Circle the Soul Softly

by Davida Wills Hurwin

  He tells the driver where I live; we lapse back to silence. He walks me to the front door and before I can get the key out, mumbles, “Good night,” and heads back to the cab.

  THIRTY-ONE

  He doesn’t call Sunday. He does send an e-mail Sunday night saying he’s going in late Monday morning and can’t drive me to school. Michael takes me. He asks about Prom and I say it was fine. He pretends to believe me.

  I look for David all morning. I don’t see him. I don’t know how one hour manages to pass into the next. I pretend to be a girl getting ready for finals. I pretend to listen to teachers, take copious notes, and engage in improvs in acting class; I even pretend to have a long conversation with Layla, who’s going to Brown next year and wants to tell anyone who’ll stand still long enough. She doesn’t notice I’m pretending. No one does. Or maybe they do, and don’t really care.

  David finally appears, at lunchtime. He’s across the alley, with Micah and Christina; they’re all talking at once and laughing like crazy. I wonder if he’s telling them about me. I wave. Either he doesn’t see me, or he doesn’t want to. He keeps laughing and talking. I duck into the greenroom for the rest of lunch. I don’t see him after school. I have to call Michael to come pick me up.

  Nightmares are supposed to fade when you wake up, but this one loops endlessly, threading itself through nighttime dreams and daylight hours. It has nothing to do with Monster fathers and their children; it’s a close-up replay of the end of Prom night. Michael takes me to school all that week. David has a study group he’s meeting with first period. We talk, briefly, or he does—at snack, but only to say we’ll have to “really talk” after finals are over. I don’t believe him.

  Those whiny oldies I always laughed at now seem to make a great deal of sense. Hearts do break, or something does—otherwise I wouldn’t hurt this bad. I start hiding out in the greenroom every day at lunch, hoping that not seeing him at all will make it easier. It doesn’t.

  Tess doesn’t question me until Thursday. “Okay, baby,” she calls from her office.“What’s going on?”

  “Nothing, just studying,” I call from the couch. I toy with the idea of escaping to the alley, but Tess appears in the doorway.

  “Where’s David these days?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Uh-oh. You guys break up?”

  “I guess.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  I shrug. It’s my new thing. I’ve finally managed to stop smiling. Shrugging shows intelligence and indifference.

  She plops on the other end of the couch and crosses her legs. “What happened?”

  I look into those young-old eyes, and the story trickles out, backward. I tell her about Prom night, and then San Francisco, and suddenly, I’m explaining the nightmares and the weird hallucinations—everything, from the ninth grade on. I can’t seem to stop myself. She listens carefully and doesn’t interrupt. About the time I get to the part about my dad, the bell rings and lunch is over. I reach for my backpack, but Tess beckons me into her office.

  “No, no. Stay a bit; I’ll write you a note,” she says, closing the door behind us.“Now go on, please.” She sits down behind her desk.

  I’m beginning to have second thoughts anyway, and when I remember what happened with Stacey, I panic.

  “If I tell you about someone hurting me, will you have to, you know, report it?”

  “Is it going on now?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. It was a very long time ago.”

  “Then I do not.”

  And so I explain what I suspect about my dad. She moves from behind the desk and sits on the floor opposite me. She gathers her thoughts the way she does before she critiques a scene in class.

  “Katie, have you ever heard of post-traumatic stress disorder?” she asks.

  “What soldiers get?”

  “Yes. And abused children.”

  “Oh.”

  “It could be what’s happening to you.”

  “But I don’t know for sure—”

  “Well, let’s think about it. It seems to me your nightmares and the way you end up feeling with David have a lot in common.”

  “I guess.”

  “So, maybe your mind is having trouble with this, but your body remembers, and so when David—”

  The conversation has now gone too far.“You know what?” I interrupt. “I better go to class.”

  “Katie, this isn’t your fault. Something scared you and you had to shut it away. That’s all.”

  “I have to go.”

  “I need you to listen.”

  “I don’t want to. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I’m sorry I said anything.”

  “It might not be a choice. If you don’t look at it, you’re going to go right back to where you were.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Katie, for whatever reason, you’re strong enough now to deal with this. You just have to remember it.”

  “I did.”

  “Yes, you did. You started to. You might need some help to go further.”

  This stops me.“You mean a shrink?”

  “Yes, or a counselor.”

  “No. No way. I do not want to do that.”

  “Then maybe you should talk to your mom.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Your brother?”

  I stand.“Tess. I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m fine, okay? And I really need to go.”

  “This isn’t the sort of thing that will disappear all by itself.” She reaches for the candy jar on her desk, hands me a Hershey’s Kiss, and starts to open one for herself. “You saw that, with David, at Prom.”

  That’s good for a whole new surge of pain, like touching an electric wire.“Yeah.”

  “If you can address the past, you can start thinking about talking to David.”

  “Like that would do any good.”

  “You might be surprised. He’s a pretty exceptional human being.”

  “He’s not always what you think, you know,” I blurt, thinking of how he plays my mom and Tess, too. I sound angrier than I feel.

  “Well, maybe not, but then, who is?”

  “Anyway, he’s done with me, that’s for sure.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I know he’s ignoring me.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t know what to say. Maybe he thinks you don’t want to talk to him.”

  “But—”

  “First things first. You need to look at the memories.”

  I meet her eyes and take a moment to explore. “You think they’re real?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because little girls can’t make up stories like that.”

  This stops me for a second.“Maybe I got confused.”

  “Or maybe your father did.”

  “I don’t know,Tess. I just don’t know. I can’t believe he’d …I mean, I thought he loved me.”

  “I’m sure he did, Katie. Sometimes, it’s two separate things.”

  Suddenly I’m glad Tess didn’t let me run away.“I guess I could talk to my mom.”

  “I’ll go with you, if you like.”

  “No, I have to do it myself. After the wedding. It’s only like four weeks.”

  She shakes her head no. “I don’t think you should wait that long. I think that’s what your body’s been trying to say.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Nothing is my beginning—and to nothing I return

  Nothing feeds my soul and warms my nights

  And as nothing is my life and my death

  So nothing sustains me . . .

  And I care for nothing

  Just as nothing cares for me

  I see nothing as clearly as sun-lined mountains

  I feel nothing as the ocean on sand-warmed skin,

  I tell nothing to someones who come asking
>
  Nothing is my truth

  Nothing is my only reason

  Nothing is me.

  And I, of course, am Nothing.

  I’m supposed to be studying for my World Civ exam, but I’m perched on my balcony, reading. All I’d wanted was to find the report I did last year on William Shakespeare. Instead, I run into this envelope stuffed with poems. No dates on them, but the handwriting is young, definitely elementary or middle school. I know they’re mine, but I don’t remember writing them. I read over the one I found before we moved:

  July vanished without a trace.

  August is the sun,

  setting, swelling

  like a fat orange candle

  losing its shape on the horizon

  Now melting

  My father is disappearing and will not let me see his face.

  What the hell did I mean, “my father is disappearing …?” I used to think it was about him dying; now I wonder.

  Why can’t I remember this?

  Why can’t I remember myself?

  A ton of World Civ notes and our huge textbook are spread out on my bed, waiting; the final is first thing in the morning and it’s already ten o’clock. I know I need at least a C and I wish I cared, but the political framework for Elizabethan drama doesn’t exactly affect my life right now. I want to think about important things—about David and my father. I want to figure out my self. Poking back into the envelope, I take out one more poem.

  These are the days I walk between raindrops

  A shadow no eyes can see

  Reaching out

  but finding nothing

  Please someone tell me what I’m supposed to be.

  If I could remember when I wrote these, where I was sitting, what pushed me there—if I could remember being little— maybe the puzzle wouldn’t be so scattered. I might be able to see my father’s real face. And maybe even my own.

  Two weeks since Prom; it only seems like two months. But who cares—I’m having way too much fun flunking. Oh, and sitting alone in my favorite spot in front of the library.

  “Hey.”

  My heart stops. I look up. It’s David, of course, because why would he say hello to me when I look good?

  “Hey.” At least I sound intelligent. Oh wait, no I don’t.

  “Any more finals today?”

  “Nope. All done.”

  “Need a ride home?” He asks, then snorts. “Oh shit, no, I can’t”— Whoa, am I making him nervous?—“I have trig.”

  “It’s okay. Michael’s picking me up.” My heart is now pounding so fast I think he must be able to see it.

  “Oh. Good. Sorry about the rides and stuff. Finals …well, they suck, and college aps are next year, and …yeah.”

  “Yeah.” Why is he talking to me?

  “So you’re all done?” He sits down, not too close.

  “Mm-hmm. You?”

  “Just the trig. But then I’m done.”

  “Good.”Wow, even more intelligence.

  “How’d you do?”

  I have to laugh because I have no clue. “I could have passed. Or I could’ve flunked it all. I don’t know.”

  “So, summer school, huh?”

  “I guess I’ll find out next week.” We’re talking like we’ve never met.

  “Yeah. Hey, I was wondering if you maybe want to go to a movie or something this weekend.”

  “I can’t. Sorry.”

  “Oh, no problem. I just thought I’d ask. It’s okay.” He stands. “Well, anyway, I guess I better get ready for my—”

  Heartbeat increases. Can you do cardiac arrest at fifteen? “David, it’s not because I don’t want to.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “My mom and I are going to stay out at the Malibu house, get it ready for the wedding reception.” Let it be known: I have no shame.

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “’Cause otherwise, I would.” None at all.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. Well, maybe we can do something during the week?”

  “We’re there until Thursday.”

  “Friday? Dinner, movie, walk around the mall …?”

  “Yeah. That’d be good.”

  Omigod. Is this happening?

  THIRTY-THREE

  “Did something bad happen to me?”

  The second the words leave my lips I am catapulted into the Twilight Zone. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I watch my mother’s face carefully: something scary sneaks across it before a look of concern locks in.

  “Like …?” she asks. Robert inches away from her, maybe to give her a separate space or maybe because he saw the something too. She doesn’t notice.

  “Something with Daddy.” I haven’t called him that in my head for ages now—why does it slip out?

  She blinks slowly, once and then again. I wonder if she wishes now she hadn’t insisted that Robert be a part of this conversation. Her face swaps one feeling for another. The something flits past a second time and her tone moves one step away from sounding like my mom.“Are you asking if your father molested you?”

  I don’t like the word; it’s miserable and dark.

  I don’t like my mother’s face.

  I nod.

  “Why would you think that, Kaitlyn?” Accusing, as if I’ve done something. As if I made this up.

  “Something happened, Mom.” It’s like being onstage and hearing your lines as they come out, sounding flat and fake. I wish now I’d taken Tess up on her offer.

  I almost wish I’d never brought it up.

  “That’s ridiculous.” Mom’s voice isn’t her own at all now; even Robert notices. It’s shrill and traveling higher. I see him watching her more than he’s watching me. “Your father would never hurt you.”

  “But he did.” I steal a glance at Robert. There’s no expression on his face.

  “I don’t know what to say. I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

  “He came into my room, when I was little.”

  “Fathers do that. I came into your room too. Do you think I molested you?” If voices were weapons, I’d be bleeding from hers.

  “Bonnie.” Robert’s voice is calming.

  “What?” She snaps at him, too.

  “Listen to your daughter.”

  “Not if she’s going to accuse me—”

  “She’s not accusing you. She’s telling you that something happened to her. You need to listen.”

  “Fine.” But it isn’t, obviously.“Go on.”

  I call up Tess’s face and remind myself of her words: little girls can’t make this stuff up. I raise my head and meet Mom’s stare straight on. “Something happened to me when I was six or seven. I don’t remember exactly, but—”

  She interrupts.“Then how the hell—”

  “Bonnie. Shhh.” Robert puts his hand on her arm. “Go on, Katie.”

  This makes my eyes tear. Of course. Never when people are being assholes.

  I don’t know what to call my father. I can’t say “Daddy” now. “He came into my room at night. You and Michael were already sleeping. I don’t know exactly what he did. But he scared me, a lot.”

  My mom is trying now to keep her voice under her control. “You’re saying he did something …sexual to you?”

  It’s like a horror film; all the doors in the house slam shut and the good guy is sucked up backward through an endless dark tunnel. I drop my head again. I feel myself closing in, closing down. I can’t help but hear the disgust in her voice; she spits out the words like she’s ridding her body of a hair she’s swallowed. And it’s all directed at me. She thinks I’m the disgusting one.

  Robert closes his hand around mine. My mother looks from me to him and back.

  “I won’t hear this.” She storms out of the room.

  Robert sits with me but it’s quickly awkward, so he stands. “I’ll talk to her,” he says, oh so very gently. Then he stops at the doorway and looks back. “You’ve
obviously given this a great deal of thought. Let your mom have a little time to catch up.”

  I nod and blink. No smiles now; it’s past cover-up.

  “You’re very brave, honey.”

  Does that mean he believes me?

  THIRTY-FOUR

  What did people do before you could go online and find answers to secret problems? Oh right, they killed themselves.

  Anyway, every site on mental health has plenty to say about the symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s a real thing. The traumatic event lodges itself under the conscious radar and is reexperienced by the victim time and time again, in disturbing dreams and possible hallucinations, often set off by external or internal cues that resemble the initial experience. Intense fear, a feeling of detachment from others, overwhelming helplessness, and disassociation from the environment are common.

  If I’m understanding what I’m reading—and I think I am—Bingo, Bingo, and BIN-GO. Someone’s scanned my secret self and analyzed me online. I read the whole thing several times and set Tess even higher on my very short list of the World’s Most Incredible People. She nailed it. If she ever decides to give up the drama teacher thing, she could be a shrink.

  I have to sit back a minute and let this settle in. I haven’t been making it up. I’m normal and connected, for real.This is something I have to understand and deal with, but there is no inherent flaw in my being. I’m just trying to survive. I’m doing it the best I can.

  Other people go through this too.

  That’s a Big Sigh. I’m about to check out the “treatments” when I hear the old ding ding ding of an IM.

  hamlet99 has sent you an instant message.

  Do you wish to accept?

  Do you have to ask??

  hamlet99: hey

  kt13: hey

  hamlet99: how are you

  kt13: gd u?

  hamlet99: very good.

  kt13: oh yeah? y?

  hamlet99: i’m talking to you

  kt13: o

  hamlet99: i missed you

  I think: That must be why you ignored me for two weeks? I say: