Marionette

by T. B. Markinson

  The cheerful lady was at her desk again. “Hi, Paige. I hope your first day went well. Liddy will be right with you. Go ahead and wait in her office.” Words spilled out of her mouth like water bursting through a dam. As soon as she finished, she picked up the ringing phone and said cheerily, “University Counseling Center.”

  I wasn’t happy that she remembered my name; I always tried to remain anonymous. Obviously, I was failing yet again.

  It was easier this time to make my way through the maze of hallways to Liddy’s office. It was empty, but I went in and sat down. Twice now she’d been late. You’d think therapists would try to avoid being late. They’re already dealing with fragile minds, why make them feel unimportant as well? Hypocrites!

  “Hello.” Her word reached me before I saw her.

  “Hello, Dr. Elliot. Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know the time by chance?”

  She walked to her desk, set her bag down, grabbed a pen and notepad, and responded, “It’s a little after two.”

  “Thanks.” I rested my chin on my left hand, revealing my watch.

  She shook her head and smiled. “I’m sorry I’m late. I had a hard time getting away from the hospital.”

  “What happened? Did someone get oatmeal stuck in her hair?” I thought this was clever, for me.

  “No. One of my patients tried to commit suicide.”

  I felt uncomfortable. It wasn’t the best start to the session. “Do you deal with a lot of suicidal people?”

  “Yes.” She studied my face.

  I looked down at my shoes.

  I remembered the front desk lady saying she was one of their best. Did the perky fat lady see my questionnaire? Is there a law against her snooping? Or did Liddy only see suicidal people? Did the bosses say, “Oh, here’s another one who tried to off herself. Give her to Liddy”? Not only did the front desk lady now know my name, but it seemed I had a stigma. I didn’t like it one bit.

  I examined the wall. “I guess I didn’t score that high on the form I had to fill out.” Jess had sat next to me while I filled out my forms, to ensure my honesty.

  Liddy adjusted her chair and pulled out some papers. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that at all. In fact, I would say your score was quite high.” She glanced down at the papers. “Question eleven: Have you ever thought about killing yourself? You answered: yes.” She peered over the paper and eyeballed me.

  I didn’t react.

  She read, “If yes, when was the last time you thought about taking your life? You answered: yesterday.” She set the papers aside. “I’d say you scored a lot of points. Don’t you think, Paige?”

  I didn’t like her approach. I thought she would think me too delicate and would handle me with kid gloves. I was mistaken. Why was she being confrontational? Didn’t it worry her? Or did she think I did it for attention?

  “I did my best.” I took a pen out of my pocket and started to click it.

  “It’s over 90 degrees outside, and yet you’re wearing a long-sleeved shirt. Do you ever push your shirtsleeves up when you’re hot? Any reason you don’t want to show your forearms?”

  I clicked my pen faster and didn’t reply.

  “I see. Maybe I’m wrong, but it seems to me you should start taking this more seriously.”

  I stayed quiet, but shamefully tucked my pen back into my pocket, like a good little deranged person.

  Liddy’s eyes followed my every move. “You don’t like talking much, do you?”

  “No, ma’am. I don’t.”

  “Do you dislike me or the whole concept?”

  “At the moment, I’m not fond of either.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, I think you’re nice and all…‌but I don’t like people prying into my life. And you make money from people’s suffering. If it wasn’t for that, I think we could’ve been good friends.” I smiled bashfully, trying to convey an apology.

  “I don’t do it for the money, Paige.”

  “I suppose prostitutes could say the same thing.” The words fell out of my mouth before I could stop them.

  She contemplated me.

  “Are there any subjects you do enjoy talking about?”

  I moved my head from side to side. “None come to mind.”

  At this point, I didn’t know why I was wasting my time, not to mention Liddy’s. She obviously had patients who needed her. I wondered how the person had tried to commit suicide. Should I probe for pointers? Yet, that person failed too. I already knew how to be unsuccessful.

  If it weren’t for that promise to Jess, I would have barged out of this office minutes ago. Actually, I never would have been here. I didn’t want to find myself. Truth be known, I thought therapy was a huge waste of time, especially for me. I’m not depressed. I’m not crazy. I just want control.

  “A lot of people like to talk about themselves.” She was fishing.

  “I don’t find myself all that interesting.” I wanted to disappear. To not be noticed by anyone. Ever.

  “I do. In fact, I find you fascinating. What do you want to be?”

  “You mean, when I grow up?” Wasn’t this a question for grade school kids? I rolled my eyes and said, “A writer.”

  “Now you see, that’s interesting. Someone who doesn’t like to talk wants to be a writer. That’s a conundrum, wouldn’t you say?” Her eyes sparkled.

  I let out a small chuckle. She relaxed some.

  “Why did you come here?”

  “I made a promise.”

  “To whom?”

  “That’s not important. I made a promise, and I hate breaking promises.”

  “Did you make this person a promise that you wouldn’t try to slit your wrists again?”

  I fixed her with a fierce look. How dare she?

  “I see that struck a nerve.” She straightened in her chair.

  The two of us scrutinized each other. I’m not sure how long it lasted.

  “Oh, look at the time.” I motioned to my watch. “Session over.”

  “How does Friday look for you?”

  I sighed. She knew she had me. Why did I say that about promises? I always said too much.

  “I’ll see you at two.” She jotted something down on her notepad. She wasn’t looking at me, so I took the opportunity to study her. What a knockout. She still smelled of orange blossoms. Was it wrong to have a crush on your therapist?

  As I left the room, she shouted after me, “At two, Paige.”

  I was miffed. Angry at myself. And at Liddy. And Jess. Why did I have to go through this charade? Why did I have to get caught? How hard is it to kill yourself? For a Type A Personality, this failure was difficult to live with. I hated disappointment. A failure of this enormity was a crushing blow. I would love to try again, just to prove I could do it.

  But there was that promise. Seriously, though, if I succeeded would it really matter? Now that’s a question I would love to discuss in therapy. Unfortunately, I didn’t think Liddy would like my approach to the subject. I wasn’t positive, but I think she was set on “saving” me. I didn’t want saving; I wanted to know how to succeed. Why did everyone have to be so limited in their worldview? The matter revolved around success or failure. There was no reason to bring emotion into it. Let’s just say it was cut and dried. Please pardon the pun.

  For me, success would mean death. Death meant victory. Control of my life.

  Chapter Six

  Not surprisingly, Jenna and Karen were in my room. Maybe they couldn’t get enough of my charming personality or exceptional conversational skills. More than likely, it was because I had a television and they didn’t. Not many in the dorm did. Karen was sprawled out on my bed, while Jenna sat in my beanbag. Nothing was sacred in a college dorm room, not even my beanbag.

  “Are you ready for dinner?”

  I didn’t notice Minnie until I heard her squeaky voice. She was tucked away in the corner. I found that odd, since it was her room too. Why did Jenna and Karen claim the supreme seats whil
e Minnie sat meekly in the corner on her desk chair? An uncomfortable desk chair that could have been used in medieval torture rooms.

  She continued her chatter. “Jewels and Emily are waiting for us.”

  “Sorry I’m late…‌who’s waiting?” I threw my backpack on the floor by my desk. It nearly landed on Jenna’s outstretched legs.

  “Jewels and Emily—‌two girls I met during rush. We found out yesterday that we live in the same dorm, so now we can have meals together.” She radiated bliss. Minnie turned to Karen and Jenna. “Jewels is the coolest name. Her parents named her that because she is their jewel. Isn’t that sweet?”

  I wanted to puke, but said, “Oh…‌that’s nice.” I didn’t really care, but I was trying to remain civil with the mouse. Do mice have social expectations and rules? “I’m sorry I kept all of you waiting. Give them a call. I need to use the restroom.”

  While I sat on the toilet, peeing, I heard Karen shout, “So, where were you?”

  Really? I had to have the conversation while taking a wee?

  I didn’t respond. Some of us have manners.

  I stepped out of the john—‌not in a proud way, since how can you walk with dignity after peeing or pooping and knowing three strangers could hear it all?—‌and stood in front of the bathroom sink. I took extra time washing my hands with scalding hot water.

  “Hello to Paige. Where were you?”

  I looked at Karen, trying not to blow my top. “Out for a walk.”

  “For four hours?”

  I didn’t answer again.

  She repeated the question. I didn’t get the memo that my college roommates needed to know my schedule at all times.

  “Yep, for four hours.” I dried my hands and asked Minnie if she was ready to go. Karen and Jenna exchanged looks. I felt bad about being rude, but I also felt justified. Why did Karen feel the need to invade my privacy?

  Minnie made a beeline for the door. I followed; the other two didn’t. I looked back over my shoulder and realized they didn’t have any intention of budging. “Aren’t you two coming?”

  “We already ate, thanks.” Jenna finally spoke.

  “Oh.” Not sure why, but I expected them to leave my room while Minnie and I were out. I regretted bringing my TV. Big mistake.

  Karen shouted for us to have a nice dinner as I shut the door. Didn’t she know I was pissed at her? She acted like I hadn’t been rude at all. How could she be so oblivious?

  Minnie and I stood at the cafeteria entrance, not really speaking. So far, I didn’t know how to befriend her. Also, I wasn’t too keen on doing so. I had a feeling she felt the same way, but she was trying to make an effort since we had to survive an entire year together. She was the better person, and I let her be.

  “H-how are classes going?” she stammered.

  “Fine.” I shuffled my feet. “Yours?”

  “Good…‌good.”

  A few more awkward seconds passed and then Minnie squeaked, “Jewels! Emily! I’m so glad to see you.”

  I was too. Now Minnie had people to talk to. Our brief conversation had drained me entirely.

  Minnie made the introductions, and the four of us made our way into the cafeteria. All of us flashed our IDs to get into the food line. Really, who would want to crash a dorm cafeteria for food? I’m sure there were rats in this city that ate better shit than we did. If I could be bothered driving into town, I would have eaten out for each meal.

  I ruminated over the thought as I scooped a runny batch of noodles onto my plate and then poured a grotesque-looking Alfredo sauce all over it. Picking up a pair of tongs, I snatched two slices of colorless garlic bread. Next, I hit the salad bar. The lettuce looked wilted and tasteless. Iceberg. Would it kill them to spring for some Romaine? Still, I made a bowl. Balancing pasta, salad, and soda on my tray, I spied Minnie and her friends at a table in the back. Carefully, I guided my way through all of the students and random tables to join my compatriots.

  The other three had opted for the fried chicken. They were brave souls. Or stupid. During my first few nights, I would wait in line for the “special” meal of the night. After that, I usually skipped it and went straight for either the pasta or cereal line.

  Emily took a bite of her chicken, made a face, and then said, “I’m going to get a bowl of cereal. Does anyone need anything?”

  None of us did. She scurried away, happy as a bird. I envied that.

  “So, Paige, what’s your major?” With effort, Jewels ripped a piece of chicken off a drumstick.

  “History.” I took a swig of soda, and then remembered I probably should try to carry on the conversation. “What’s yours?”

  “English, well, actually, creative writing. I want to be a writer. Romance novels. I can just picture myself in a bungalow someplace in the Caribbean, writing my novels by day, sitting on a patio that overlooks the beach. And enjoying the men at night.” Her eyes glazed over.

  Was all this an act? I stared at her. Was that straight out of one of her novels?

  “Oh, that’s so cool. What a life that would be,” cheeped Minnie.

  “What do you want to be, Paige?” probed Jewels.

  By this time, Emily had returned and said, “Wait! Let me guess. I love playing this game.” She took a drink of her milk. “You want to be an astrologer or an astronomer. Which one studies the stars and planets?” She looked to Jewels and Minnie for the answer.

  Jewels declared that astrologers did. No one corrected her. Inwardly, I smiled.

  “Good guess, Em. I see where you’re going with this, since she always seems lost in her thoughts.” Jewels winked at me. How did she figure that out so soon? “But she’s studying history. My guess is she wants to teach history.”

  “Oh, I can totally see that. Right on!” Emily scooped a heap of Cheerios into her mouth.

  I didn’t bother telling any of them that I wanted to be a writer—‌not a romance writer, though. I never thought anyone aspired to be a romance writer. I thought that was what happened when writers couldn’t write anything else.

  I went back. I saw my mother vividly in my mind, yelling at me that writing was a worthless career. I would be a lawyer instead, she bellowed. She had found all of my journals, which I started keeping in elementary school. Early on, one of my teachers encouraged me to write stories. Over the years, I’d written countless stories in my journals. I had shared them with my teacher, who was always supportive of me and encouraged me, even when I was no longer in her class. I always preferred the company of adults. Some would invite me over after school for milk and cookies. I think they knew about my home life. There were no milk and cookies at home. Not that I spoke about it, but it wasn’t hard for them to figure it out.

  Once, when I was in kindergarten, I had an ear infection. Mom sent me to school anyway. During the morning, my teacher found me crying. The school nurse called my mom and asked for her to come and get me. I sat outside the school waiting for my mom for over three hours. It was a cold day and the wind howled. Each gust of wind screeched through my ear and sent waves of pain up and down my body. When Mom finally arrived, she berated me in front of everyone, calling me a baby and worse things. I can still hear the screeching tires as her car went on two wheels around the roundabout in the parking lot. Even at that age, I knew the roundabout was designed to slow down drivers. Before the car came to a complete stop, she was out of the car, ranting and raving with her hair in a tangle and her nightgown fluttering around her. I didn’t want to go home with her, but I had to. Back then, school officials didn’t step in too much. Today, that wouldn’t fly. Then, everyone looked away, and when they could, they gave me milk and cookies.

  When my mother found and read my stories, she blew up. She had a plan before I was old enough to speak: lawyer. Abbie would be a doctor. My mother had always wanted to study either one of those professions, but she never finished college. Abbie was actually pursuing medicine, even though I didn’t think she wanted to. My mom is persuasive. Abbie was str
ong in some areas, but not this one. She had no issues being herself around our parents, but she had no desire to walk away from them and stand on her own two feet. My mother controlled Abbie just like she was a puppet. I always wanted to run away, never wanted to be a part of the family. Abbie rebelled in safe ways, never pushing the boundaries too much so she could stay within the family fold.

  Back to my journals: Mom threw them all into the fireplace. She made me watch them burn. I cried, and she backhanded me across the face. That day instilled a burning desire in me. I would become a writer, no matter what. I was either going to write, or I was going to die. I would never become a lawyer. Never! That day, my mom tried to banish who I wanted to be. Since then, I’ve been trying to reclaim myself.

  Yes, I studied history, and my mom thought this was my first step in realizing her dreams. Fuck that. I loved studying history. But if she wanted to think that, she could go for it. I was glad she did. When she realizes I won’t pursue law, it will hurt her even more. Let her feel the pain. I rubbed my wrist.

  I checked back in on the conversation of my dinner companions. Jewels was still talking about her writing ambitions. Minnie’s eyes had glazed over; ambition was not her forte.

  Minnie then butted in and mentioned all of the cute boys in her class. I think she had a boyfriend back home. Oh, I wished his name was Mickey. I could settle for Mick or Mike. Please! Anyhoos, Minnie said having a boyfriend didn’t stop her from shopping around. I learned, during their conversation, that all of them had boyfriends back home. When they asked me, I said that I didn’t. I wasn’t lying; I don’t have a boyfriend. Jess is not a boy—‌so not a lie. But I did have someone.