by Criss Copp
Fuck, she’s the quickest friendship established in my entire history. She’s a special woman for sure.
“Do you wish that to change?” She asks.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t need extra drama.” I explain.
“You find friends a drama-filled experience?” she asks laughing.
“Yes.”
“How so?”
“If they’re my friends, I have to be totally loyal to them. How can I expect loyalty and love if I’m not willing to give it?” I explain.
“So you need to be involved in their lives?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Wow, so you take on a lot of responsibility when you form friendships.” she nods.
“I get attached.”
“Indeed. That mightn’t be so healthy.” she argues.
“It is what it is; I have their back. I’d like to think they have mine.” I counter.
“It’s not a fight out there you know.”
“Yes it is.” I argue back. “Life is the biggest fight of them all; everyone out there is trying to win and they fight and demean anyone they can if it means that they will. I prefer to play in a team… I don’t like to fight solo. So I need people I can rely on. People who won’t stab me in the back and run off.” I reason.
“Yet you choose to opt out from time to time; at least you try to opt out.” she pushes.
“I take betrayal hard. I’m not proud of how my illness fractures my thoughts and exacerbates my reactions. When I’m well I’m totally and utterly embarrassed by those actions.” I explain.
“So if we could manage to keep you stable, you’d be free of your bipolar?” she asks.
“Hardly… that’s just silly. But at least when I’m stable I recognize the difference between normal and abnormal behaviors.” I reason.
“Do you think you have insight during times of stability?”
“I know I do.”
“How about now?”
“I’m stable, but I need to work on a few things.” I answer.
“I agree.”
“You agree?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, okay.” I reply softly.
“Now back to the dating aspect.” She starts.
I groan.
Chapter 5: Avila Beach
Isi.
I pull up in my parents’ drive at around 4:30pm. I can’t help but notice that they’re both in residence, since both of their cars are in the garage, and so I groan. It’s a 15 minute drive from Laguna Lake to Avila Beach. I always try to get here before them, but sometimes they beat me. And when that happens, it will turn into one of those evenings again, ugh.
Generally I like to make it inside the house and to my room before they can ambush me and ask me about my day; it’s criminal what I have to endure each time when I’m forced to go through this ritual of ‘how was your day’. I really hate it; I hate it and want to move out. I really need to move back out, but I can’t seem to do it. I just keep hoping that my parents will do the right thing and step up to the plate.
I step in through the door and walk to the stairs.
“How was your day honey?” My Dad asks absentmindedly. He’s sitting on the couch. He’s not so bad on his own, but he’s slowing me down and preventing me from quietly retreating.
“Good.” I answer and then scramble to remove myself from the foyer.
“You’re home.” Mom enters the conversation. Now here we go, time for the bullshit. Dad by himself really isn’t so bad. But Mom is horrible whether it be on her own or in a team. This is just going to end up in another fight. And then it will be another night listening to her drunken, pitiful moaning and lamented woe through the walls of my bedroom.
“How was your day today?”
“Fine.” I mumble, in an attempt to retreat.
“Come and tell us all about it.”
How old am I? Do I look like I’m 7?
“I’d rather not.”
“Come on Belle, come and sit in here and comfortably go through your day with us.” Mom begs; saccharine sweet.
I roll my eyes and stomp over to the family room.
Why do I do this? I’m 25 years old – maybe I’m a masochist. Secretly, deep down inside I must crave drama and hence engage in destructive behavior.
Dad is seated on the leather sofa, and Mom is perched on the edge of a lounge chair. I dump my ass like a petulant teenager on the other lounge chair opposite and prepare for battle.
“Now, how was your day?” Mom asks.
“Fine.” I grumble. “I already told you.” I channel that petulant teenager.
“Just fine? Surely there’s something interesting you can tell us about your day.”
“I found mold in the corner of room seventeen’s bathroom. I had to get straight bleach from the storage room to get rid of it.” I offer.
Mom scrunches up her nose. She hasn’t cleaned a house a day in her life, as far as I’m aware. My father is an obstetrician, and she’s his wife and social handbag. They have servants; though they like to call them ‘help’. I don’t try to get to know any of them anymore; they change so often.
“I really wish you wouldn’t work there.” she begins. “It’s such a degrading job.”
“I like working there.”
“But you could work at the Country Club, if you want a hobby. Stacey is always asking about you. She manages the restaurant now you know.” she offers, mentioning one of my old school ‘friends’.
Wow, what happened to the hubby?
“I would have to talk to people.” I grumble.
“But you used to be so good around people.” she offers.
“Things change.”
“They don’t have to, you chose to change them.” she begins.
My Dad groans and leaves the room. I go to leave too; because this is going precisely where I expect it to.
“Don’t go. I need to tell you news.”
I watch Dad leave and despise his ability to effortlessly leave. I can do it too, but it’s far from effortless; she’ll follow me and begin shouting out like a banshee.
“What news.” I grumble.
“Katherine had a little girl yesterday.”
Katherine was my dearest childhood friend. Her dismissal of me when I left for an Army career was the hardest to stomach of them all. She had quite literally stopped acting like I existed.
“Well hooray for her.” I reply, barely keeping my snide side intact.
“She now has little Denim and Ariel at home to entertain her. She’s so happy apparently. I saw Sonia today.” Mom enthuses. “She showed me photos.”
I begin to sneer. I can’t have children, not anymore. And it’s a sore point, because I had wanted one of my own; I had always wanted to raise my own child with the love and care that I felt I never really had. The kind of love money can’t buy. Not that I would tell anyone that.
“You could marry well you know. You’re still attractive.”
‘Still’, like ‘kind of’, or ‘not like you used to be’.
“I don’t want to get married.”
“But you could do so much better. You’re wasting your potential as a, a lowly cleaner.” she shudders.
“You were an air hostess working for a budget airline.” I point out.
“I was the top hostess, I’ll have you know.”
“Whatever, I’m happy doing something routine for now.” I argue.
“You could have a privileged life.”
“I grew up in one. It’s over-rated.”
“I just don’t understand you. You could be living in luxury in your own house, married to some handsome man who would take care of you; and raise a couple of kids. You could do anything you want.” she whines.
“I am doing what I want.” I growl. Here we go… she’s building up.
“But where’s the husband? Where’s the children?”
Oh… I hate this. I really, really, strongly dete
st this.
“I can’t have kids, and I don’t need a husband to be happy. A husband doesn’t define success!” I sneer.
And watch as the situation rapidly deteriorates. 1… 2… 3…
“You could’ve had it all you know, and then you went and made that stupid decision to enlist. You didn’t take into consideration any of mine or your father’s protests. You just went ahead and did it; leaving us to pick up the pieces and ruining the way you looked, ruining yourself.” she cries.
“Go and drink a bottle of wine Darla and leave me alone.” I growl, barely containing the sudden rage that burns to erupt from within.
“Don’t you take that condescending tone with me young lady.”
“Then stop being a bitch.” I shout, my anger spewing forth.
“How dare you. How dare you stand there in my house and criticize me for trying to help you realize you could do better.” she squeals.
“Criticize you? What about you criticizing me?” I shout back.
“You made your bed, you did what you did and the consequences are what they are.”
“I served my fellow countrymen; you know, those boys and girls doing what the God damn Government tells them to do? I fucking went over there, not as a soldier but to assist in saving lives. And I don’t regret doing it at all.” I scream.
“You don’t regret ruining your body at all? You’re selfish Belle; you only ever think about yourself. What about me, what about being a grandmother and having photos to show to my friends? What about that.” she screams. “What man is going to be able to look at your body and be with you unless the lights are out and the sheets are up?” she screams.
Fucking motherfucking bitch.
I’m seething and I’m shaking all over. My inability to coherently cease the shaking of my body is completely and disturbingly interfering with my cognitive abilities; I’m going to either spasm sharply or black out. I have to get my brain to kick back into thought. I briefly spasm and jerk.
And then I strip, I strip off my shirt and throw it down; I kick off my shoes and undo my jeans, peeling them back before kicking them to the side. My mother’s face is horrified, and then she turns away.
The right side of my stomach looks like a melted twisted mess. The melted flesh seeps down onto the very top of my right thigh. It’s hideous. It looks like Freddy Kruger’s face. Dirty bombs are extremely unfriendly devices. After they stitch you up, you still get septicemia from the dog shit, human waste and garbage they pack in there too. The worst of my damage is centered on the right lower corner of my abdomen. They saved almost all of my intestines and my bladder; I lost my right ovary and the usefulness of my uterus in the aftermath of infection. The skin grafts over the saved but damaged muscle mightn’t be very pretty – but it’s functional and I’ve seen worse; I really have.
“What are you doing?” My mother screams.
“Look at me.” I scream back.
“Put your clothes back on, JOHN.” She screams for my father. He won’t come. He’s not even in the house anymore.
“Fucking look at me.” I scream at her.
She’s refusing; she’s storming out of the room and into the kitchen. I’m following her.
“FUCKING LOOK AT ME MOM.” I scream ferociously.
She grabs the wine fridge door, reefs it open and grabs the first bottle her fingers touch. I’m watching her; the ritual has walked its path. Here we are again. The only difference is I’m standing in the kitchen with my bra and panties on, and only them. I’m huffing. I wouldn’t care if she screamed and lamented the loss if she could just look at me and tell me she loved me. Could look at what I’ve become and not let it bother her anymore. It’s been years. I don’t remember the last time she looked at me with any pride.
“Are you going to look at me?” I croak.
No, she’s going to ignore me. She’s going to open the bottle she just liberated from the fridge and she’s going to drink the whole thing.
What have I become? What is it about me that means everyone has to walk away and leave me, lamenting the loss as though I’m dead. Horrified and hurt as if it were them in that blast. I haven’t been with a guy since the blast. I can’t even show myself to my Dad. This is the first time I’ve exposed myself to anyone in 12 months, since the last grafts healed.
She begins to open the bottle; a stern and frigid look across her pretty face. I can’t take it; a seething rage takes over and I grab the bottle by the neck, right out of her grasp and smash it down on the edge of the counter, shattering the glass everywhere and splashing wine in a grand cascade onto the floor and bench.
I don’t wait for the fallout; I storm out of room and up to my bedroom. I grab a dress and flip flops, throw them on and head for the beach.
***
This morning I wake up bright and early. I have a spring in my step because I’m leaving this God-awful house and going to work. Surviving Ethan’s advances are still superior to listening to my mother’s drunken raving. Last night she got mega-pissed. Tuesday night and all. She still didn’t come and tell me she loved me. I guess that means she either doesn’t, or doesn’t know how to. Either way, it’s not conducive to a blissful mother and daughter relationship.
Fairs fair though, I’m not sure I love her either. I feel too conflicted with her to know what I feel for her, because emotive responses to people these days tend to be within the realms of boredom, despising, flat or rage. With the exception of Silas yesterday who made me feel my first positive emotion in years.
To be truthful, I’m kind of excited to be seeing him again too, so I eagerly ready for work and because I don’t want to see my mom this morning, I decide to eat there as well. We’re allowed to if we get there 20 minutes early. Usually I don’t, because Ethan eats there. He’s a tight-ass. He doesn’t spend any money on anything he can get for free.
When I pull into the parking lot, I notice the usual cars.
I pull into the space I tend to frequent and hop out.
“Isobelle.” Ethan yells over to me from wherever he is. I groan, but look up to locate him.
He’s walking toward me now. I swear he looks out for me.
“How are you this morning?” he asks.
“Good.”
“Come for breakfast today?” He asks enthusiastically.
“Yeah, I thought I would for a change.”
“That’s great, you’ll have to sit with me.” he offers.
“That’s okay, I’m just going to eat and run.”
“Oh you can’t do that. You’re not allowed to take food out of the kitchen. Staff aren’t allowed to eat with the patients.”
“You’d know.” I grumble.
“I insist you sit with me.” He says.
I groan.
“Come on, we’ll have fun.”
About as much fun as shoving a hot poker in my eye.
When I’m finally seated next to him, noticing that everyone else there are at a minimum of two seats away, I scoff down my food and give myself heartburn. Ethan talks to me about the benefits of chewing my food 25 times before swallowing. I just think that’s nuts; but then, he’s nuts.
I break away from the crowd and begin my rounds.
After an hour of cleaning the north wing’s floors and railings, I’m about to begin the rooms. People are already up and having their breakfast. I always start with the north wing first and then the East wing, where Silas’ room is. Undoubtedly he’ll be in therapy when I go over to that side, but I hope I’ll see him in passing. I open room 11, propping the door wide. I begin as usual by opening the windows.
Upon returning, I see a haughty Silas leaning up against the door frame, just outside in the hall.
“Howdy stranger.” he says in a ‘Western’ movie accent.
“From Australian to Western. You’ve got skills. You could go and do some cattle rustling in the old west and work up the angst of a lynching mob.” I smile.
“I thought I could help you instead.” he says.
“No, you can’t. You’ll get me into trouble.” I explain.
“I’ll stand out here, and if you need something, I’ll peg it at you.” He says.
“You’ll what?”
“Throw it, I’ll throw it to you.” he smiles.
“Oh, well you’ll have to stand out there regardless. You’re not allowed in a room alone with me.”
“I’ve already done that. And I’d like to point out that the sky didn’t fall and the world remains in orbit around the Sun.” He states.
“Only because Ethan didn’t find out.” I grumble. And then I remember his knuckles and stroll over to the door.
“Come on, quickly. Before anyone sees.” I gesture with my hand for him to enter.
“Wow, my powers of persuasion are working really well today. What do you have planned for me miss?” he says with a grin plastered across his face.
I give him an annoyed look, so he looks up and down the halls and steps over the threshold.
I walk over to the windows where the light is better and he follows. I’ve left the door open this time. I’d still get into trouble, but it would be worse if the door was closed.
I peel the bandages back slightly to look under them.
“You’ve got them on display.” I say.
“Dr. Jensen noticed them yesterday. I fed her some bullshit, saying I needed my hands strapped for comfort till I felt more at home.”
“That’s,” I don’t know what that is, so I give him a sour and scornful expression. “She believed you?”
He shrugs.
I can see they’re looking much better.
“They look good.”
“I know.”
“Of course you would, now get out.” I chuckle and point to the door.
“You’re a scornful woman Miss Mulligan.” he pouts, walking to the door.
“I don’t want to get into trouble.” I explain.
“If you get into trouble, can we make it worth the dilemma by doing something really naughty?” he asks, smiling his cheeky grin. He still hasn’t left the room. He’s still inside the door.
“Do something naughty?” I laugh.
He winks at me. So I walk over to him and shove him out the door.