Under Rose-Tainted Skies(50)

‘Yep,’ Mom says.

‘Ugh. I have a therapy appointment.’

Forgotten again.

What is it about Luke that sucks away part of my memory? Is this normal? On The Hub, people talk about kissing. The kids who are lucky enough to have evaded detection by family members sometimes post about reaching second base. They talk a lot about where they eat and post the funny snippets of conversation they have, but to the best of my knowledge, no one has ever mentioned memory loss. Mental note: after my date, research the side effects you encounter when in the presence of good-looking guys.

So today I get a date with Luke, and, seeing as how Mom can’t walk, let alone work a brake pedal, an impending free pass on therapy, maybe?

‘Don’t get too excited, missy . . .’ Maybe not. ‘I really don’t think you should be skipping a session right now. I’m going to call and ask Dr Reeves if she wouldn’t mind paying one last visit to the house instead.’ It’s like spending all of your allowance on a triple-scoop ice cream cone with hot fudge sauce only to drop it before you get a single lick. Don’t get me wrong, Dr Reeves is great, but I could have done without the emotional trauma of a session today. Damn. So close.

Dr Reeves won’t mind. She’ll come over, I know she will, because despite the fact that Mom pays her, I think she quite likes me.





‘Maybe we should wrap-up early?’ Dr Reeves says. At least, I think that’s what she says. Her words are warped, sliding into my ears but getting caught up and mangled in my mind mess. I’m too busy wondering where Luke and I will sit when we watch the movie tonight. Not too close, for obvious reasons. But not too far away either. Also for obvious reasons. Maybe I should suggest we sit at the table and watch the TV in the kitchen. But then, those chairs are uncomfortable after prolonged exposure.

‘Norah.’ I’ve never heard Dr Reeves raise her voice before. It startles me, makes me tune out the insanity and tune into her instantly.

‘I’m sorry. Really. I don’t mean to ignore you. I want to hear what you’re saying, but I’m finding it hard to concentrate on anything.’

‘I get it,’ Dr Reeves says as she collects her sheets of paper and shuffles them into a leather folder. I look at the little black lion embossed on the front and get all dreamy because its shaggy mane reminds me of Luke’s dark locks. ‘Please don’t apologize. It’s good to see you getting all glassy-eyed over a boy.’ I flush and wonder if I could get away with wearing sunglasses on my date so Luke doesn’t see. ‘But I’m starting to get worried about your scratches, and it’s my job to make sure you’re not a danger to yourself.’

Whoa. Wait. What? Now she has my attention like she grabbed my chin and yanked it around to face her.

She’s looking at my arms, but I feel like I’m laid on a gurney, legs spread, and she’s rooting around down there, like a gynaecologist, inspecting my scars with a flashlight.

‘Scratches?’ I bury my hands between my legs, convinced my little scars are what we’re talking about. But that’s impossible. I cut up there deliberately so no one will see.

‘It’s something both your mother and I have noticed you do when you’re anxious.’

Stop.

I’m confused.

Mom and the doc are smart, but this isn’t the X-Men. I joke about it sometimes, but they’re not really mind readers. And they don’t have a super-ability to see through walls or items of clothing. Besides, I’ve only cut a handful of times, and the last time Mom was miles away, laid up in a hospital out-of-state.

She picks up on my confusion like it’s fired off a flare.

‘You don’t know you’re doing it,’ she says, a hooked finger starting to stroke her invisible beard as she assumes her making-mental-notes face.

‘Doing what?’ My tone is laced with frustration.

When she’s done analysing, her hands come together in a praying position and she throws me a sympathetic smile.

‘Sometimes, when you start to panic, you scratch patches of your skin until they bleed.’

‘So? Everyone itches.’

‘That’s true, they do. Do you have an itch right now?’ She flicks her eyes towards the table. I follow her gaze, see my finger scratching aimlessly across my thumb. My stomach lurches.

‘Are you familiar with the term self-harm?’ She’s using Mom’s your-rabbit-just-died voice.

‘Yes, but no.’ I dismiss her poorly disguised suggestion with a snort. ‘I’m not doing that.’ I mean, I am, like, every once in a while. But she seems to be suggesting that itching is the same as slicing, which it’s not. Maybe she’s the one not so familiar with the term self-harm.

I’m done with this session. It’s just gotten ridiculous. Too ridiculous. And that’s coming from someone who, nine times out of ten, can emotionally invest in an episode of SpongeBob SquarePants. I wonder how mad Mom will get if I just leave the table and go hide in my room. I wonder if she’ll call off my date with Luke.

She wouldn’t.

She might.

I start thinking about breaking stuff.

Dr Reeves is talking about control, describing how I feel when I hold scissors to my leg. But it’s not the same. Everybody scratches an itch. Sometimes scratches bleed. Self-harm is something I do in private – barely ever – to make myself feel better. It’s intense and frightening. It’s not having a quick scratch in front of folk. Right? Was notorious bogie-picker and small-scab-eater Tommy Martin accused of self-harm in the first grade every time he picked himself a snack? No. I really think she’s making a fuss over nothing. Scratching is normal, and I don’t appreciate her tearing strips off my already shaky sanity.