by PJ Sharon
I stopped. My hand shook on the door knob. A pulse pounded in my ears like the sound of the ocean in a shell. I stood frozen waiting for the surf to stop crashing in my head so I could think, remember. Nothing. I still couldn’t remember what happened. I needed to put on clean clothes to go home. My clothes were in my bag—in Carter’s closet. As if time started up again, I opened the door, my brain and my body numb.
People lay sprawled on the couches, chairs and floor, everyone passed out in a heap with beer bottles and bongs littering the tables. I made my way down the hall and stopped at Carter’s door. What would I tell him? I couldn’t honestly say what had happened. My stomach lurched, but there was nothing left to throw up. I rested my forehead on the cool door and closed my eyes. I needed to see him. More than anything in the world, at that moment, all I wanted was for him to hold me and tell me everything would be all right. I took a breath and knocked quietly on the door and waited. My knees rattled together; I couldn’t control them.
When the door opened, my heart kicked to a stop. Cindy Moran stood there, wearing Carter’s green I’d rather be fishing tee shirt, her eyes sleepy and smudged with last night’s makeup. “What do you want?” She fisted her hand on her hip and opened the door a little wider, glancing back over her shoulder at Carter’s body sprawled face down on the bed, snoring that light rumble I knew so well.
My throat was so dry my tongue felt stuck to the roof of my mouth. “My stuff‘s in the closet.” I didn’t feel myself talking but I heard my voice, dull and shaking.
She shut the door in my face and then returned a second later, opening the door and shoving my bag into my hands. “You’re done here. Don’t come back.” She slammed the door again and I stood there, unable to take a breath or a step, or stop quivering like a frightened puppy. Then my heart started beating again—a loud thunderous sound that vibrated in my head, my throat, my chest. My whole body shook with the rumble of my heart screaming inside, trying to convince the rest of me that I wasn’t dead and I wasn’t dreaming.
I slipped into the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, combed my hair and rinsed my mouth, moving mechanically like a robot and staring at my reflection in the mirror as if the face and body I saw there weren’t me at all, but some refugee from a prison camp. Too thin, too pale, too weak to survive something this awful. I changed into my clean clothes, stuffed my filthy dress into the bag and turned away from the image.
When I opened the door, Tom was standing there, leaning against the wall. My heart dropped and my stomach curled in on itself as if trying to swallow me from the inside out. I tried to brush past him, but he grabbed my wrist and stopped me.
“You better not tell anyone.” His dark eyes met mine and for the first time, I saw a soulless person in there I hadn’t seen before. Like the eyes of a psycho killer in a horror movie—empty and cold. Then he smirked and looked at me a little sideways. “Not that anyone would believe you. Everyone knows what a liar you are.”
He let me go and I fled.
∞∞∞
An hour later I sat in church listening to the sermon and not hearing a word, as though an alien had taken over my body. I vaguely remembered showering and dressing, forcing half of a tasteless bagel down at my mother’s insistence, and the silent drive to church sitting next to my father in his ever tidy and polished, ancient Jeep Cherokee. I counted numbers in my head...100 calories...104 pounds...14 miles to the gallon ...10:48am...
I sat beside Dad in a pew close to the front since his hearing wasn’t so good after nearly being blown to bits. It finally felt like we had something real in common. Numbly, I followed the drone-like crowd in prayer. I stood when they stood, sat when they sat, and knelt when they knelt, not feeling or hearing or seeing anything.
When it came time for communion, I rose to my feet and started to follow. My father turned to me then, and with a stony expression, said, “You can’t receive communion. You haven’t been to confession. Sit down.”
The words pierced my side like a sword. I quivered for a moment and gripped the back of the pew in front of me. He turned his back on me and filed into the line of people herding to the front of the church. I sank onto the hard seat and slowly slid to my knees, the soft padded rail squeaking under my weight. Tears streamed down my cheeks as his words registered another lash across my flesh. I folded my hands tight together and rested my forehead down, trying to hide my shame. He was right. I wasn’t worthy. I was a liar, a blasphemer, a harlot—old words from the Bible that described me perfectly. I felt the weight of every sin I’d ever committed bearing down on me like a wooden post strapped across my shoulders.
When I looked up, my vision blurred and I blinked hard to clear the tears so I could see Jesus hanging on the giant cross at the front of the church for all to see. I studied his face, the agony in his eyes becoming real to me for the first time. In all the years I’d sat in this church, attended Sunday school, received communion, I never really got it. I thought it was all a made up story to make people feel guilty when they stepped out of line. Sami said that religion was the root of all evil, and being that every war on the planet seemed to start because someone thought their religion was the right one, I couldn’t argue her logic. But as I looked on the face of Jesus, all the stories came to life. His arrest, the thirty-nine lashes, his crucifixion, being abandoned not only by those who supposedly loved him, but by his own father—his death and resurrection on the cross—all those Good Fridays and Easter Sundays I hadn’t understood—brought to reality in those simple words—sit down. Condemnation had the power to destroy. I understood that better than anything else at that moment.
I watched the line of people, walking with heads down, hands folded, solemn and expectant, like starving people in a food line at the soup kitchen hoping that the tiny morsel that awaited them would somehow save them. Then it was my father’s turn and I couldn’t look anymore.
My gaze rose once more to the crucifix on the wall and I finally got it. All the sin of the world rested on those shoulders. The pain, the suffering, the evil that lived down the street, the diseases that stole mothers from their children—it all stared back at me in those soulful eyes. Hot tears spilled down my cheeks, dripped onto my hands, and fell onto my shattered heart. I hung my head and the words of Jesus came from somewhere deep inside me, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
Chapter 15
Journal entry for Monday, August 16
I think I was raped.
The last thing I remember was drinking a beer with Tom and sitting on the picnic table behind Carter’s house. I felt funny, but thought it was because I had drunk the beer so fast. He asked me to take a walk and I wanted so badly to get away from everything, I said yes. I shouldn’t have said yes. All I remember thinking was that I wished I had some bug spray, and then the woods and the darkness seemed to swallow me up.
I think Tom put something in my drink but I can’t prove it. I can’t prove anything. He’s right. No one will believe me anyway. I feel...stupid—empty—broken—and so alone.
∞∞∞
It rained for a week straight, which was fine with me since I felt like the sun would never really shine again anyway. I stayed close to home, puttering around the house, cleaning every nook, cranny and knick-knack to get ready for the family picnic only two weeks away. I scrubbed and polished until floors gleamed and windows shone like crystal, yet I couldn’t escape the stain that clung in the shadows of my soul. I skipped practice and called in to work. I answered Katie’s texts and told her I missed her and would see her soon—to hang in there—August would be over before she knew it. Sami had called to try to smooth things over, but I couldn’t face seeing anyone just yet.
Everyone understood since Mom was fading by the day. She ate very little and focused, instead, on me and my intake.
“Honey, you are getting much too thin. I wish you would take better care of yourself.” She winced as I helped her to sit up straighter on the couch and fluff
ed a pillow behind her back. I could hardly argue with her when we were both no more than skin and bone these days. We each hovered around 102 pounds. I remember all the diets she’d tried when I was younger—to lose that “baby weight” she’d never lost after having four children. It seemed an unfair advantage that she now had cancer fighting the battle of the bulge for her, while I voluntarily starved myself in my quest for perfection or control, or whatever stupid, stubborn reason I’d started this insanity in the first place.
I sat next to her and slid the tray table closer with the chicken soup I had made. “I’ll have a bite, if you will,” I said. I raised the spoon up to her lips. She leaned forward and slurped up a small bit of the broth, leaving the chunk of chicken and curl of noodle behind. Then she collapsed back on the pillow and let out a long breath. I waited for her to recover, stirring the soup and watching the noodles dance around the chicken.
I raised the spoon to my mother again, but she shook her head and waved off the broth. “Penny, I know I’ve suggested this before, but I want you to see someone.”
By someone, she meant a psychiatrist. For months this battle had raged between us, her suggesting and me resisting. She said it would make me feel better, but I’d argued that they’d want to put me on drugs and I’d end up worse off.
I put the spoon down. “I’m fine, Mom. I don’t need to see a doctor.” I couldn’t meet her tired eyes when I said the words. My throat closed and fear washed over me, like a drowning victim going down for the third time. I forced a meager smile and held out another spoonful of broth.
“You are not fine, Penelope.” Her dark eyes flashed and I saw the old fight rise to the surface. “I’ve made an appointment for you...when was that?” She closed her eyes tightly like remembering a detail was excruciating. “Yes...next Friday. It’s on the calendar. Your sister Sarah will be here to take you at 2:00. I don’t want you to go alone.”
I set the spoon down slowly, not sure I could fight her on this any longer, or even if I wanted to. Dealing with everything alone had me dangling by a thin thread. My insides twisted hard at the thought of talking to someone—anyone—about how I was feeling. There weren’t words enough, and yet I couldn’t find even one that would begin to make everything all right.
“I won’t let them put me on medication,” I said, suddenly terrified that if anyone knew the truth, I’d be sent to some psych ward and force fed oatmeal and green Jell-o while everyone around me drooled and stared into space.
“I understand that you’re scared, Sweet Pea, but you don’t need to be. The therapist’s name is Cheryl Montgomery. She’s a grief counselor with hospice. I told her about you and she wants you to come in and talk to her, that’s all. She’s very nice, and I think she can help.” Mom sucked in a labored breath, something deep in her chest rattling like she had a bucket of loose bolts inside her. She choked and coughed and I helped her to sit up in time for her to cover her mouth with her napkin and catch the blood that spilled from between her lips.
I stared, horrified. “Oh, God—Mom. What should I do? Should I call someone?” My heart rammed to the front of my chest trying to get out, to run away, to hide.
“No...no,” she said in fits and starts of swallowing and gagging.
I held her upright with one hand as if she were a small child, and helped her drink some water. When the spell passed, she eased back and gulped for air.
“Damn, I need a cigarette,” she said. Then she adjusted her oxygen lead and she smiled, a small smile that disappeared quickly like it took more effort than she had. “It won’t be much longer. I can feel myself slipping away a little at a time.” Her eyes glazed over and she looked off into the distance like she was seeing something only she could see. Then she turned her eyes back to me. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself, Penny. I can’t leave you, knowing you’re hurting yourself like this.” Tears welled in her eyes and she began to cry.
I slid onto the couch beside her, the two of us barely filling the wide cushions. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and let her rest there in the crook of my arm. “I promise, Mom. I’ll take care of myself. Don’t worry, okay?”
“Put on some music, will you?” her eyes were closed and her words came out in a whisper. I reached over and hit play on the CD player. Celine Dion’s voice came through the speakers, melancholy and haunting, “Near, far, wherever you are, I believe that the heart does go on...”
The rain pelted the windows and shadows darkened the sky. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a reminder that the worst of the storm was yet to come.
∞∞∞
By Friday of the next week, I’d recovered enough from the “Tom ordeal” to go back to my life. But something inside me had changed. I went through the motions of living, all the while thinking that some part of me had died. I stared past the customers who ordered their salted pretzels, popcorn, and cup after cup of coffee. I patiently served the hordes of sweaty, smelly kids in their hockey uniforms, their tiny heads sitting on top of all that bulky padding. They waddled away with their change and their hockey sodas, some random mix of Sprite and orange soda someone had concocted as a gimmick to sell more sugar. I waited to see if Carter would show up to skate, but there had been no sign of him.
My lessons continued, and George’s rants about my flat edges or sloppy footwork went in one ear and out the other. The freedom I usually enjoyed on the ice seemed distant, beyond my grasp. I worked on the group numbers, helped instruct the younger kids, and practiced my solo. I had choreographed a special routine, hoping Mom might be here to watch me skate one last time. The way things were going, I had doubts she would even make it to Labor Day.
Sarah picked me up after work and we drove to the cancer center, making small talk about her business, the upcoming family gathering, and my skating.
“Do you think you’ll make it to my show?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” She flashed that pretty smile of hers, her long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“Could you maybe record it? In case Mom can’t make it.” The two of us got quiet.
“I’ll make sure I get it all on video,” she said, her smile gone and her face sad and hard. We pulled into the parking lot of the monstrous brick building and she turned off the car. “Do you want me to come in with you?”
I thought about it for a minute. “No, I’ll be fine on my own. Why don’t you go, and I’ll call for a ride when I’m done.” Sarah looked relieved and I knew she probably was. For the first time, I realized how hard all of this was on her. With my sisters out of the line of fire, it hadn’t dawned on me that they too, were casualties of war. They were losing their mother, just like me.
Chapter 16
Mom turned out to be right about Cheryl Montgomery.
A petite blond woman with pixie-like features sat next to a cluttered dark wood desk, cross legged with a long skirt that hid everything below her waist but the shape of her knees stretched across the fabric, and her pink painted toe nails. I appreciated that she didn’t sit behind the desk making me more nervous than I already was. She looked to be in her mid-thirties—younger than I thought she would be, and not at all what I expected. She had on a flowery, hippy kind of top with no sleeves that showed lean muscled arms, like she did yoga or lifted weights. The wholesome glow of good health and balanced nutrition sent a spike of envy through my chest.
“So, Penny, how’s your mom doing?” Her friendly smile looked tired around the edges as if all of the sadness and death she dealt with every day weighed it down.
“She’s holding on,” I said. I fidgeted with the hem of my plain white tee, my gaze fastened to the tattered seam.
“She tells me you haven’t been eating.”
“I eat.” I shifted in my chair and broke off the loose thread on my shirt. I’d eaten exactly half a whole wheat bagel with one tablespoon of peanut butter; a protein bar for lunch and a sugar free Red Bull on my way here. I knew better than to starve myself completely. My Basal Metabolic Rat
e required 1000 calories a day for maintenance of bodily functions. I added 200 more for the calorie burn of daily activities. An extra 200-300 on skating days. It was basic math. Calories in/Calories out=Weight Management. I could decide to go up or down by playing with the numbers. If I stayed between 1200 and 1500 calories a day, my weight hovered between 100 and 105 pounds—a perfectly acceptable weight for my 5’2” frame.
“Have you eaten today?”
“Of course I’ve eaten today. It’s 3:32 in the afternoon, for God’s sake.” I tossed the thread on the floor and chewed on a hangnail. I winced at the sting when the small piece of flesh tore free and the coppery tang of blood hit my tongue.
She glanced at her watch. “It’s 3:32 exactly. How did you know that?”
At this point, I considered her curiosity an annoyance. “I almost always know what time it is.” I glanced at her watch. “Mom says I have an affinity for time. Some people just do, I guess.” I sucked the blood off my thumb and stuck my hands in the pockets of my jeans.
“That’s pretty cool.” She unfolded her legs and tucked one bare foot underneath her, leaning sideways in her chair and studying me for a minute. The scent of incense or sage or something herbal wafted in the air. I sneezed.
“Bless you,” she said.
I laughed half-heartedly, “My Grampa Fred always used to say, ‘I’ll take all the blessings I can get.’”
She shot me a cheerful grin. “You know, blessings come in all kinds of wrappings. Sometimes we don’t recognize them until long after they’ve come and gone.”
“Sounds like a hallmark card.” I returned the smile, though I’d bet mine wasn’t nearly as cheerful. I’d forgotten how much I missed my grandfather.