.”
The part I didn’t tell you that day, but I’d said to my new lady therapist, was: “I think something’s wrong with me.
” And when she’d asked me why, I’d said, “Because something’s definitely wrong with me.
I’m not normal. I liked it when that boy hit me initially.
I like pain. It makes me feel better. It makes me feel free.
” She’d asked, “Free from what?” And I’d said, “Guilt. Rage. Sadness.” Then she’d glanced down at my still-bandaged hand and asked, “How long have you been hurting yourself?”
“She wanted to know how long I’ve been hurting myself—and I started to say it was after I stabbed Michael, but when I really stopped to think about it, I was hurting myself long before that. Like the incident in kindergarten.”
Carefully, you asked, “What incident?”
“I—um—I stabbed myself with a pencil,” I said, staring past you.
“We were supposed to be making these handprint flower bouquets for Mother’s Day, but I didn’t have a mom, so the teacher suggested I make one for Eleanor.
But Eleanor wasn’t motherly. Eleanor barely acted like a mom to my dad.
Eleanor had nothing but pristine surfaces and all-white everything in her house and she would never, ever put a stupid handprint craft on display like other moms did—like Libby did.
It would go in a drawer or the garbage, and there would be no hugs or kisses or thank-yous for me, like the other kids would get from their moms. So I crumpled up what I’d made so far and threw it in the trash, then grabbed my pencil and stabbed myself in the palm of the hand with it.
” I flipped my hand over on the railing and pointed to a little black dot near the underside of my thumb. “See, I still have the scar.”
You picked up my hand, stared at the little black dot, and lightly brushed your thumb over it. You didn’t say anything.
I worried telling you had been a mistake. So I whispered, “That’s messed up, right? You think I’m fucked up, don’t you?”
“No,” you said, lifting your gaze to meet mine. “I think you were a little girl who desperately wanted her mother. And I’m sorry you were made to sit in a room, making crafts with children who were fortunate enough to not know what that’s like.”
A lump formed in my throat. “Yeah, my dad got pretty pissed about the craft thing, too.”
You searched my gaze for a moment, then drew in a deep breath. “You’re right. I did cry back there.”
“Why?”
“Because he asked about my mum, and I can’t talk about her without crying. So.”
I wanted to ask you to tell me more about your mom, too, but I didn’t want to make you sad. So I said, “Well, you just wait. Pretty soon you’ll be bawling like a baby.”
You narrowed your eyes at me. “Must you try to make me feel more uncomfortable about this than I already do?”
I laughed. “What’s wrong, Casey? You don’t like getting in touch with your feelings?”
“I’m not opposed to sharing my feelings in the proper setting—alright?
—but I’d prefer not to share them with a stranger.
Nor do I especially want to bawl like a baby in front of one,” you said, a small smile playing at the corners of your mouth, your arm propped against the railing as you cradled your latte between both hands.
“Hey, guess what?” I said, reaching for your bracelet. I twisted it around your wrist, an idea brewing. I knew the perfect gift to give you for Christmas. “I probably should’ve told you this by now…”
You ducked to meet my gaze. “Told me what?”
“I forgive you for taking care of those boys,” I said.
“But I still wish you hadn’t. Because what if you’d been caught?
What if you’d gotten into serious trouble?
What if something happens and the Harrises miss out on knowing who you really are, and I’m to blame for that?
Or what if something happens to Michael and on top of nearly killing him once, I also have that on my conscience?
What if something happens to both of you? How will I—”
“Hey,” you said softly, clasping my wrist.
“How will I ever—”
Forgive myself.
But I couldn’t finish for the tears sprinting down my cheeks. You pulled me to your chest, shushing me as I clutched my latte behind your back.
“It’s okay,” you said into my hair. “Everyone’s here, and we’re fine, and everything’s going to be okay. You’re not losing either one of us. Not ever.”
But I’m crying as I remember you saying that, Casey. Which means you were wrong.
You were dead wrong.