What Happens Now(82)
He stood there, completely still, and there it was again: the anger. My anger, I should call it, because I was ready to own it then. But I had to keep it tamed this time.
“I’m sorry, Ari,” he said, moving forward and reaching out. I stepped away from him.
The alley door to Millie’s opened. “Ari?” called Richard. When he saw the two of us, he looked alarmed, but I couldn’t worry about his worry.
I turned back to Camden.
This boy. This boy who had been everything in one way last summer, then everything in another way this summer. Who had shown me so many foreign things that had been right there, knowable all along.
This boy was shaking his head again. “Don’t hate me,” he gasped.
Then he turned and ran.
21
Over the next three days, I did the chores and errands my family asked of me. I didn’t complain or cry or pout. I did them while smiling, talking, and joking.
Every minute of it was a big, fat fake.
If I faltered for a moment, Mom would see the signs. I knew she was watching for them. I couldn’t let her know that underneath the pulse of these days I was back in the place of everything hurts. Perhaps I’d always been. Maybe this was where I lived for good, and all that appeared to be normal life and happiness was only a fleeting illusion, a mirage when you’re desperate in the desert.
Richard was watching, too. I could tell he wanted to ask about what he’d seen in the alley but also respected my privacy. It was such a fine line, being concerned without being invasive. It bought me some time.
The thing that hurt the most was this: I didn’t know who to be more angry at. Camden, for not being the person I thought he was? Or me, for not protecting myself?
My therapist, Cynthia, had often urged me not to push away memories of what the depression itself felt like but rather, get inside them. That way, she said, I could begin to understand and, eventually, begin to win.
I knew I should call her now. But she’d want my doctor to increase my dosage or switch drugs completely, and that would mean I’d lost again. I wasn’t ready to concede, so in the solitary safety underneath my bedcovers early each morning and late each night, I answered the question she’d asked so many times.
What does it feel like, Ari?
Well, it felt like this:
Like there was always something incredibly awful that I needed to try and forget about.
Like some of my cells were somehow dead, injected with a serum that made them heavy and numb.
Like I had no idea what I wanted to do when I wasn’t being told what to do or following the paved paths of my day. Work at the store, go somewhere with Dani, come home, help with dinner. Work, go, come, help. Those were the only things that made my body move.
On the morning of the fourth day after Camden left, the images returned. They popped like flashbulbs behind my eyes and I let them come, fast and forceful. They were the images of my bare arms, a razor opening the skin and relieving some of the pressure. Letting it out. Letting it hurt. Letting it bleed.
Then, images of the contents of the shoe box in my closet: a three-pack of cheap razors with two razors left, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and a pack of cotton balls.
I started running the logistics through my mind. I couldn’t get any ice or frozen peas this time, not with Richard and Dani eating breakfast out there. But it would just be a small cut. Tiny, up high, so nobody would know. And I would still feel the release of it.
It wouldn’t count, not really, but it would help.
I went into my closet, then poked around in the back until I felt the corner of a shoe box lid sharp against my fingers. The comforting whisper-rustle as I pulled it out through my hanging clothes. I sat on the floor of my room and drew the box into my lap. Broke the tape on either side of the lid and popped it open, my hands shaking.
But the razors and alcohol and cotton balls were gone. In their place was a white envelope that simply said Arianna on the front.
I stared at it for a few moments, trying to process what it meant.
Then I tore the seal on the envelope.
The letter was handwritten on yellow legal paper, cursive swirls in blue ink.
Dear Arianna,
When I found this box, my first thought was to confront you. (I wasn’t snooping, I swear. I was looking for outgrown stuff to donate to the domestic violence shelter.)
But then I knew you had to be ready to hear what I have to say. If you’re reading this it’s probably because you’re feeling the urge to harm yourself again. Which means you’re ready now. Does that make sense? God, I hope so.
Ari, I need to say this: I have been there. I never got as far as you did. But I can say with certainty that I have felt what you’ve felt. I know you know this in a general way, and I’m sorry we never talked about the details. Maybe they would have helped you. Your therapist wanted me to, but I just couldn’t. I realize now that I was struggling more than I thought I was, and in denial about that.
It has been so painful to know that you inherited this burden from me.
But I have to say, seeing you dressed as Satina Galt did something to me. It reminded me that I gave you good things, too, like this role model. The way you (and Satina, and yes, sometimes me, too) want so badly to do your best, to make everything okay for everyone, that you’re not sure how to fit your own needs in there, too. The way you value strength and self-confidence—that was my wish for you. But I also know it’s hard to actually achieve.