Kat's Fall Page 12

  “Hey, if it was up to me, I’d have sent you home days ago,” she says.

  “So why don’t you tell the doctor that?”

  “Because he’s obligated to try to get you well.”

  “And you’re not?”

  She writes something on the boy’s chart. “There are lots of really sick people for me to care for, and people who have been in accidents that were no fault of their own. You, on the other hand…”

  She doesn’t finish her sentence. She doesn’t have to. MS. LAROSE POKES her head into the lounge where I’m watching TV, my trusty IV pole standing at attention beside me.

  “Can I come in?” she asks.

  “It’s a free world.”

  “So,” she says, sitting down beside me, “I’ve done some reading on SI. ”

  “On what?”

  “SI, short for Self Injury.”

  “Oh. And what did you find out? That I’m crazy?” “No, I’m afraid you won’t be able to use craziness as an excuse.”

  “Bummer. Then what excuse can I use?”

  “How about…” she reads from the pad of paper she’s carrying, “ ‘Feelings of overwhelming tension and isolation derived from fear of abandonment, self-hatred and apprehension’.”

  “That’s why people cut themselves?”

  “Some people.”

  I keep my eyes glued to the TV, trying not to act too interested, but intrigued nonetheless.

  “What about the rest?”

  “There’s lots of reasons.” She refers to her notes again. “It’s a complex coping behavior. It can be an expression of emotional pain, an escape from emptiness or depression, or a release of anger.”

  “Yeah, but why do those things make a person want to carve their skin?”

  “I’m sure you could answer that better than me.”

  “Maybe, but what do the experts say?” I ask.

  She picks her notes up again and reads, “‘There is evidence that when dealing with strong emotions or overwhelming situations, self-injurers harm themselves because it brings them a quick release from tension and anxiety. It is a means of coping with an overpowering psycho-physiological arousal’.”

  The word “release” jumps out at me. That’s about all I understand. “So what’s the cure?”

  “There is no cure, Darcy.”

  “I can look forward to mutilating myself for the rest of my life? Great.”

  “There is no cure, Darcy, but you can stop anytime you want.”

  “Oh, yeah, easy for you to say.”

  “Can we turn that thing off?” The Rose asks, referring, irritably, to the TV. I guess she doesn’t care for talk shows where the host and audience badger the deviant guest until they get a good reaction. Before she arrived I was beginning to think I’d make a good candidate, showing the world my mutilated arm and talking about the thrill I get when I cut myself. Of course, I’d use the word thrill, not release. It sounds more, well, deviant.

  “You have to replace the cutting with other ways of releasing the bad feelings,” The Rose continues after the TV goes off.

  “Ahh,” I say. “I get it now. I could use drugs, like my mom did. Or numb myself with booze every night, like Dad. Perfect. Thanks, Ms. LaRose, you’ve been a big help. Do you mind if I turn the TV back on?”

  I hate the hurt look on The Rose’s face, but I can’t help myself.

  Of course, The Rose is not easily put off. As usual, she turns things around. “That’s interesting, Darcy, that you can see the similarities in your mom and dad’s behavior with your own.”

  Oh, puh-leese.

  “And I understand your mom has given up drugs. What do you think she replaced them with?”

  “That’s different. She was forced to give up drugs. She was in prison, remember? They don’t sell drugs there. Not in the unit she was in, anyway.”

  “Has she started again?”

  “You’d have to ask her.”

  “What do you think?”

  I can only shrug. “I don’t think so, but I bet she’s thought of it.”

  “I quit smoking five years ago,” The Rose says, “and I still think of it occasionally, but it doesn’t mean I’ll start again.”

  “Then what do you think my mom has replaced it with?”

  “Well, it’s just a guess,” she ventures, “but I’d say honesty and talking about her feelings is one way she’s worked through it.”

  “Are you saying I’m not honest?”

  She sighs. “Darcy, you really can be difficult, can’t you.”

  I don’t answer. I know she’s right.

  She folds her papers and puts them in her purse. “I have to go,” she says, “but I suggest you give some thought to what we’ve just talked about.”

  “Yes, Dr. LaRose.”

  She scrunches up her face, trying to look nasty, and then laughs. “Oh, Darcy, what am I going to do with you?”

  I don’t tell her, but the truth is, she’s already done a whole lot. The fact that she hasn’t just given up on me is amazing enough.

  “It’s hopeless,” I tell her. “I suggest you quit while you’re ahead.”

  “Not on your life,” she says, leaving the room.

  A PSYCHIATRIST VISITS me before I’m released from the hospital. He doesn’t say much, except to tell me that SI is not usually an indication of suicidal behavior, so as a result I don’t have to be put on a suicide watch. I do have to set up an office appointment with him, though, but that’s it. The earliest he can see me is two weeks from now.

  It’s a good thing I’m not suicidal.

  I FIND MY STATUS at home and school has changed somewhat now that the world knows about my habit of inflicting injury on myself. Dad is making an effort to be a little nicer, a little more attentive, and Mom, when I see her, which isn’t often, looks at me knowingly, her eyes full of sympathy.

  The kids at school want to see my scars and then act impressed. Even Troy. Believe me, impressing them is not the idea. Far from it.

  The Kippensteins continue to beg for forgiveness for wrongfully accusing me of abusing Sam. They’ve bought me gifts and they’ve even talked about setting up a trust fund for me, for my education or something. I keep telling them it’s okay, I’d probably have done the same thing. I can’t imagine how it must feel to know someone has hurt your little girl like that. You wouldn’t be able to think straight. Actually, I can imagine. If someone had hurt Kat that way…

  I’m no longer employed by the Kippensteins. Mrs. K has taken a leave of absence from work. I promised Sammy that Kat and I (and Star) would still drop in a couple of times a week to play with her.

  And Star. It turns out she’s not only a chick-magnet (Gem), but she’s everything Kat hoped she’d be, and more. As Kat grows, and especially now, during puberty, she often has to have her medication adjusted. When she returned home from Mom’s she began having regular seizures again. It only took a few before Star learned to sense them coming moments before they actually hit. She would use all her guide dog training to protect Kat during the seizure. In the meantime, Kat’s had her dosage changed and she’s fine again. And another interesting development. It turns out that Dad is way better with dogs than he is with kids. He still hasn’t learned much sign language, but while I was in the hospital he did get that dog trained to take Kat her bottle of medication before she (the dog) got her morning ration of food.

  I THINK GEM has taken me on as her personal pet project, and I admit, I don’t mind a bit. She often comes home with me after school, and we walk the dog with Kat. Gem is learning to sign, and Kat is having a great time teaching her. I still haven’t had the nerve to show Gem my appreciation that she’s a nonsmoker, but I’m hoping that will come soon.

  I noticed that my knife was gone from my room when I got out of the hospital. No biggie. It’s easy to replace. The stain on my carpet is a constant reminder of the night I got carried away. I won’t let that happen again. Control is the key.

  I WATCH AS KAT tucks
her purse into her backpack and remember the day she bought it. That seems like ages ago, but it’s really only been about six weeks. I make a mental note to tell Mom to talk to her about girl things, periods and who knows what else. It’s a relief to be let off the hook when it comes to that stuff.

  Once again Star and I see her off to school from the top step before I pick up the newspaper and return to the kitchen, where my unfinished breakfast is still sitting on the table. I made omelets today, scrambled eggs yesterday. Somehow breakfast has now become one of my responsibilities.

  With a sense of foreboding, I open the paper and scan the editorial page. Today there are only two letters condemning Mom, but that’s still two letters too many. Sometimes I wonder how she can take it, this continuous slander for something she didn’t do. She still tells me that going to prison really was the best thing that could have happened to her. I’m trying hard to believe that, I really am, and I might be able to live with it if I didn’t keep thinking about what could have happened to Kat. That’s when I get feeling really bad. That’s also when I think about replacing my knife.

  KAT IS BACK to doing weekend visits with Mom, so Gem and I are at the creek, alone, throwing sticks for Star. Until now, Gem hasn’t asked about the cutting, and I haven’t said anything, but seeing as she wants to be my co-savior with The Rose, I knew the topic would come up eventually.

  “So why do you cut yourself?” she asks, glancing down at my arm. I realize I’ve been stroking the new scars again, unconsciously.

  “Well, The Rose says it’s because it…” I do my best LaRose imitation, “brings release from tension and anxiety.”

  “What would The Rose know about it?”

  “She’s a teacher, remember? She does research.” There goes my alter ego again, the one who can’t help being sarcastic.

  “C’mon, Darcy.” She doesn’t appreciate my sense of humor. “Why do you do it?”

  I look at the new scars more closely. The swelling has gone down and they’ve faded to a light pink color. “I guess she’s right. It does bring release.”

  “Well I get tense and anxious sometimes too, you know,” she says. “But I don’t start cutting myself.”

  “Then what do you do?”

  She thinks about that. “I yell at my brother, eat junk food, you know, the usual stuff.”

  “I don’t have a brother to yell at, and eating doesn’t do anything but fill me up. Any other suggestions?”

  “Yell at your sister.”

  “Nah.”

  “Take the dog for a walk.”

  “Wouldn’t work.”

  “Well there must be something!”

  “I haven’t found anything as good yet.”

  We walk along in silence for a while. I guess fixing me isn’t going to be as easy as she thought.

  “So what makes you tense and anxious?” she asks.

  That’s an easy one. “People.”

  “What people?”

  “Most people. Not you. Not Kat or The Rose. But just about everyone else.”

  “It’s kind of hard to avoid people.”

  “You’re catching on.”

  She doesn’t answer. I regret being so flippant and decide to open up to her, a little.

  “And now there’s something else.”

  “What?” she asks cautiously, wondering if I’m about to jerk her around some more.

  “The shit my mom’s going through.”

  She chucks a stick ahead of us for Star to chase. “It wasn’t that long ago you figured she deserved it. You said you didn’t care.”

  “Yeah, well, that was because I didn’t know everything.” Oops, that was more than I meant to say.

  “Oh.” I can see the hesitation on her face. She wants to pry, but she doesn’t know if she should.

  I decide to make it easy on her. Just talking to her about this makes me feel better. “Gem.” I stop walking and she turns to face me.

  “What?”

  “I’m going to tell you something, but there’s a good chance you’ll hate me afterwards.”

  She smiles at that. “Yeah right.”

  There’s no turning back now. It occurs to me that I’ve just taken a huge gamble without any thought of what could happen. For the first time in my life I’ve made a friend, and a girl friend at that, and now I risk losing her. But something, some demon, has taken over my usually rational mind and I drop the bomb. “My mom, she didn’t do it.”

  “Do it?” The questioning smile begins to fade from her face.

  “I did. I dropped Kat from that balcony.”

  She stares at me, her mouth gaping. “Holy shit.”

  “I told you you’d hate me.”

  She stares at me some more. “Darcy! You were only four years old!”

  “Yeah, but I must have a killer instinct.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “Yeah. Duh.”

  “Get a grip, Darcy. At four you wouldn’t know better! You were just a little boy. You probably saw one too many cartoons where a person would hit the pavement and bounce right back up, good as new.”

  “Whatever. I still did it.”

  She’s studying me, looking stunned. I’d feel stunned too if someone told me they did such a thing.

  “You’ve got to get over this, Darcy,” she says. “You can’t go on feeling guilty.”

  “Yeah right, Gem.” Now I’m feeling a little ticked. She doesn’t get it. “Look at what could have happened to Kat! She could have been killed. And my mom! She went to prison for ten years to protect me. Wouldn’t that make you feel just a little bit guilty, Gem?”

  “No,” she says, sounding mad. “Your mom was the screwup, not you.”

  “You’re right there,” I agree, still angry. “My mom was a screwup, but she didn’t attempt to murder her own kid like everyone says.”

  “Then deal with that! But get over what happened. It’s done, Kat’s fine and you’re the best brother in the whole world. Believe me. I have a brother and I know that the relationship you have with Kat is not typical.”

  That word “relationship” makes me squirm. Too many people have implied things with it, yet for some reason Gem’s comment makes me feel a little better. I have been a good brother. I know I have.

  “Then how do you suggest I deal with my mom getting tormented for something she didn’t do?”

  “Tell the world the truth—that you did it.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  “Why?”

  “Because—” But I can’t finish the sentence. The real truth is too ugly. I could live with the rest of the world knowing what I did, but not with Kat knowing. How could she ever forgive that? Look at how I hated Mom all those years. Kat would feel the same way about me.

  It’s getting dark and we turn and begin the return trip home in silence. We walk single file along the creekside path, but once we climb back up to the field, Gem takes my hand and holds it tightly the rest of the way home.

  She’ll never know how much that means to me.

  JUST WHEN I'D begun to think The Rose is an okay teacher, she’s ticked me off again. All those quotes I missed when I was away? She copied them all into my journal and now she says I have to respond to them. All of them. I’ve put it off, hoping she’d forget, but now she says she wants them by Monday morning.

  It’s late and Dad’s asleep when I sit down at my desk with a pen and my school journal open in front of me. A serrated steak knife with a sharp tip sits beside them. I have no idea what I will reach for first.

  I read through the quotes again. The Rose has made no attempt to hide the fact that these were chosen for my benefit. I wonder if the other kids ever even saw them.

  The first one is the most obvious.

  Other things may change us, but we start and end with family.—Anthony Brandt

  The next one is kind of horrifying when you think about it.

  Don’t hold your parents up to contempt. After all you are their son, and it
is just possible you may take after them.— Evelyn Waugh

  Finally, there’s a change of topic.

  Truth, like surgery, may hurt, but it cures.—Han Suyin

  I hold the pen over the paper, then put it down. This is so easy for her! She probably has a perfectly normal family, a family that has Sunday night dinners together each week and that gathers for birthdays and Christmas. Sure, she can easily imagine taking after them!

  Ripping out the page with LaRose’s fancy handwriting on it, I crumple it into a ball and chuck it across the room.

  I pick up the knife and study my arm. There’s not much skin left that isn’t crisscrossed by fine white lines. I hold my arm under the glow of the desk lamp and study the scars more closely. God. My arm has been the battlefield for all those inner wars that have raged inside me over the years. I’ve bled and bled again, but each time those blood platelets surged to the rescue and my skin healed, leaving this labyrinth of scars. I touch the point of the knife to my arm. I push it a little harder, wondering how hard I’d have to press with this knife to break the surface. Then I put the knife down and lay my head on my desk.

  I don’t want to bleed anymore. I want it to be over. What did Gem say I should do? Tell the world the truth, the truth about what I did? Is that what I need to do?

  I pick the crumpled wad of paper off the floor and flatten it out on my desk. Truth, like surgery, may hurt, but it cures.

  I’ve denied myself the truth for ten years—ten whole years of suppressing it, and it did fester inside me, making me crazy. The cutting was the only way I knew to bring the pain to the surface. But now I know the truth.

  Tell the world the truth.

  I pick up my pen and start to write.

  Epilogue

  After recovering from her initial tongue-tying, mind-blowing shock, Ms. LaRose was totally enthusiastic about me writing a confession letter for the Hope Springs Daily. She even helped me write it and agreed that I could do it instead of “responding” to her stupid quotes. I admit, it was scary and I almost withdrew it at the last minute, but then I didn’t.

  It has been the most amazing experience.