by Vikki Patis
‘Why don’t you wear your hair like Abby?’ her mum would say, twirling a strand of Izzy’s wild hair around her fingers. ‘Or at least put a brush through it. It’s so tangled, Isabelle.’
‘Would you like your brows waxed? You could come with me to the salon next time.’
‘How about a walk? Work off those brownies!’
‘Why don’t you go out with Sian/Jess/Abby/insert name here anymore? Have you had a falling out?’
Microaggressions, Alicia calls them. Their mother is the queen of nitpicking. And although Alicia rarely acknowledges it anymore, Izzy remembers comforting her sister when she still lived at home, her eyes red from crying.
‘She means well,’ Alicia said after getting it off her chest. ‘I know she just wants what’s best for us.’
‘But how does she know what’s best?’ Izzy said. ‘What’s best for her isn’t going to be what’s best for you, or for me.’
Alicia smiled then, wrapping her sister in her arms. ‘We just need to figure it out for ourselves,’ she said.
But Izzy hasn’t managed to figure it out yet, whatever it is. When she straightened her hair for school one day, she managed to fry the ends and had to trim them off. When she wore lipstick, a teacher sent her to the toilets to scrub it off because ‘you’re here for an education, Isabelle, not a night out’. When she wore shorts to the cinema with a group of friends, one of the boys called her Chub Rub for the rest of the day. Even when she started going out with Seb, the girls laughed at her, whispering behind her back about it not being real, how he was only with her out of pity or desperation. As if they knew the truth.
She doesn’t want to be like them, those girls who call her names and laugh at her, but she wants to be liked by them. She just wants to be seen. At home, she blends into the background of everyday life, against the backdrop of washing and dinner and homework. At school, she feels like a ghost, haunting the corridors between lessons, sitting mute at her desk, getting average grades and average parents’ evening reports. Once, her science teacher mixed her up with another student, another girl who blends in so easily, she almost disappears entirely.
Now she longs for the days of blending in, when she was just someone who hung around on the edge of the group, never speaking up, never putting herself forward. It was easier then, she thinks now, when I was invisible.
Izzy lies on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. Michael has gone into the study, she heard his footsteps stomping along the hall after the police left. She thinks of when she had let Michael answer the door to Seb, when she had known who it would be, and how Michael would react. But despite telling him to come, she could not face him after all, the boy she has betrayed. The friend she has hurt.
She wonders if they are ashamed of her, if they would ever admit to it. Michael might, but Izzy knows her mother truly does mean well. She thinks of the days when it was just the three of them, when Caitlyn was more stressed and had less energy, but somehow the days seemed brighter, happier. Perhaps it was because anything was better than those months when she didn’t have a mother, when Caitlyn locked herself in her bedroom, consumed by sadness and alcohol. She was just glad to have her mum back, glad she wasn’t saying those horrible things anymore.
How sad, she thinks. How pathetic. Those are the words she heard in the school toilets, the day she tried to end her life. Some of the girls were huddled in front of the mirror, swapping lip gloss and drawing on their eyebrows in a way Izzy has never managed to master. She was hiding in one of the cubicles, feet drawn up, reading the writing on the back of the door. I was here scrawled in red pen. Who? she thought. Not me. I’m not here.
‘She’s so pathetic,’ she heard Abby say. ‘How desperate do you have to get?’
‘I know,’ Jess piped up. ‘Who does that?’
Ghosts, Izzy thought. Ghosts who want to be seen.
‘It’s all for attention,’ Abby said. ‘It’s sooo obvious. Desperate for people to like her.’
‘Who would?’ Sian said. ‘She’s so weird.’
Weird. Pathetic. Desperate. Is that all they think of me? Tears slipped down her face as she listened to her classmates. She tried not to remember when she and Abby were at primary school together, how Izzy had helped her learn to read. She tried not to remember the birthday parties and trips to the park or the zoo, before they drifted apart. She tried not to remember that sleepover from the summer before, the gentleness of Sian’s fingers as she spread the mask over Izzy’s face, dabbing a blob of bright green on her nose with a grin.
She tried not to wonder if they had actually seen the photo, but by the end of the school day, her fears were confirmed. Everyone had seen it. She heard whispers everywhere she turned, was convinced that every laugh she heard was directed at her. She remembers running home, desperate to escape, desperate for it all to just stop.
She tries not to remember taking the pills, or the feel of the razor in her hand. She tries to block it all out, wonders if she really had wanted to die, or if she’d just wanted it all to stop. What was the difference anyway? If she was dead it would stop, and it would stop if she was dead. And at that moment, the snide comments and muffled giggles ringing in her ears, she had wanted it to end, one way or another.
Izzy closes her eyes, her fists clenched by her sides. She thinks of the police officer, PC Willis, and how she had looked when Izzy refused to name the person she sent the photo to. Disappointed, annoyed. But Izzy hadn’t wanted the police to get involved. She hadn’t wanted any of it. She had only wanted to go to sleep and never wake up. But now she isn’t just the girl who sent indecent images of herself. She is also the girl who’d tried to kill herself, and that is a stain she thinks will be hard to wash out.
20
Caitlyn
The next day, I book an appointment with the therapist, managing to get a cancellation slot at short notice. Alicia has extended her trip home for a few days, brushing aside my worries about her falling behind with her course with a smile.
‘I’m top of my class,’ she said with a wink, which I know is a lie, but I also know that Alicia can breeze through almost anything in life, and besides, I need her now more than ever.
I do not tell Isabelle about the appointment until we need to leave. She glares at me as I stand in the hall with my coat on, my handbag held before me like a shield.
‘Come on, Isabelle,’ I say, trying to keep my voice light. ‘After what… After everything, you need to talk to someone.’
Alicia comes down the stairs behind her sister, placing a hand on her shoulder as she passes. ‘We’ll all go,’ she says, smiling. ‘Together.’
And so we go, Isabelle in the front beside me, her head turned towards the window, away from me. Even Alicia is quiet as we drive to the therapist’s office then sit for a moment, the engine off, the afternoon sun bright through the windscreen. I lead the way into the building, up three flights of stairs that smell of polish and into a small waiting room, where I get us all a cup of water and we sit clutching them, muscles clenched, silent, until we are called in.
The therapist, Libby, gives us a smile as we sit opposite her on the lumpy couch. ‘Nice to see you all again,’ she says. ‘Though I wish it were under different circumstances, of course.’ She crosses one ankle over the other, seemingly relaxed. ‘Caitlyn, would you like to begin?’
I take a deep breath, but to my surprise, Isabelle speaks first.
‘We’re here because of me,’ she says, ‘again.’
Libby looks at her. ‘Do you want to tell me what happened, Izzy?’
She picks at the side of her thumbnail. ‘I took a nude photo of myself and it got shared around the school, and now everyone thinks I’m a hoe. A slut.’
I recoil at the word, the hard t at the end. ‘Now, Isabelle,’ I begin, but Libby gives a shake of her head that says let her finish.
Isabelle sighs. ‘That’s it really.’
Libby is frowning slightly. ‘Someone shared a photo of you without your co
nsent. Would you like to tell me why you took it?’ Isabelle shrugs. ‘I’m not the police, Izzy,’ Libby urges gently when Isabelle doesn’t speak. ‘I’m not here to gather evidence. I’m here to help you work through this trauma.’
Trauma. Damage that occurs as a result of a distressing event. An ‘after’ word.
‘I understand you hurt yourself?’ Libby asks. ‘What made you do that?’
‘I just wanted it to stop.’ Isabelle’s voice wobbles as she speaks, and I see Alicia slip an arm around her, knowing that if I tried to comfort my daughter I would be pushed away. When did this happen? When did we drift so far apart? ‘I didn’t see another way out.’
‘Out of what?’ Libby asks.
‘This. Everything. Everyone has seen the photo. Everyone.’ Tears slip down her cheeks now and I feel my own eyes burn. ‘They all hate me. I heard some girls talking about it at school, that day, and I just couldn’t take it anymore.’
‘Are people bullying you again, Izzy?’
Isabelle wipes her nose on her sleeve, nods. ‘Still. It’s the same people, just a different theme. Izzy is a weirdo has turned into Izzy is a slag.’ She laughs then, a humourless bark of laughter. ‘And I still have no friends, no matter what I do.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
I glance at my daughter, trying to read her expression, her body language, but she is just radiating pain. I reach out and take her hand, and she lets me hold it, my thumb pressing against her knuckles.
‘I mean that it doesn’t matter what I do, how I dress, whether I wear make-up or not, whether I go out drinking or not, whether I try or not, it’s always the same. Nobody likes me. I’m alone.’ My heart tears in two at her words, and I reach for a tissue to blot away her tears. She moves her face away, her fiery gaze locking onto mine. ‘You’ve always told me to be more like the others,’ she says with such venom I flinch away, but her fingers grip onto mine. ‘You’ve always tried to pressure me into being someone I’m not.’
‘Isabelle, no, come on. I–’
‘See? It’s Izzy. Izzy. Not Isabelle. You’re the only one who calls me that.’
I blink as if stunned. ‘But I gave you that name,’ I say, ‘after my grandmother. It’s a beautiful name.’ Alicia is staring down at her feet. I turn to Libby as if seeking support. ‘I don’t mean anything by it.’
‘Perhaps Izzy is trying to tell you who she is,’ Libby says gently.
‘It’s because you wanted an abortion,’ Izzy says, so softly I almost miss it. ‘It’s because you didn’t want me.’
I stare at her, my youngest daughter, with her tear-soaked face and fingers gripping mine. As if realising she is still holding them, she lets go, brushing my hand away like a bug on a dinner plate. Alicia still won’t meet my gaze.
‘Who told you that?’ I whisper, my heart pounding loudly in my ears.
‘You did,’ she says, her eyes flashing with rage. ‘Did you think I had forgotten? Did you think I wouldn’t remember something like that?’
Alicia leads her sister down the stairs, while I stand in the waiting room, my heart pounding in my ears. It’s because you didn’t want me.
It’s not true! I want to scream. But the memory is coming back to me, flooding my vision. An empty vodka bottle, a dark, musty room. Two small faces peering at me from the end of the bed. Shame heats my cheeks as my own voice rings in my ears. I should never have had you. I was never meant to be a mother.
Libby comes up beside me, a warm hand on my back. ‘While family therapy is of great importance,’ she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, ‘I would like to suggest a session with Izzy alone, if she would consent to it. I suspect she may benefit from it. And I think you should come again, too, by yourself. There’s a lot to work through.’
I walk away without answering, my muscles trembling, bile rising in my throat. I caused this. I am the reason Isabelle doesn’t want to live. I am a bad mother.
21
Seb
Lew: Has anyone seen Crooks lately??
Liam: I don’t think you should call him that
Lew: Why? He doesn’t mind
Liam: Racist doesn’t know when he’s being racist
Lew: Shut up man, how can I be racist?
Josh: Oh here we go
Liam: “I’m not racist, I have black friends”
Lew: Fuck off. He’s not even black
Liam:
