I sighed, longing to hide away in the depths of that closet once again. My childhood room barely had a closet at all, much less a walk-in. When the door was shut, it pressed against the clothes hanging from the short rod, and the lone shelf above them was crammed with boxes of cosmetics and old dolls. The floor was packed wall-to-wall with bags of unwanted clothes.
As I stood there, I peered into the skinny mirror my dad had bolted to the door long ago. It had been an eight-dollar purchase from Walmart the year Mom and I reworked my bedroom. In one quick weekend, we had transformed the room from a hodgepodge of Hello Kitty into a teenager’s paradise. We’d put away my toys and covered the walls with posters. The mirror, twelve inches wide and four feet tall, had been perfect for applying makeup and checking my ever-changing outfits, and I had stood before it every day for years, always ducking to see my hair. I didn’t duck now, because I didn’t want to see the new haircut.
My nightshirt hung from my shoulders, a far cry from the silk gown I had tried to wear three days before. This garment was soft cotton—affordable, practical, comfortable—just right for a divorced woman on her own. Just right for a girl like me.
What kind of girl was I?
Damaged? Like an appliance sold at a discount in the scratch-and-dent department?
Brett had said as much, though not with words. When my body changed and my clothes started to fit differently, he’d stopped looking at me from across the room. He stopped grabbing me from behind when I was pouring his orange juice. We no longer made love spontaneously. We still did it, but it seemed more like a chore on his part, and we always did it with the lights off. He only touched the parts of my body he still liked.
My right palm traveled up and down my left arm, and I wished I could wipe away the permanent ink of my tattoo. Really, it was Brett’s tattoo. He was the one who wanted it on me. He was the one who said barbed wire was sexy. He was the one who said it would make a difference.
I scratched at one of the pointed barbs and smirked. What a perfect illustration of my relationship with him. The barbed wire, coiling and circling my arm, was just like his vibrant personality that had tightened around my heart until it drew blood.
I lifted my nightshirt to inspect the stretch marks covering my abdomen like ripples on the surface of a lake. A wrinkle of skin pillowed below my belly button, and I gripped it. I didn’t understand how I could have that much extra skin, when I still had pounds I could lose. I lifted my shirt farther, and scowled at the pear shape of my body, so disproportionate, so undesirable, so deformed. No longer attractive, as Brett had said.
And tonight it had become clear to me that I was just as insignificant to other men. Michael Divins had chosen Mirinda over me, and even though I didn’t care a lick about the man, his actions had convinced me, once and for all, that all men were alike.
Stifled sobs wrenched from my throat, and I replayed my memories of Brett frowning at me, turning away, shaking his head. And then I replayed my evening with Michael, who seemed so relieved that I didn’t want to go out for ice cream. I didn’t try to hold my tears back. Instead, I used them as a weapon, stoking the flames of injustice until I burned with rage.
I dropped to my knees and pounded my fists against my thighs like I always did, trying to hurt myself or hurt Brett, hoping I’d leave bruises, evidence of the disgust I felt toward myself for becoming so pitiful. Good girls are supposed to be above that. According to my therapist, I wasn’t supposed to put emphasis on my appearance because, after all, beauty is only skin deep. Healthy women are supposed to be happy with themselves, drawing strength from their accomplishments and their dreams and their God. We’re all fearfully and wonderfully made, he had said, and when I could believe that, I wouldn’t have these problems.
When I looked once more in the mirror, I saw a weak woman pitching a tantrum with tears streaking down her face and her fists clenched. She was lost. She was nothing. And I hated her.
Shifting my hips to the carpet, I sat on my bottom, bent my knees, and slammed my heels against the closet door, cracking the mirror. My fury felt a smidgen less powerful, but then the size of the crack—so small and ineffectual—angered me again. I pounded my feet against the crack over and over, venting my hatred until the glass shattered into a hundred lines. I only paused for a split second—to appreciate its beauty—before I kicked one more time, sending warped triangles of glittering light to the floor as smaller fragments sprinkled onto my hair and shoulders.
An animal scream erupted from my throat, and I reached for one of the knives I had just created. Holding it shakily between my finger and thumb, I ran it softly along my leg, leaving a thin red line from which blood seeped in droplets. I deserved to hurt. I longed for it.
The glass grew slippery from sweat or blood, and I gripped it tighter between my fingers, not quite able to bring myself to clench it in my fist. That inability made me even more furious, and I dragged the shard firmly across my right thigh, crying out from the pain. I felt a release of tension, and I knew it was what I deserved. I scraped it across my left thigh, faster and deeper, back and forth from one leg to the other, two then three times, four, five, six, until I dropped it.
Exhausted.
Satisfied.
Empty.
My muscles turned to pudding, and I leaned sideways against my suitcases, blood trickling down my legs until it dripped to the carpet and was hungrily absorbed.
Holding my hands in front of me, I inspected my palms. What had I done? Brett would be so put out with me. No, Brett didn’t care anymore. Daddy would be upset, though. And sad. So sad. I pulled my nightshirt over my head and pressed it against my legs, staunching the flow of blood as I came to my senses. I had gone too far this time. This was more than crying and venting and leaving bruises.
Maybe I really was wallowing.
Well, of course I was.
Wallowing had nothing to do with Cheerios or any other food I might use to drown my sorrows. It involved mirrors and shards of glass and lies that I couldn’t stop believing. Accusations screeched through my mind like an eagle’s cry deep in the canyon, bouncing off the jagged walls of my mind and reaching into every crook and cranny, until it gradually diminished and became so faint, so distant, that I couldn’t be sure I had heard anything at all.
And even though I had thought the lies were a distant echo, I was wrong. Even though I had tried to replace that jumbled thousand-piece puzzle with something new and fresh, my life, my emotions, and my sanity were still an impossible mess. Lies were still a part of this new person I had become, because playing the part of a well-adjusted woman hadn’t changed me on the inside at all. Not only did I still believe the lies . . . they consumed me, heart and soul.
Chapter Ten
Text from Graham to Cecily: Still considering my job offer?
Cecily: I can come Thursday night. Just this once. To help out.
As I stood at the pharmacy counter, my legs vibrated with pain. The skirt I had slipped on that morning rubbed against the cuts, which still oozed watery blood, and I was desperate to bandage them before my dad noticed. Even though the wounds were on my thighs, my legs ached all the way down to my calves and ankles. Thank goodness the pharmacist didn’t ask what the bandages were for.
“You new around here?” He smiled.
“Sure am.” I lied to keep things simple, wishing he would hurry.
He placed the items in a white paper sack, then narrowed his eyes. “You feeling all right? You don’t look so good.”
“Haven’t had my coffee yet.”
“Ah.” He grinned. “My wife has to have coffee to wake up too. She’s a cappuccino girl. Used to buy coffee every morning on the way to take the kids to school, but I bought her a cappuccino maker for her birthday. Now I get up a few minutes early, make her a cup, and take it to her before she gets out of bed. My brothers tell me I’m whupped, but I don’t care if I am.”
The guy was a middle-aged Hispanic man with shiny smooth skin and black h
air that wanted to curl. “Sounds . . . blissful.”
“She makes it easy for me.” He smiled. “Not only is she good to me, she’s gorgeous. Not that looks matter,” he said quickly, “but she’s a knockout, and I’m lucky to have her.”
Another Barbie doll. Or maybe a runway model, leggy and slim, with waist-length hair and tons of eyeliner. Yes, that would make marriage easier, wouldn’t it? I handed him a twenty-dollar bill even though he hadn’t told me the total.
The skin above my knees quivered like the aftershock of an earthquake. The cuts would take a while to heal, but not as long as my mental health would take to recover. And I had thought I was doing so well. Maybe the date with Michael Divins had put me over the edge—if it could even be called a date—but more likely the straw that broke the loony’s back was running into my sister-in-law. Mirinda’s mere presence had triggered an onslaught of dangerous memories, and I had tortured myself with them long into the night.
“That’ll be eight forty-seven,” said the pharmacist. “So, your change is . . . eleven fifty-three.” He counted the money into my palm. “You sure you’re okay, hon? You look a little pale.”
If he told me I looked bad one more time, I would scream. Or claw his eyes out. Then again, if he was used to looking at his tanned runway model wife, I probably did appear washed out. I smiled before I told him one last white lie. “I couldn’t be better. Thanks.”
Picking up the paper sack, I walked stiffly to the car, holding my skirt away from my legs and not caring if I had to lie a million more times. Dishonesty seemed trivial compared to the rest of my struggles.
I had almost killed myself last year, and the fact that I didn’t want to kill myself now gave me a haunting sense of confidence. Even as I processed the thought, I recognized it as distorted thinking, and I chastised myself. Who was I kidding?
I needed help.
Chapter Eleven
Dr. Graham Harper’s favorite motivational poster (stapled above the sink in the break room where he could see it every day):
It’s a good thing to have all the props pulled out from under us occasionally.
It gives us some sense of what is rock under our feet, and what is sand.
- Madeleine L’Engle
Graham had gotten the impression something was bothering Cecily when she arrived at his office, but he knew better than to ask. He knew that whatever she shared about herself would have to be offered freely, and that she would talk when she was ready. After his last appointment of the evening, he ushered the client—Madam X, as Cecily had called her—to the back exit of the office and locked the door behind her. Then he turned toward the break room where Cecily was waiting discreetly.
And his pulse quickened.
Cecily Ross was swiftly getting under his skin, and because of her, his world had lightened ever so slightly. She was a stinker, for sure, but she made him smile, and smiling was good therapy. But there was something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He had watched her on and off during the evening, as she sat at the receptionist desk and interacted with clients, and he’d gotten the impression that some of her smiles were only a surface mask. Every now and then the mask would slip, and Graham saw darkness in her eyes, as though she were a lost child with no hope of finding her way home.
“All safe and clear?” She opened the break-room door two inches, but she didn’t look into the hallway.
“Mission accomplished. Thanks.”
“So, that was the famous Madam X?”
He pulled on his earlobe. “You saw her?”
“No.” She stretched the word out. “Relax. I don’t know who she is, but honestly, I’ve been away from Canyon so long, I probably wouldn’t recognize her anyway.”
Graham didn’t reply, just nodded.
“It’s not the old drama teacher, is it? That woman was a basket case for sure.”
“Mrs. Kilpatrick?” He smiled, and then laughed as he realized that the retired teacher probably could have benefited from a few sessions.
“Remember the time she went into hysterics when those three boys refused to accept tardy slips?”
“You took drama?” Graham asked.
“No, I just heard about it.” She wiped crumbs from the table and sprinkled them in the trash can, and suddenly Graham speculated that she might have agreed to work tonight merely to appease her dad.
He put his coffee mug in the cabinet, forcing himself not to stare. Every time he looked at her, he relived that night years ago and wondered what she remembered. Had those few minutes made as huge an impression on her as they had on him?
Somehow he doubted it.
He dried his hands on a dish towel and turned to find her standing by the trash can. She had removed the liner, tied the bag, and was now holding the white plastic bundle in her arms like a baby. When Graham looked into her eyes, a heavy weight of concern pressed on his shoulders. A moment ago, she had been chattering about nothing in particular, but now, surprisingly, she was no longer hiding her feelings behind that mask of hers, and she peered at him with wide eyes. The pressure on Graham’s shoulders slid down to his chest.
“I went out on that date I was telling you about.” A smallish sort of laugh crossed her lips, but then she sucked it back in before another could follow.
“Did you?” He rested his hand on the counter, trying to still his jitters. If this were a counseling session, he would ask Cecily to sit down and relax—but he didn’t dare suggest it.
“You were right that I’m not ready yet.” Her head bobbed to the side. “Turns out I have a little problem with self-esteem. I should’ve known you were right, and my dad too, but I’ve just been telling myself I’d be fine.” Her eyes didn’t meet his.
Graham spoke cautiously, so as not to prompt a fight or flight response. “Did something happen?”
“Not on the date . . . no.” Her fingertips swept her throat. “That’s probably not what you meant, but the man is harmless. Quite the all-American good guy. Every girl’s dream.”
Was she talking about Michael Divins? Graham’s palm pressed against the Formica. The crowd at Midnight Oil had quadrupled since it changed ownership, mostly because of college-aged girls. Rumor had it the football star was looking for a bride, but Graham had also heard that Michael had found one: Mirinda Ross. Whether that rumor was true or not, Graham didn’t know, but he did know Michael well enough to be confident that he wouldn’t knowingly hurt Cecily. “You’re all right?” Graham asked.
“Just a slight meltdown. Nothing like Mrs. Kilpatrick or anything.” Her voice trailed off.
“Self-esteem can be a monster.” He shoved his hands in his pockets in an attempt to appear laid-back, as though he wasn’t hanging on every word of the conversation. “But it sounds like you recognize it for what it is.”
“Oh, I’ve known all along.” She settled the trash bag in the seat of a chair. “Believe me, my low self-esteem and I go way back.”
“So . . . you know you need to accept your responsibility in the matter? And not lean on others to make you feel better?”
“Knowing it in my mind and being able to do it in my heart are two entirely different things. The emotions rule the kingdom, so to speak.”
She really had been through a lot of counseling. “But you’re on the right track.”
“I guess a little more therapy might not be such a bad idea after all.” She fumbled with the tie on the trash bag, curling it around her index finger, then unrolling it, then twisting it again. Her next words spilled over each other in a rush. “I penciled myself in for Tuesday night . . . in the next available time slot.”
For the first time since Cecily had come back to town, Graham stopped fidgeting.
“My dad will be thrilled.” She noticed she was still touching the trash bag and pulled her hand away.
This was monumental, a huge step for Cecily, but Graham found himself at a loss for words. He hadn’t expected her to consent so readily, or so soon. “Okay.”
; She exhaled slowly, thoroughly.
“When was your date?” he asked.
“Monday night.”
Three days. Had she spoken on impulse after Madam X’s appointment? Knowing someone else suffered from insecurity might have given her a boost of courage. Either way, Graham was glad, but the thought of Cecily’s name in his appointment book made him want to crumple to the floor in self-defeat. His heel began to bounce.
“I’m not sure you need more counseling.” His fingers went to his mouth involuntarily, but he pulled them away, frowning down at his palm as he recognized that his own subliminal action signaled he was lying. Of course she needed counseling.
“Are you serious?” She seemed simultaneously relieved and leery.
“Like you say, you’ve been through months of it already. Maybe it’s time for a different approach.” He picked up the dish towel and busied himself with folding it, not looking at her.
“You’re not going to tell me I need shock treatment, are you?”
He chuckled. “Not just yet. No.”
“Then what did you have in mind?”
“A friend of mine is starting a support group—just two or three women—battling the same type of struggles. It might be good for you.”
Cecily’s face was controlled, a vacuum, void of any telltale emotions that could hint at her thoughts. “Where?”
“I think they’re planning to meet at Midnight Oil.” He cringed inwardly, wishing the leader had chosen somewhere else. The location alone could be Cecily’s undoing.
“Do I know these women?”
He bit his lip, wondering how he could make all of this sound better . . . but the fact that Cecily knew Shanty wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. “Actually . . . yes. I don’t typically give out names, but Shanty gave me permission to let people know she’d be leading the group.”
Looking Glass Lies Page 5