Ricochet (Addicted #1.5)(73)

“And your parents know that Lo will be returning home from rehab. How do they feel about him living with you after all of this?”

I mull over the question, hearing my mother’s response instead of my own. “Work it out.” Three words that had me more confused than anything.

“They’ve always approved of our relationship,” I tell Dr. Banning. “Rehab didn’t change that. I’m not sure anything would.”

“What if you told them about your addiction?” she questions.

My stomach churns at the very thought, but I imagine my mother with her cold judgment and my father’s shame for having a dirty, disgusting daughter. I couldn’t…

“They wouldn’t understand.”

“How do you know?”

I try to think of an answer better than I just know. But I can’t.

Dr. Banning leans forward a little in her chair and asks, “What about the housewarming party, really? You’re in your new home with your friends and your family, but Lo isn’t there. That has to be difficult.”

“Shouldn’t you be asking me about sex?” This question has been my go-to digression tactic.

“We’ll get to that later. Right now, I want to talk about the party.” Obviously, she’s picked up on my strategies. I end up giving in.

“I felt awkward,” I mutter. “But I always feel awkward so it really wasn’t much different.” I scratch my arm, but without any fingernails it’s more like rubbing than scratching.

“Why would you feel awkward around your family?”

I have so many secrets, sometimes they feel like they’re crushing me from the inside out. Keeping my addiction from my family has always put this intangible gap between us. But something stops me from telling Dr. Banning. A lump lodges in my throat as I blink a couple times, utterly confused.

Because I think I know…I think I know that I’ve always felt this way, even before my addiction. Before there were any secrets at all.

I try to remember the mornings where I woke up in my own house. Where I clambered downstairs in my pajamas to have breakfast with my family. I can smell bacon and eggs, and I can see Lucinda standing over the stove asking me if I want mushrooms or tomato in the scramble. It’s not the right memory though. Our chef was named Margaret. Lucinda cooked for Jonathan Hale.

“It’s not right,” I mutter under my breath.

“What’s not right, Lily?”

Let me think. Nights. Nights were at my house. But that was before I left for Lo’s to hang out and sleepover. Yes. I’m what…seven. I can see the television screen with silly cartoons, and I hear Poppy playing the piano in the background. Rose was on the floor, reading the first Harry Potter. My mother’s heels clapped into the room and she looked between me and Rose. She strode to the bookshelf and came back to jerk Rose’s novel from her grip, replacing the magical world with To Kill a Mockingbird.

Our mother tucked the fantasy novel under her elbow and walked right out of the room without another glance.

“I can’t…” I shake my head, tears pricking my eyes. I don’t like this answer. Take it back.

“Lily,” Dr. Banning says but I’m still shaking my head.

I see all the years flash in and out. I see each of my sisters suffocating, being silently molded by a mother who just wants the best. I see me being free of that. But why does it hurt? It shouldn’t fucking hurt.

“It’s stupid. It’s so stupid,” I complain and touch my hands to my eyes.

“Lily,” she says slowly. “You have to let it in.”

“Let what in?”

“The pain.”

My bottom lip trembles and I just keep on shaking my head. “It’s stupid.”

“Why do you think that, Lily?” she asks fervently. “Your pain isn’t worth less than anyone else’s.”

“You don’t understand. I shouldn’t feel this way.” I point to my chest. “I have money. I come from a privileged life. I refuse to throw a pity party for myself.”

“You can’t refuse to feel hurt just because you think that you don’t deserve to feel it.”

I don’t know if I believe her. I think I should. “My sisters got the raw deal,” I say in defense, my cheeks stained with tears. “I got off.” No controlling mother. No piano lessons or ballet recitals.

“You never give yourself a break,” she tells me. “You’ve never given yourself a chance to feel. Do you understand?”

The emptiness. I guess it’s where that pain should be.

“It’s just you and me,” Dr. Banning says. “I don’t care about your last name. I don’t care about what your sisters went through. All I care about is you, Lily.”

It takes me a few moments to gather the strength to start talking about the thoughts that unsettle my head. A couple tears fall onto my hands and I manage to say, “When I was really little, my mother used to put me in classes like she did the other girls. Art. Singing. Piano…Everything.” I bite my lip, nodding to myself as I remember. “I lasted about a day in each. I just never picked up talents like Poppy and Rose.” I pause and cringe at my own words. So what Lily Calloway? You’re not talented. You don’t need to cry about it.