Chapter Two #3
after Miami, and how I was talking about my confusion over how
Robin knew I'd be there. How he said my father had mentioned it,
and how I couldn't understand how he even knew. I hadn't spoken to my
father in nearly a year, and I'd been under the impression the same
went for my mother.
I remember my growing
awareness of the tension in the room, and how it's source—my
nervous, suspiciously guilty-looking mother—sat beside me bouncing
her knee in what I've recognized since childhood as a sign of her
own anxiety.
I knew before she even
spoke that she was my father's information source. I listened as
patiently as I could to her explanation that of course she still speaks to my
father when necessary, and where did
I think she
obtained the extra money to pay for the trip?
The truth was I
hadn't thought about it.
I knew money was tight, but when she agreed that I could go, I was
more concerned with the logistics of handling the trip itself, and
if I'm honest, looking forward to spending the time with my friends
and Sam, than trying to figure out how she funded the
trip.
But learning she was in
sporadic contact with my father took me by surprise. More
surprising? The fact that he agreed to give her the money, knowing
it was for me. But then again, maybe he'd been plotting to set me
up to be cornered by Robin from the get-go. He probably believed
Robin would do nothing more than beg me to dissolve the restraining
order and take him back. Again. After all, my father still believes
that I'm a crazy liar who fabricated Robin's abuse for attention,
or vengeance, or whatever excuse he's adopting today. He never
believed Robin would hurt me. He never will.
I wasn't exactly angry
with my mother; however, it was clear she was more than angry with
herself. Despite my father's previous betrayals, she never thought
he would tell the Forbeses where I'd be, or maybe neither of them
thought Robin would blatantly disregard the restraining order. But
he has a history of getting away with violent crimes, so why would
he believe that the words on that worthless piece of paper actually
applied to him?
Then again, neither of
them know him like I do. No one does really, and I hope to God that
no other girl ever has to.
I take a deep breath,
trying to shake the memory of that revelation. I peek over at my
mother, sitting stiffly, formally, her legs crossed at the ankles
as she watches Dr. Schall as if awaiting something.
"Thank you for joining us,
Amy," he says.
"Of course," she replies,
and I sit there, unable to shake the feeling like the other shoe is
about to drop.
"We don't have a lot of
time, so I won't beat around the bush. There are a couple of things
we'd like to discuss," Dr. Schall says matter of factly.
This isn't surprising, of
course. That's why she's here. But for the first time I get the
distinct feeling that I don't want her here. That she's intruding
on some private matter. It's ridiculous, I know, but there are
things I discuss with my therapist that I could never, would never,
discuss with my mother. And now I wonder if they plan to talk about
something I'd rather them not bring up.
I feel my pulse race, and
though I try to ignore the fine sheen of sweat on my brow and focus
on taking even breaths, I know they both have noticed my
anxiousness. Of course, they're both tuned into it, conscious of my
every reaction, and so I try even harder to suppress
them.
Because I'm eighteen, Dr.
Schall can't bring up things we've discussed in therapy without my
express prior consent, so it's always on my mom to ask questions
she wants to ask, and she's usually reluctant to pry. But today,
there's a determination mixed with her nervous energy, and I wonder
at it.
"Honey, I wanted to talk
about school. I know it's almost over, but I saw that C in
Government, and—"
"Why don't we first talk
about why you
think Rory's having trouble in school," Dr. Schall
interjects.
I deflate. I literally sag
into the sofa like a petulant child. This isn't a conversation I
want to have, but at the same time it's kind of a relief. Because I
was imagining it would be something worse.
"Well, she—"
"Talk to Rory, not about her," Dr. Schall
interrupts again.
My mother nods. "Right. Of
course. Rory, you aren't sleeping more than a few hours a night.
I'm not blaming you, I just think maybe we should
reconsider-"
It's me who interrupts
this time. "No fucking way."
My mother startles at my
language, but I don't care. I'm not taking those goddamned sleeping
pills. I shudder at the mere thought of it.
"But maybe there's another
kind we could try," my mom suggests. We both look to Dr. Schall—my
mother for hope of a solution, and me for confirmation that none
exists.
"There are certainly other
sleeping aids we could try," he says cautiously.
I shake my head. "They
don't work, Mom. I can't… I can't do it." It's not a very
articulate argument, I admit. But she knows what I mean. The
sleeping pills do help me sleep. But they don't stop my nightmares,
and so instead of waking up screaming, I find myself trapped in
terror, too drugged to awaken, my dreams more vivid than ever. My
fingers start to tremble as I remember the nights I took those
pills. Buried by my own medication inside horrors I can't escape,
in which I can't tell the difference between dream and reality, or
past and present. It's how I would imagine my own, personal
hell.
My mother's arm slides
around my shoulders as she mutters apologies, withdrawing her
suggestion. I placate her, telling her it's okay, and force my mask
back in place. Everything is okay. I am okay. Or so my mask
implies.
"Okay, then," my mother
continues, glancing over at Dr. Schall for what appears to be
encouragement. I swallow anxiously. "Well, maybe if we talk about
things. Maybe that will help."
I sigh in frustration.
"Mom, why do you think I come here twice a freaking week? What do
you think we do? Play Scrabble for an hour?"
Dr. Schall's moustached
top lip quirks up as it often does at my snark. But my mother's
next words knock the jest right out of me.
"Have you talked about
Cam?"
She asks this like it's
the most normal question in the world. Something we talk about all
the time. From her tone, you would never know that the only time
I've so much as referenced the best friend I lost in the most
tragic way possible was when I'd told her I'd talked about him to
Sam. No details. Nothing more than one sentence on the plane home
from Miami saying I'd told Sam about him.
I'd been a vulnerable
wreck. Barely coherent through my exhaustion and desolation. And
neither of us has brought it up since.
My anxiety is back now in
full force, my heart twists painfully in my chest and my gut churns
with bone crushing grief. With all of the issues I've had to learn
to deal with—or attempt
to deal with—I'm fully aware that I have yet to
process Cam's death in any healthy, appropriate way. But how do I
begin to process something that threatens to send me spiraling into
a terrifying panic every time I so much as think about
it?
Because the tragedy of what
happened to Cam is distressing enough. The guilt that consumes me
over being the cause of it—it's not something I'm likely to ever
come to terms with. But it's the harrowing loss, the despair-shaped
hole left in Cam's place, that threatens to send me plummeting past
panic, back into the pit of depression in which I spent the months
before I moved here. And I know if I find myself back there again,
well, I may never find my way out.
I sit there silently,
unable to reply to my mother's question about Cam, so I do nothing
more than try to stay calm and force my eyes to remain dry, but my
non-answer answers for me.
My mother sighs. It's a
sad, resigned sigh, and it disheartens me even more.
"I spoke to Michelle
yesterday."
Of course she did. She was
on the phone when I got home from studying calculus with Sam
yesterday and hastily ended her call and hung up as soon as I
walked in. It's what she always does if I walk in on her on that
call she makes religiously every week. She thinks overhearing the
conversation might trigger me, and in truth, she may very well be
right.
It's completely messed up,
I know that. But Michelle just reminds me of Cam, and the pain is
still too raw, too potent. I'm not strong enough. I don't know if I
ever will be.
"She's sounding better
lately. She asks about you, you know," my mom continues.
"I-" My breath catches in
my throat. My heart beats too fast as Michelle-colored images swarm
my mind—of my childhood, of my past. Each fragmented image leaves
remnants of Cam in its wake. It's all too connected, and there's
just no way for me to extricate Cam from memories of Michelle. He's
there, ever present, inextricably entwined into every happy memory
I'd ever had, and especially into those of his own
mother.
Damn it. I worry my lip between my teeth in an attempt not to allow
my frustration to manifest into sobs. Why
is she bringing this up now?
"I don't want to talk
about this," I mutter hoarsely. I take deep breaths, focusing
intently on every inhale and exhale.
"I know that, Rory, honey.
But you need to eventually, and you were able to talk to Sam Caplan
about it, so maybe if you just try—"
I stand abruptly. I don't
want to think about Cam and I don't want to think about Sam. All I
feel is guilt and grief and I can't fucking bear it right
now!
"I do try! I try every fucking day,
Mom! I have to try to do things that you just do. I have to try to sleep, I have to
try not
to sleep. I have to try to get up in the morning, to go
to school. I have to try
not to break down at any given moment. I have
to try not to
freak out when some random guy passes too close, looks at me too
long. I have to try to stop worrying that he's going to find me