The Merciful Scar

by Rebecca St. James

  If you can’t be perfect, I cannot love you. I didn’t need the Nudnik to tell me that.

  My mother stood up with no disturbance to the crease in today’s black slacks. “I don’t know what there is to think over, but you have until tomorrow.”

  “I’ll do it,” I said. “And I know who I’ll talk to.”

  “Who? Dr. Oliphant?”

  “No. David Dowling. He’s my pastor.”

  The arms folded. “I said a professional—”

  “You said you didn’t care who it was,” I said.

  Speak up, girl. I don’t think a dog could even have heard that.

  But apparently my mother did because she placed the black leather clutch neatly under her arm and said, “All right. I’m going to go call and check on Lara. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  This time the Nudnik waited until Mother made her exit before I heard: She wants you done so she can get back to Lara.

  I knew that. I knew it down in the dark place I tried never to go to. Ever.

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  My soul chose that moment to do something it hadn’t done in longer ago than I could remember. It began to cry. #The MercifulScar

  Chapter

  THREE

  Tucked into the bag of tidy—yes—Penney’s tops and lounge pants—

  Who wears lounge pants?

  —were my cell phone and charger. I questioned Roman about that when he came by to escort me to lunch.

  “Model patient privilege,” he said.

  Yeah, but you know they went through your call history. Every juicy text you ever sent to Wes . . .

  Roman cocked his big head at me. “You don’t look too excited about it.”

  I shrugged and beat Nudnik to the thought. Who am I going to call, anyway?

  He-llo-o, vicar of Bozeman? Your mother isn’t going to stand for any procrastination on this, or you’re going to have Daddy in here.

  There were times when, insulting as she was, the Nudnik kept me on track. I did call David Dowling, who, when I told him I wanted to talk to him some more, said, “Brilliant!” We agreed he’d come that afternoon.

  Then I spent the next two hours picking at a scab that had formed on my shoulder. I had never told anyone about the cutting until him, at least not any more than I’d had to reveal to the people here, some of whom now referred to me as parasuicidal.

  Yeah, what’s that about? What are you, like the paralegal—the paramedic—the paranormal of the suicide world?

  I’d resisted the urge to tell them I was antisuicidal. They would just put that down to my being in denial. Right now the only thing I was denying was the thought of me letting David Dowling any further into my cave. I didn’t even try to imagine it; I just kept picking—and thinking about my father filing me into the Loser folder and closing the drawer.

  When David arrived, Roman took us to a private room where two of those square stuffed chairs faced each other over a small table with a box of Kleenex on it.

  “I’ll be praying for you,” he whispered before he stepped out.

  Right outside the door so he can tranquilize you if you flip out.

  Nudnik had a point. I’d have to be careful not to go too deep. Not even with this fuzzy-headed, funny-eared man who looked at me as if he had time for no one in the world but me. My throat started to ache.

  “Let’s take a minute to breathe,” David said.

  Yoga?

  “Just a nice, long, smooth inhale and an easy exhale.”

  He closed his eyes, which meant he wouldn’t see if I didn’t do it. I did it anyway. It was surprisingly hard. Took me three tries to stop feeling like I was going to hyperventilate.

  “Good stuff, air.” David looked around the cube of a room, eyes squinted. “Not really the most freeing place, is it?”

  “No, freeing would not be a word I’d use to describe it.”

  “You’d like to get out of here then.”

  My next thought struck me like a slap in the face. “I’m not sure I’d be any freer out there,” I said.

  “Except . . .”

  “Except?”

  David spread his very thin hands. “I just thought I heard an except in there. No freer except that . . .”

  “Except that out there I could cut.”

  You did not just tell him that. Are you serious?

  “The pressure’s building up then.”

  “I’m about to implode.”

  “Been going on a long time, has it?”

  “Since—off and on since I was fifteen. Mostly off the last three years. Well, except this semester. So, yeah.”

  What happened to staying on the surface?

  “It’s sort of like lancing a boil for me,” I said. “I had to have that done once when I was a kid. Who gets a boil, right? Anyway, it was so painful but after they did it, it was like the pain magically disappeared. That always stayed in my mind.”

  “Perfect image.”

  “When things got hard my sophomore year of high school, it came back to me and, I don’t know how I actually put it together, but it just seemed like if I could lance that boil, I would feel better.”

  “And you did.”

  “Beyond better.”

  He’s about to ask what boil there was to lance. You going to redirect or what?

  “It was like I was letting everything bad escape—fast—and take the pain with it so I could stop spinning out and come back to life and feel normal.”

  I don’t call that redirecting.

  She was right. I’d gone far enough. My hands were shaking, but fortunately David was looking into my eyes and nowhere else.

  I hurried on. “At first I just tried digging my fingernails into my skin, but that didn’t help much. Not with stubs like mine.”

  “And hard on the manicure, I would suppose.”

  You’re so witty, Pastor Dave.

  I was actually grateful for the humor, and I hooked on to it.

  “So then I went with toothpicks. I got pretty proficient at deep scratches with those. Until my mother went to serve hors d’oeuvres.”

  “Yes, those little cocktail wieners are difficult to manage without picks.”

  “So I raided my father’s desk and made off with a box of paper clips. He wasn’t going to miss those. He was never there enough to use his home office.”

  Careful now.

  “One of those unfolded was good, but I wanted something with a point or a sharp edge. And if my mother noticed the toothpicks were gone, I didn’t think she’d overlook a missing piece of her cutlery.”

  “Your mother spent a lot of time in the kitchen, did she?”

  Look out. That’s a leading question. Don’t you ever watch Law and Order anymore?

  “At that point, no . . .” Oh. This was leading me somewhere I didn’t want to be. “Let’s just say my mother always knew where her belongings were.”

  Except her kid.

  I pressed my knees together to stop the jittering. “Things went better my senior year. My dad and I visited colleges and we decided on Montana State—his alma mater, actually—and it just seemed like the future was going to be easier. So I stopped cutting.”

  And do we hear an until in there?

  “But like I said before, I started again.”

  “College can be demanding.”

  And lonely. I managed to hold that back.

  “For me, the good news was I didn’t have to make do with whatever was around. I could go out and buy what I needed. And I have to say that a razor blade leaves a less noticeable scar than a paper clip.”

  You left out the calligraphy pen. I mean, after all, it’s the only part of Wes that still loves you.

  I couldn’t catch the gasp before it escaped. David leaned forward and his eyes softened. I wanted to cry out, Please, please don’t do kind with me. I can’t handle kind.

  “And now, Kirsten?” he said.

  “I want to cut. I d
o.”

  “It’s become like a friend then.”

  “Right now my only friend. It’s the only way I can deal with the pain of knowing nobody gives a rip about me.”

  My hands went to my mouth, but it was too late. My pain was now in David Dowling’s eyes.

  “How can you not try to find a way to lance that boil?” he said. “But, Kirsten, I do know somebody who might give a rip about you.”

  The shaking had spread to my arms, which I hugged around my body so they wouldn’t jar themselves off.

  “No offense,” I said. “I mean, you’re being so nice—but I hope you’re not talking about God. I don’t think I can wrap my mind around that right now.”

  “If I was talking about God, there would be no might about it. That’s a given. Actually I’m referring to Sister Frankie McKee.”

  “I’m not Catholic,” I said.

  “Neither is she. She’s a former Anglican nun. Left the order some years ago and now she works with young women who struggle the way you do.”

  I tried so hard to laugh. “Roman says they don’t allow exorcisms here.”

  “I have a life-sized picture of Frankie driving out demons.” David’s entire face twinkled. “No, her approach is far more subtle. I think you’d like it.”

  “No circles where you all sit and stare at each other and the leader keeps saying, ‘Tell us how you feel about that’?”

  David winced. “I rather think Frankie would prefer to be shot.”

  “So what does she do?”

  “She cares,” David said. “She cares and she knows and she leads.”

  Something thick was gathering in my throat, and I was no longer shaking. Still . . .

  “I’m not sure how much caring and knowing and leading she’s going to be able to do here.” I gave the cubicle a dubious look. “You said yourself this isn’t the most freeing environment. Wherever she’s going to lead me, it’ll only be as far as those doors with the bars on the windows.”

  He smiled. “Frankie will insist on taking you out of the hospital and being responsible for your welfare.”

  Did you hear that? Out of the hospital. Out where relief is just a razor blade away.

  Still, I sank heavily back into the chair. “My mother has already told me she can’t afford private treatment for me. I don’t know about my insurance.”

  “Frankie doesn’t charge for her services. Well, actually she does after a fashion. Let’s just say she has creative ways of working out payment, which I would let her explain to you.”

  “Can I think about it?”

  “You definitely should think about it. For as long as you like.”

  Or as long as you can stand being in here.

  “I’ll let you know tomorrow,” I said.

  “Brilliant,” David said.

  A new patient was admitted to the floor in the wee hours of the morning, a patient who clearly didn’t respond to the meds they’d given me on my arrival. This poor person screamed in such abject fear about the terrorists who were after him, I started to think maybe we were all about to be taken out by a suicide bomber.

  You realize you’re starting to sympathize with the other inmates. And it’s only Day Four of your incarceration.

  Yeah. I had to get out of there. And the more I thought about it, the more certain I was that Sister Frankie’s program was the answer. As an outpatient I would be able to get some relief. Maybe even get back to school before the summer session started in a week. Where I was going to live—definitely not in my rental—and how I was going to avoid seeing Wes and Isabel, I hadn’t figured out yet. But the more terrified our new addition became, even in Roman’s giant, capable hands, the more frightened I was that I’d end up just like him.

  I called David at seven a.m. and told him I wanted to sign up with Sister Frankie. He, of course, said, “Brilliant! I’ll get in touch with Frankie as soon as we hang up. Do you have any questions before I do that?”

  “One,” I said. “Do you think she’ll be able to schedule my sessions around my grad work? This is a huge semester for me.”

  Silence.

  I don’t like the sound of that.

  “I’m sorry, Kirsten,” David said. “I suppose I didn’t make that clear. We’re talking about a thirty-day residential program.”

  As in lockdown. I knew this was too good to be true.

  “You don’t understand,” I said. “I’m in my last year in my master’s program—”

  “For?”

  “Architecture. If I don’t do a summer studio now, I’ll have to wait an entire year, and I’d have to have special permission to do that.”

  I didn’t add that I’d been so strung out about Wes even before the breakup I hadn’t even come up with a research problem yet, so I was already behind.

  Not to mention the fact that if you don’t finish, Daddy will probably write you out of the will. Of course, if you don’t get this craziness thing taken care of, that’s a done deal anyway.

  I had never wanted the Nudnik to shut up as much as I did at that moment. I was starting to spin.

  “You definitely have a lot to consider,” David said. “Would you like to process that together?”

  “I don’t know—I guess so.”

  Not that it’s actually going to change anything . . .

  “How about if you call me right after lunch? Would that work for you?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  I forgot to add, “Brilliant.”

  Could this be any more complicated?

  Only if your mother showed up about now.

  I stopped pacing my room, fingernails pressing crescent moons into my upper arms. I hadn’t thrown Mother back into the mix. How she was going to react to all this . . . I didn’t even want to think about it.

  I want to think about it. I love a good horror flick.

  The door opened and Roman’s curly head poked in. “I hate to ruin your day,” he said. “But we have an issue.”

  Let me guess: Daddy is here.

  “I can’t do an issue right now,” I said.

  “Even if the issue’s name is Wes Rordan?”

  Oh, boo-yah!

  “What?” I said.

  “He’s on your no-admittance list but I thought I ought to check with you before I send him packing.”

  “I don’t want to see him,” I said. “I can’t see him.”

  “Your call,” Roman said. “But just so you know, he’s out there crying.”

  Poor baby.

  “Says he thinks he can help you.”

  “He can’t,” I said. “Look at me, I’m already starting to shake.”

  “All righty then. He’s outta here.” Roman turned to the door and then turned back. His mouth twitched.

  “What?” I said.

  “I just hate for you to miss an opportunity for a nice cathartic showdown, that’s all.” He looked around the room, gaze landing significantly on the meshed windows. “Can’t think of a safer place to do it. He gets out of hand and you’ve got me and three more my size to take care of him.” He shrugged the massive shoulders. “I just thought you might want a shot at that.”

  I do! Yikes, I’m salivating here.

  I looked down at my balled-up fists. “Will you be close by?”

  “When am I not? You’re my new career.”

  “And you’ll make him leave if I tell you to?”

  “You just tug on your earlobe and I’ll have him out the door.”

  I like it. I like it a lot.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  Either I really was losing it or the Wes I saw leaning on the back of a chair in the visitors’ room was not the same Wes I’d spent the last three and a half years with. He was a gaunt, haunted version of his former self: his square jaw had sharp corners and the too-blue eyes seemed to have sunk into their sockets. How had that happened in four days?

  Um, have you looked in a mirror lately?

  That actually hadn’t occurred to me.
I’d finally taken a shower that morning, but beyond that I hadn’t done anything about my appearance. The makeup my mother had brought me was still in its plastic packaging.

  Don’t worry about it. At least you’re an improvement over the last time he saw you.

  Wes spotted me then and straightened like he was going to come toward me, and then he didn’t. This place seemed to immobilize people.

  Uh, no, that would be you who’s paralyzing the boy. I’m kind of enjoying this myself.

  It was clear I was going to have to go to him, but the closer I got the less certain I was that this was a good idea. Roman was right: Wes had been crying. The sight of his swollen bloodshot eyes wasn’t what I would call cathartic for me. All I felt so far was guilt.

  Guilt? Really? Really?

  When I stopped a few feet from him, Wes stretched out his arms for me but I took a step back.

  “They don’t allow physical contact in here,” I lied.

  Listen, wake me up when this showdown is over, ’kay?

  “Kirsten, I’m so sorry.” His voice was the consistency of sandpaper. I’d never heard him sound anything but smooth.

  “We should sit down,” I said and headed for a chair group in the middle of the room. I glanced back to make sure Roman was at the door. He gave me a questioning “Okay?” with his fingers and I nodded.

  Wes sat facing me and glanced over his shoulder at the family playing gin rummy at a table a few yards away. “Isn’t there someplace we can talk alone?”

  “This is as private as it gets,” I said.

  “Man, you gotta hate that. I know how much you like to be—”

  I pressed my hands to my cheeks. “Look, I don’t have much time, so maybe you ought to just . . .”

  I stopped because he was staring at the bandage on my left wrist, almost as if he were surprised by it.

  “Is it getting better?” he said.

  “It’s fine.”

  He nodded eagerly, as if that was exactly the answer he’d hoped for. “And how about you? Are you fine?”