by Amy Cross
"You sure? It might be nice for us to get out of the house for a while. Just you and me? Like the old times, huh?"
I stare at him. The old times? What's he talking about? Sure, we went for ice cream a few times, but it was always forced and uncomfortable. I never felt like we were just hanging out and having fun; instead, it always felt like he was trying desperately to get me to like him. The truth, which I feel I can start to admit to myself, is that I've never like my father. I can't explain it, exactly, but for as long as I can remember, I've felt that there's something I don't like about him.
"Come on," he continues. "Give me a break. I know things have been a little weird between us lately, and I'm willing to admit that some of that might be my fault. I'm extending an olive branch here. Meet me halfway, okay?"
"I don't want to go for ice cream," I say, walking past him and heading up the steps.
"You don't have to go back and see Dr. Larson again," he says suddenly.
I stop and turn to him. Did he just say what I think he said?
"I give up," he continues. "I saw your face today, and it was pretty obvious that you were miserable on the way to his office, and miserable when we got there, and miserable when we were leaving. I can't keep putting you through such a horrible time. I mean, sure, I want to help you, but not at the expense of your happiness. It's as if a little part of you dies every time you have to go and see him. I don't want to be the kind of father who does that to his child. I don't want you to end up hating me". He pauses for a moment. "I'm sorry, Juliet".
"Sorry?"
"For making you see him in the first place. And... I don't think you need to take those pills, either".
I stare at him.
"When I took you to see Dr. Larson, I thought maybe he'd find some gentle way to steer you back toward the middle ground. I never expected him to start prescribing a bunch of pills. The last thing I want is for your head to be filled with chemicals and toxins that change your personality. I mean, I want you to be happy, but I want you to still be Juliet. The last thing I want to do is have your head rewired so that you're someone else entirely".
I take a deep breath, finding it hard to believe that this could really be happening. After all the fights and all the tension, is he really just giving up? Earlier today, in Dr. Larson's office, I decided I was going to stop pushing back against him, and now it seems that - at the last possible moment - he's come to the same conclusion. I was expecting to have to take the first pill tomorrow morning, but now it seems as if I'm going to be spared that ordeal.
"So..." I pause for a moment. "I don't have to do anything?"
"Not if you don't want to".
I stare at him, feeling as if he's trying some new tactic. Is he attempting to use guilt to get me to take the pills? Does he think that by adopting a softer approach, he might persuade me to come around to his way of thinking? It just seems weird that, at the point of victory, he's suddenly waving a white flag.
"Have you told Dr. Larson that I don't have to see him?" I ask cautiously.
"I emailed him," he replies. "I told him to cancel the next appointment".
"And he agreed?"
"He has no choice. You were his patient because I wanted you to keep going, but if I stop booking slots, he can't force you to return".
"Okay," I say, turning to go into the house.
"Okay?" he calls after me. "Is that all you've got to say to me? Okay?"
I turn back to him. "What else do you want me to say?"
"You've got nothing else to ask about all of this?" he continues. "No thoughts or feelings?"
It's weird, but I feel like he's pushing his point unnecessarily. There's no 'this' to talk about. Things are just the way they are, and that's the end of the matter. I wish he'd stop being so argumentative with me all the time.
"Like we're enemies. I just want to help you. I want to make sure you're okay. Even if we don't see eye to eye all the time, I'm still your father and you're still my daughter. That means something. Whether we like it or not, we're stuck with each other. I'm not going to give up on you. I just want us to be friends".
"Okay".
"Can't you let me in, Juliet? Can't you let me know how you're feeling? What are you thinking? Are you okay? Are you happy? Are you sad? Are you scared? Are you relieved?"
"I'm fine," I say.
"You're not fine," he replies. "You're really, really not. You're a good girl at heart, but you're troubled. If we don't do something to help you, you'll grow up troubled too. You'll be unhappy, Juliet, and that's the last thing I want. You need to address certain issues in your life that are causing problems. Like the thing with Samantha. Do you really think you can go around solving problems like that?"
I sigh. He doesn't know what he's talking about. He doesn't know me at all. If I told him what I did to Martina, maybe he'd finally understand, but I don't dare breathe a word about any of that. He'd probably have me sent to some kind of asylum, but I'm not crazy. I'm just bad. I've always been bad, and I'll never change. No matter how hard he tries, I'm never going to grow wings and become a little angel. Even when he's trying to be nice, it's just another tactic. Everything he does, everything he says, is part of some kind of strategy that's designed to wear me down. Sure, it's good that he's not going to force me to see Dr. Larson, and I'm relieved that I don't have to start taking those pills, but the respite will be brief; he's undoubtedly working on some other plan to make me become more normal, and he'll never rest. As long as he's around, I'll be in this position. At least Dr. Larson is out of the picture; hopefully, I'll never even see his face again.
"I'm hungry," I say.
"You want me to make you a burger?"
I shake my head. "I can do it".
"You can?" He smiles. "Fine. I guess I have to stop treating you like you're a child. You wanna stick a burger on for me too? I could eat something".
"Sure," I say, turning and heading inside. I hate it when my father tries to act like my friend. Lately, he seems to be alternating between being really really nice to me, and being really really mean. Either way, he's clearly lost when it comes to knowing how to deal with me. He's tried his best, but it hasn't worked and he's obviously starting to realize that I can't be molded into someone else. As I grab the things I need from the fridge, I realize that in some strange way I feel as if I'm a little more self-sufficient. Perhaps, before, I always held out hope that in some way my father would help me; now I see that he's never going to be anything more than an obstacle, and it's clear that I need to get him out of my way. Unfortunately for him, it's pretty clear that there's one way I can ever be completely free. Fortunately, as I'm making dinner, I glance back and see that he's gone through to his bedroom. I guess he doesn't want a burger after all. That's fine by me; I'd rather be alone.
After I've eaten, I go up to my room. The first thing I see is the large box of pills sitting over by the window. I want to pick them up, open the lid and take a look, but I'm scared that I might be tempted to start swallowing them. I still don't quite understand why my father has suddenly decided to let me off the hook, but I guess I shouldn't tempt fate. Besides, I know what he's like: he changes his mind frequently, so I won't be too surprised if he decides in a couple of days' time that he wants me to go back to see Dr. Larson after all. I still have to be very careful, and I have to make sure that I don't do anything that pushes him back to being my enemy. Walking over and sitting on the edge of my bed, I force myself to remember that although I might have won a battle today, there's still a war raging. After a moment, I realize there's a strange smell in the room, kind of like roses and lavender. At first, I can't work out where it's coming from, but finally I recognize it from earlier today. Maybe it's in my clothes, or in my hair, or maybe it's just a particularly vivid memory, but I can still smell the receptionist's perfume. I like it.
Epilogue
Today
"I don't really know what to tell you," Robert Hopkins says as we sit on his porch. "Mar
tina was my sister, but we weren't as close as we could have been. Life always got in the way. I suppose it was mostly my fault, really. I might seem like a relaxed old fart these days, but back then I was..." He pauses for a moment. "Do you have any siblings, Juliet?"
I shake my head.
"I don't know whether to say you're lucky or unlucky," he continues. "Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I'd been an only child. Martina and I fought a lot. She was always very studious, very focused on the family business. It was pretty clear from the start that she was the one who'd be taking over the funeral home. I never really wanted to get involved, but I still resented the presumption. For a while, I guess I was kind of bad to her. I didn't give her the support she needed; in many ways, I treated her as if she was an enemy. When she died, we weren't really on the best of terms. We'd have sorted things out eventually, of course; brothers and sisters always come around. But then the accident happened and that was the end of it all".
"So the last time you saw her, you argued?"
He sighs. "I wouldn't say we argued, but it was definitely a missed opportunity to be friendly. I mean, we're talking about stuff that happened more than a decade ago. It seems to trivial and stupid now. Hard to believe, really, that we could have been so stupid. Time's very precious". He smiles. "If I can take a moment to lecture you, Juliet, let me impress that point upon you. Don't waste time on pointless arguments. You never know when someone's going to be snatched away from you".
I take a deep breath. This is the second time in as many days that I've come to visit Robert Hopkins. I've told him who I am, and that my father was dating Martina when she died all those years ago. Initially, I claimed I was looking for a photo of her to include in some kind of scrapbook, but that explanation has kind of fallen by the wayside and now I'm just sitting here, listening to Robert talk about his sister. He lives alone, and I get the impression that he's never been able to talk about her properly. Besides, it's kind of interesting to hear his stories. The only question is whether I'm ever going to tell him the truth about Martina's death. That was my plan originally, but I can't bring myself to be honest. Not yet.
"I remember the very last conversation I ever had with her," he continues after a moment. "It was a couple of days before she died, and I went over to the funeral home to pick up some papers. She was fussing 'cause her cat had disappeared. I can't remember the damn thing's name, but -"
"Gizmo," I say.
"That's right! Gizmo! Anyway, the cat had fucked off somewhere, and she was fretting, and I made some kind of smart-ass comment about how she should be more focused on running the business rather than searching for some annoying little ball of fur. She damn near bit my head off".
"So what happened to the funeral home after she died?" I ask, hoping to change the subject. After all, my memories of Gizmo aren't entirely positive.
"I ended up with it," he says. "Of course, I sold it out immediately. About two days after Martina's funeral, this Gilardi guy showed up and offered me a load of money, and I took every cent. Maybe I should have held onto the family business rather than let some corporate funeral business take over, but I didn't really care. Besides, I've invested the money and now I'm doing okay". He stares out at the garden for a moment. "I should probably regret what I did, but I don't. I'm happy with it". He turns back to me. "Anyway, what are you still doing here? Why's a nice young lady like you spending her time listening to a middle-aged guy ramble on about things that happened a long time ago?"
"It's fine," I reply.
"Got nothing better to be doing?"
I smile. "It's interesting," I say after a moment. "My memories of Martina are pretty vague".
"Here you go," he says, reaching into his pocket and holding out a photo. "Let's see if we can remind you. This is what you wanted, isn't it?"
Taking the photo, I feel my chest tighten a little as I see Martina's face staring back at me. She looks a little younger than when I knew her, and her smile seems more genuine, but it's weird to see her after all these years. In the corner of the photo, Gizmo's eating from a bowl. These two lives, caught on camera for a moment. If it hadn't been for me, Martina would still be alive and Gizmo would at least have lived a little longer. Meanwhile, the funeral home would never have been passed on to Robert, so his life would have been very different. So much change, and so much drama, all because of my actions. I guess it's true: you make a choice, and the repercussions of that choice echo through the lives of everyone around you.
"I should go," I say, tucking the photo into my pocket and standing up. I need to tell Robert about Martina's death, but I feel as if this isn't the right moment. It's weird to think that I could open my mouth and shock him by confessing that I was the one who caused her to crash, but at the same time I'd also be destroying my own life, and I'm not sure whether I'm ready for that yet. Still, I've got this growing urge to tell the truth; I don't know where the feeling is coming from, but it's growing and growing, and I'm not sure I can hold it back much longer. Even Jennifer Mathis can't help me right now.
"You can stay for something to eat if you like," he says. "I'm just a lonely old man, but if you're really that stuck for company, I can whip something up".
I shake my head. "No, I'm fine. Thanks. I need to get home". Without waiting for him to offer again, I hurry away from the porch. Once I'm out on the sidewalk, I realize I'm starting to panic. I just came close to telling him everything; I almost let him know the truth about Martina's death. If I'd done that, my entire life would have been changed forever. He'd probably have called the police and told them, although I don't know whether they could prove anything. After all, if the jack-in-the-box was ever found in the wreckage, it doesn't seem like they saw it as being very relevant. Still, I can't quite work out why I'm so keen to tell Robert what happened. The whole business with Martina is in the past; it's settled, so why do I have this overwhelming urge to put myself in danger by blurting out the truth? Perhaps I should find some other way to deal with these urges?
By the time I get home, it's getting dark and there's no sign of my father. I head through to my bedroom and start going through the box of stuff at the bottom of the wardrobe. Eventually I find what I'm looking for: the box of pills I was prescribed many, many years ago by Dr. Larson. I never took them; instead, I made sure to squirrel them away for some vague purpose. It's not as if I was ever planning to swallow any of them, but I guess it seemed like I should always have the option. Now, after all this time, I feel like it's the right moment. Dr. Larson told me they'd cure me; he said they'd make me feel better, and happier, and more normal. Instead of telling Robert Hopkins the truth about his sister, I can just take a bunch of bills and become like other people. I carry the bottle over to my bed and sit down; this feels like a momentous moment, as if I'm about to say goodbye to myself. Obviously, the pills won't work immediately, but if I take one each day, I should start feeling the effects pretty soon. I'll be normal; I'll be like everyone else.
Taking a deep breath, I slowly unscrew the lid of the bottle. Soon I'll be re-wired. Maybe Dr. Larson was right all those years ago when he said that I needed help. I still remember walking away from his office; I remember the bottle of pills rattling, and I remember how close I came to taking them. It was only at the last minute that my father decided I shouldn't be medicated. For the past eleven years, the pills have sat there, waiting for the time when I'd be brave enough to take them. To be honest, this feels like a kind of suicide. My body will live on, but my mind will be changed. My harsh edges are going to be removed. I'll be like other people. I'll be normal.
"Goodbye," I whisper, imagining my old self slipping away like snake skin to reveal a new 'me' underneath: a good 'me' who won't do evil things. I should have done this a long, long time ago. Holding out my hand, I tilt the bottle and -
Nothing comes out.
I try again.
Still nothing.
I look inside.
The bottle is empty.
Book 7:
So Low
Chapter One
Today
"He drugged me," I say, holding the empty bottle of pills in my trembling hands. "All this time, he's been drugging me. Filling me with pills to change the way my head works, tricking me into taking all those chemicals, letting them make changes in my head". I pause for a moment, feeling a kind of white, tense rage rising through my body. I've been angry before, but never like this; this time, something's different. "That's why he stopped forcing me to see Dr. Larson," I continue. "He knew there was no point. They planned this together, slipping pills into my food. It explains everything".
"Does it?" Jennifer Mathis asks, standing next to me.
It's close to midnight and we're in the abandoned ward. Since I discovered the empty bottle earlier today, I've been lost in my own mind, trying to work out what's been happening. I've gone over and over the situation a million times, thinking of every possible permutation, but I always come back to the same conclusion. I kept those pills securely stashed for over a decade, figuring that if I ever needed them, I had the opportunity to use them on myself. But now it's clear that not only did my father make me take the pills in that first bottle, but he's been making me take the same pills ever since. Pills to control my mind. Pills to change my mood. Pills to make me more normal, more like the kind of daughter he always wanted. He tried every other method, and eventually he went for the direct, pharmaceutical route. Damn it, how could I Have been so stupid?
"Everything makes sense," I continue, staring at the floor. "He insisted I had to go and see Dr. Larson, and then one day he just changed his mind. Said I didn't have to do it anymore. And obviously that was because he'd come up with this plan". My father has always been keen on cooking, coming up with elaborate meals for us; now I understand why he cared so much about what I was eating.