by Marie Meyer
“Jillian,” Dr. Hoffman said, trying to regain my attention. I sighed and met her eyes. “I want you to remember that those scars are just superficial marks. They don’t represent you and you don’t need to be ashamed of them. The kind, imaginative, talented, beautiful Jillian lies far deeper than any of those scars. She’s safe and protected and loved, and no blade can cut deep enough to get to her. That’s the Jillian who has been making it on her own.”
She fixed her gaze on me and clicked her iPad off. “I have a question for you.” She set her iPad on the table beside her chair and leaned forward. Her intense hazel eyes had the capability to see through all my defenses. Only one other person had that kind of super power.
I uncrossed my legs and pulled them onto the chair, hugging my arms around my knees. My chest felt tight, like someone had plunged their hand through my skin and was squeezing the life out of my heart. Under her scrutinizing gaze, I fidgeted with the bottom of my shirt again. “What?” My voice rasped.
“It kind of goes along with the question I asked you when we talked over the phone. I still want you to visualize your life five years from now. Where do you see yourself? But, in the short term, answer this question: Are you cheating yourself out of happiness?”
Huh? Cheating myself out of happiness? What the hell is that supposed to mean? “I’m not sure I understand.”
Dr. Hoffman pressed her elbows into her thighs and rested her head on her folded hands. “You deserve to be happy, Jillian, and no amount of hateful words, glances, or scars will ever change that. You deserve happiness. Don’t cheat yourself out of something you deserve because of lies others, or even yourself, have convinced you are true.”
My eyes welled up with tears, and I bit my bottom lip to keep from letting them fall.
Dr. Hoffman continued. “Do you think this is what your parents wanted for you? Do you think they wanted you to spend your life running, and hiding, and crying all the time?”
“No,” I whimpered. Dr. Hoffman’s words triggered a memory of my mom.
I was five. I’d been chosen to sing a solo in my kindergarten musical. The night of the performance, I was so scared, she came backstage. She fixed my hair, put a little blush and lip gloss on me, and helped me into my rainbow costume. Right before I was supposed to go onstage, I started crying uncontrollably. Mom took me in her arms, the best she could, because of my awkward costume, and asked why I was crying.
I told her I was scared. What if I messed up? What if everyone thought I was terrible?
She smiled and wiped my eyes. “Jillian, I want you to go out there and sing for you.” She pointed to my heart. “All that matters is that you try your best. It takes guts to go out there and sing in front of strangers. But, you’re brave. I know you can do it.” She tried to hug me, but pinched my cheeks instead. “Now, no more crying, you’ve got a song to sing, let ’em hear it.”
“Jillian? Is everything okay?” Dr. Hoffman asked, pulling me from my memory.
I shifted in the chair and nodded. “Yeah, sorry. Something you said reminded me of my mom.”
“Really?” she asked.
“Yeah. A long time ago she told me to stop crying, and let them hear me sing,” I said, sucking up my tears.
“That’s good advice.” She reached across the space between us, offering me a tissue box. I took the box, clutching it to my chest like a lifesaver. “Isn’t happiness worth taking risks for, Jillian?” Dr. Hoffman added.
I didn’t want to cheat myself out of anything, but I was scared as hell to let my voice be heard. In my experience, hatred and rejection cut just as deep as a blade, and I didn’t know if bravery was a strong enough armor to protect my soul.
Chapter Fifteen
Boys, don’t open them yet,” Jennifer scolded. “I’ve got to get the camera.”
I sat curled up at the end of the couch and watched as Michael and Mitchell resisted their instincts to rip into the presents that sat beneath the tree. They practically salivated while they waited for their mom to return.
Matt sat on the other end of the couch with his nose shoved into his iPhone, completely ignoring his sons.
I kept my eyes on the boys. They were good for about five minutes. What the hell was Jennifer doing? At the six-minute mark¸ Michael and Mitchell were done being patient with their mother’s pretentious hang-ups. The boys were off of the floor and inching their way toward the tree.
They each worked their way through the absurd mountain of presents, shaking boxes until they rattled. When they tired of a box, they’d toss it over their shoulders and reach for a new one. I found their complete disregard of their mother’s command very funny. They had inadvertently managed to make my Christmas morning somewhat enjoyable.
“Michael! Mitchell!” Jennifer shouted, walking back into the room with a large and very expensive-looking camera. “Matthew, what are you doing? Why aren’t you watching them?”
“Oh, sorry.” He looked up from his phone and over at the boys. “I had to change my fantasy football line-up.”
“Boys,” Jennifer barked. “Put those gifts back where you found them! Pictures first, then presents.” Jennifer knelt down and helped the twins put all the boxes back under the tree. How she expected two five-year-old boys to sit still and stare at a Christmas tree on Christmas morning, and not touch the presents was beyond me, but that was Jennifer—everything was always about her.
I pulled my legs up to my chest and buried my smiling face between my knees. I would have stopped them, but Jennifer hated when I corrected the boys.
“Matthew, I could use some help,” Jennifer barked.
Having regained my composure, I lifted my head, not wanting to miss a minute of Jennifer and Matt’s loathsome glances. Rolling his eyes, Matt stood up from the end of the couch and palmed a few gifts, chucking them back under the tree.
“Matt, be gentle, please! What if it’s breakable?” Jennifer commanded.
Matt glared at her. “I’m sure the boys took care of it already.”
Jennifer pursed her lips and began strategically rearranging the gifts under the tree. I felt sorry for Santa; after people saw the Barrett Family Christmas photos, they would think he was an anal-retentive jolly ol’ elf.
While Matt gathered the remaining presents and Jennifer meticulously arranged them, the boys quietly sat on the ottoman. To amuse themselves they unclipped their cherry red bowties, untucked their shirts, and started working on the buttons. My shoulders shook with laughter as I watched them undress. Their mother was going to blow a gasket.
“Okay,” Jennifer sang as she stood up from her tree-rearranging. The second she turned around and got a glimpse of the boys she screamed. “Ugh! Boys! What are you doing?”
“This shirt is itchy, Mommy,” Mitchell complained.
“And this…” Michael held his bowtie up to her with a look of utter contempt. “Is awful.”
Jennifer turned around and glared at me. Her face glowed bright red. “You couldn’t have stopped them?” she said through clenched teeth.
“When I step in, you tell me not to. Make up your mind,” I replied.
“She’s got a point, Jennifer,” Matt said, handing a gift to Michael.
Jennifer’s eyes shot pure hatred at me before she turned around to tend to the boys. She didn’t even acknowledge Matt’s comment. He shrugged and plopped down on the couch again. If he held his phone any closer, he’d run the risk of accidentally swallowing it.
Through my quiet observation of Jennifer and her family, I began to understand what Dr. Hoffman had said about happiness. Neither Jennifer nor Matt was happy. They both suffered silently, trapped under the weight of their hatred for each other. Would things be any different if they opened their mouths and were brave enough to tell the other person how they felt? I wondered.
Jennifer knelt down in front of Mitchell and began tugging and tucking his shirt back into place. She scowled instead of returning the smile that was on her baby’s face. I didn’t think J
ennifer had the capacity to feel real love, even if it bit her in the ass. For a split second, I actually felt sorry for her.
“Jillian,” Jennifer snapped.
I blinked reality back into focus. “Hmm?”
“Make yourself useful for once and take our picture.” She pushed the camera in my direction. I unfolded myself from the couch and took the camera from her hands. “Matthew, I need you,” she screeched.
Matt mimicked my apathetic rise from the couch and trudged over to stand next to his wife. He stretched an arm around her waist, leaving about a foot of distance between them. Luckily, Michael and Mitchell filled the awkward gap. I peered through the viewfinder. “Say ‘Merry Christmas,’” I said.
“Merry Kissmiss!” Michael and Mitchell said in unison. Jennifer and Matt painted on their practiced toothy grins, and I snapped their “happy” holiday picture.
Handing the camera back to Jennifer, I fell right back onto the couch and curled myself up at the end.
“Matthew!” Jennifer shouted. “Would you be Santa, please? It’s time for presents.”
“Yay! Presents!” The boys jumped up and down. Mitchell, in an unbridled moment of pure joy, plucked his bowtie from his neck and sent it sailing into the tree. I couldn’t help the smile that grew on my face.
“Mitchell Barrett, go get that tie this instant!” Jennifer bellowed.
After all these years, I began to see Jennifer for what she really was: a woman consumed by her own grief. It had never dawned on me before, but Jenny had been just a little girl when Mom and Dad died, too. Both of us had built walls around our hearts, afraid to ever feel that kind of pain again. For Jenny, I guess it was easier to be miserable and push everyone away; at least then she wouldn’t have to contend with the agony that would follow if something happened to a loved one again.
I watched Mitchell walk over to the tree and pick his tie from one of the branches. He brought it back to his mother, holding it out to her. She took the tie, tossed it onto the coffee table, and picked him up, setting Mitchell on her lap as Matthew passed out gifts. Jennifer and I never mourned our parents together. We never shared our pain with each other, and that weighed on my heart, because if there was anyone who knew how I felt, it was her.
“Jillian, this one’s for you,” Matt said, shaking me out of my thoughts. He reached across the coffee table and handed me a rectangular package.
The tag read, “To: Aunt Jillian, From: The Twins” just like every Christmas gift I’d gotten for the last five years—ever since the twins were born. Before Michael and Mitchell the tag always read, “To: Jillian, From: The Barretts,” and before Matthew it said, “From: Jennifer Lawson.” I’d be willing to bet I could pinpoint the exact Christmas I started getting gifts from “Jennifer Lawson”—twelve years ago.
Twelve years ago my sister’s heart broke…just like mine.
I turned the gift over in my hands and looked down at Michael and Mitchell, “Thank you, boys.”
Peeling the tape from the corners, I gently tore through the Grinch’s too-small heart. A zebra print, 8”x10” spiral bound sketch book revealed itself as I removed the last pieces of the Whoville Christmas tree. “Aw, I love it. Thank you, Michael.” I got up from my seat and wrapped my arm around him. “Thank you, Mitchell.” I pulled him in with the other arm. Both boys were oblivious to my thankfulness, never taking their eyes from the toy cars they varoomed on the floor.
Matt passed out the rest of the gifts and I watched them open one after the other. On the couch cushion next to me my phone vibrated. Merry Christmas, Bean! Griffin texted.
I texted him back: Merry Christmas, Griff! Please say I get to see you tonight? I crossed my fingers. We’d only been able to hang out twice since I’d gotten home more than two weeks ago, and both times were as awkward as hell. At some point, it seemed our friendship had crossed that line again, but this time, it seemed Griffin had crossed it with me…I hoped. Regardless, I was a hot mess of emotions, and I didn’t know how to make sense of any of them.
He replied, You bet your ass, it’s Christmas.
Remind me to thank baby Jesus for giving you a reason to hang with me! A goofy smile spread across my lips.
Damn, that’s harsh. I’ll see you later! he texted.
Tears instantly sprang to my eyes when our texting conversation ended. I wasn’t sad or upset; I was happy. It felt good to be happy. I deserved to be happy.
* * *
Besides the photo fiasco this morning, the rest of the day was blissfully uneventful. After the gifts were all unwrapped, Jennifer put Matt to work assembling the twins’ new train set and commanded me to clean up the wrapping paper mess in the living room.
I disposed of the overflowing thirty gallon trash bag in the garage and retreated to my old room with my new sketchbook in hand.
I stacked the exorbitant amount of throw pillows against the headboard and leaned back. Jennifer certainly hadn’t waited long to redecorate my old room. I sighed and propped my new sketchbook on my lap, plugged in my earbuds, and cranked Mine Shaft up to earsplitting decibels. Listening to Griffin’s low and seductive voice hum through the speakers, I let his song guide my pencil.
I started with his unruly hair, using the side of my pencil to create the dark waves he always drove his hands through. With Griffin’s voice in my ears, my fingers went to work smearing and rubbing, trying to bring him to life on my paper.
Slowly, I slid my pencil down, forming his thick jawline and neck, with his Adam’s apple shadowed in right beneath his chin. My fingers trailed over the planes of his face and neck, and I wished it was more than paper beneath my fingertips.
Needing to change positions, I tossed the sketchbook to the foot of the bed and crawled onto my stomach. I stretched out and brought my drawing closer, ready to work on his arms and chest, paying special attention to his insanely hot tattoos.
My hand composed the bulges of his upper and lower arms, adding contrast and depth to his physique. On his right bicep, I reproduced the cursive writing that curled around the entire circumference of his muscle. Then I traveled downward to his chest, taking care to accentuate the lines of his well-defined abdomen, before I went to work on the broken bass guitar spanning from his right ribcage, across his chest, and ending at the top of his left shoulder. Despite being gorgeous in his own right, the artwork on his arm, chest, and back were masculine and exquisite. He was beautiful. Griffin always had the bad boy thing going for him.
Exhaling, I swiped my arm across my brow, and picked up my work up for inspection. I shifted the book to the right and left, viewing it at different angles, trying to gain more perspective. It was a good start, but I wasn’t anywhere near finished.
I placed the book on the bed and went back to work, singing along with him. As Griffin’s body slowly took shape on the page before me, I smoothed the pencil down his waistline, creating the v-shaped cut in his abdomen. Dipping lower on his body I formed his legs, before using my imagination to complete the rest of his anatomy. I was also well aware that the temperature of the room felt as though it had gone up several degrees, and I had a thin sheen of sweat across my forehead. My eyes fell over the drawing and a hundred dirty thoughts raced through my head. I was most certainly starting to figure out what I wanted. I just needed to find the courage to tell him.
Bringing my eyes back up to less blush-inducing regions, I tried to clear my head and focus on filling in the features of his face: his expressive dark eyes, a sinful smirk, angular cheekbones, the tiny creases on the sides of his eyes when he smiled…my list of details could go on for centuries.
I set the tip of my pencil to the paper, and as if it had a mind of its own, it trailed slightly across his face, outlining the curves of his eyes. At the same time, my mattress shifted. Startled, I quickly turned my head and saw Griffin lying right beside me. It was like he’d leapt off the page and materialized on the bed.
I rolled onto my side and rested my head on my arm. He brought his hand up and brushe
d away a few stray strands of hair from my face, holding my gaze. My heart forgot how to beat for a millisecond, and my lungs couldn’t remember if they were supposed to breathe in or out. Griffin’s warm breath filled the space between us. I leaned in, dangerously close to crossing that line again. I wanted my lips on his.
Then I remembered the open sketchbook lying right under my arm, and my face flushed with embarrassment. If I moved, he’d see that I’d drawn a very detailed nude image of him. Holy shit! This is bad. He cannot know that I was drawing a naked picture of him.
My heart beat in time with the driving bass line of the song thumping in my ears. Trying to play it cool, I inched my hand, the one that lay between us, closer to my armpit, hoping to burrow my fingers underneath my other arm and push the sketchbook onto the floor. Some of my pencils fell off the bed and rolled away. Without saying a word, Griffin grabbed my arm and pulled me closer, wrapping his arm around my waist. With only an inch or two between our bodies, heat exploded through mine. I still hadn’t recovered from my naughty art project and now I was in jeopardy of spontaneously combusting.
He lifted his arm from my waist and rested his fingers on my neck. Trailing them up my jaw and toward my ear, he pulled on the wires, and popped my earbuds free. He smirked, then put his hand back at my waist. “Whatcha drawing?” he whispered.
Sprinkles of sweat broke out along my forehead. Dear, sweet Jesus! I couldn’t remember how to talk, or breathe, or function like a rational human being.
“Jillibean?” Griffin brought his elbow up and rested his chin on his fist. “You okay?” he asked.
Suddenly, all my synapses fired at once. In one quick motion I jumped from the bed, making sure my sketchbook fell to the floor, joining the pencils. “What? Yeah…fine. I’m fine,” I stuttered.
He gave me a quizzical look and ran a palm through his hair, then rubbed his hand over his face a few times. He exhaled and stretched over the side of the bed, looking to the floor. Still unable to make my body function, I watched as he reached for my book. “Let’s see what masterpiece you’ve created today,” he said. Oh, it’s a masterpiece all right.