Letters to Nowhere

by Julie Cross

  I could feel my pulse pounding with both excitement and anticipation. Pan Am games weren’t quite as competitive as the Olympics or World Championships, but they were a very big deal and run just like the Olympics, with several days of competition and multiple sports. And to have a chance to prove myself on a beam that wasn’t the one in Houston where I had nearly suffocated from that crazy panic attack—this could be huge for me. If they weren’t considering me for the team, I wouldn’t be in this Skype meeting right now.

  “I just wanted to tell each of you the plan in person and to wish you luck. Making the Pan American team is a great honor, and the committee plans on fielding the best team possible. That means impressing international judges,” Nina said, then she looked right at me. “Karen, we’ll need a notarized letter from a legal guardian stating that you have permission to compete in Rio should you make the team. The old letter we have on file won’t be legal anymore. Please bring that with you to Chicago.”

  Everyone stilled and tension filled the air in Bentley’s office. “Thank you, Nina,” Bentley said, pulling his chair in front of the monitor. “I’m sure the girls are all thrilled with the opportunity you’ve presented.”

  He finished the conversation and ended the Skype session, then shooed us out of his office and into the hands of our very strict, very demanding dance teacher before any of us had the chance to absorb the news.

  I couldn’t help wondering if Bentley had known about the possibility of all of us making the Pan Am team all along. I had been thinking of Chicago as a practice meet, a very important practice meet, but still a competition where I could throw a layout Jaeger on the bars and as long as it looked decent, it wouldn’t be a huge deal if I fell because they’d see that it was a work–in–progress. But now it seemed that the committee wasn’t looking for work–in–progress routines next month; they wanted polished, Rio–ready routines and maybe that was why Bentley had come down so hard on me with these new skills. He wanted me to play it safe in Chicago so I could have a chance at making the team. And maybe the whole dead parent thing made it hard for him to tell me no, and he needed to let me go through the process myself. But was I really good enough to make the team without the new stuff? It didn’t seem possible. And if I did make the team, would I come back from Rio and head right to UCLA?

  ***

  Mom and Dad,

  What if I want to stay an elite for a while longer? Would that be okay with you? I want to compete at Nationals this summer and try to make the World team. I know we talked about this until we’d beaten the subject to death, I know Coach Cordes was very straight with us when he said it would be a long shot and college gymnastics was the more secure plan, but I’ve changed. I can’t explain it in words yet, but something is different and I want it so bad. But at the same time, I want to make you happy and Coach Cordes, he spent years training me and taught me so much gymnastics and he’s planning on me being there. Please tell me what to do?

  Love, Karen

  Jackie,

  Please can you just ask me about the panic attacks because I can’t bring them up on my own. Believe me, I’ve tried. And now, more than ever, I need to sort this out. I hate the nightmares and I hate the fear of losing control again like I did in Houston. Please make me talk about this.

  Your “bff,” Karen

  ***

  “Ready, Karen?”

  I glanced up from my copy of Catcher in the Rye and saw Jackie smiling at me as a grouchy looking middle–aged woman shuffled out of Jackie’s office and toward the receptionist’s desk.

  I stood up and she pointed at my book. “One of my favorites.”

  “Required reading for English.”

  She led me inside her flowery smelling office. “How are you today? What’s new in the world of elite gymnastics?”

  The first twenty minutes of our session was spent updating her on Bentley’s current hard–ass attitude and the upcoming competition and the Skype session today. She just listened like this was the most interesting story ever.

  “Coach Bentley really kicked you out of practice? And wait…did you say you drove home last night? I didn’t realize you had your license. I’ve noticed someone usually drops you off and picks you up here.” She flipped through her notebook, going back a bunch of pages.

  I chewed on a dangling piece of skin around my thumbnail and stared at my lap. “I hadn’t driven since…since my parent’s accident. I freaked out being in the house and I thought the car would be the same, but I did it anyway.” There. I mentioned freaking out. This was progress.

  Jackie surprised me by not taking on the dead parents look even when hit full–force with the subject. “What made you want to drive again?”

  I finally looked up at her. “Something Blair said last week. She thought maybe if I pushed myself to tackle some part of my fear it would be like training for the bigger moment. And I don’t want to fall apart in Chicago. I’ve got to figure out how to fix…how to fix me…so I’m ready.”

  “You can’t rush grieving any more than you can rush learning a new skill in gymnastics,” she said. “But I am glad you decided to drive again. It’s always good to put yourself back into your normal life, even if it’s just small pieces at a time. And I realize life is never going to be completely normal for you again, but it wouldn’t have been, regardless of whether your parents’ accident happened. You’re changing, and soon you’ll finish school and be moving on to something new…you’ve kissed a boy.” She smiled at that and I felt myself doing the same.

  “He’s really great.”

  “And totally cute.” Jackie leaned forward at her desk. “You did not tell me that part. I had to see it for myself.”

  I laughed. “He sings and plays the guitar too.”

  “Wow,” Jackie said. “That’s a lot of positives, and not enough negatives for you to avoid your feelings forever, I’m sure.”

  I ignored the comment, since I didn’t really know what to call us besides Jaren. “His mom played cello for the London Symphony Orchestra. His family is oozing with talent. He must have million–dollar genes. All I have to inherit from my parents is my mom’s gift for fundraising and my dad’s ability to argue for a living.”

  “Tell me about your dad,” Jackie said.

  I took a deep breath, keeping my voice calm and even. “He was a bit of workaholic. Sometimes my parents would fight about that, but then he’d come home by seven every night for a couple weeks and my mom would forgive him until the next time. But he worshipped her, really he did. And with me, he was always afraid to…to…”

  Jackie set her pen down, raising an eyebrow again. “To what?”

  “To baby me, I guess.” I wasn’t totally sure those words were exactly right, but I couldn’t think of a better way to explain. “It’s like he was okay with my mom being this person whose goals were to make the best hair bows and not forget to get her nails done before a fancy event with his firm.”

  I stared at the wall behind Jackie and something snapped inside of me. Suddenly, I saw my dad in a new light, and pieces flew together. All this anger and things I couldn’t even put into words poured out of me while I continued to answer Jackie’s question. “It’s not even that he was okay with her being like that, he actually liked her simple. But with me, he expected so much. Not in a way that he would verbalize, exactly, but it was always like I couldn’t just say, ‘I’m tired, Dad. I don’t feel well. My teammates are fighting with me,’ because I dreaded seeing that disappointment on his face, like he knew I could do better.”

  “Do you think maybe it was you who were worried about failing him?” Jackie asked. “Maybe you invented the expectations because your mom wasn’t the pushy type?”

  “I don’t know. It probably started when I was little and I’d hear him tell his friends and other parents how tough his little Karen was, and I didn’t want to show him any other side besides the tough one.” I moved my gaze from the wall back to Jackie. “But why was my mom just a woman to him,
and I was someone who had to be great? It doesn’t seem fair to either of us, does it?”

  “No,” Jackie said, surprising me with her honesty. “But you do want to be great, right?”

  “I think so…yes. Yes, I do, but more so now than before.” I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, picturing my mother and trying to feel her presence again so I could put this into words. “My mom was really smart. She studied accounting in college. She was a math whiz, but I don’t think my dad ever really noticed that about her. He loved to correct her, not in a domineering way, but in a way that made him go from serious to more affectionate. Why did she put up with that? I don’t get it. Short of going to my dad’s office and doing his work for him, my mom took care of everything else. I mean everything.”

  “It’s possible that your dad didn’t see you as someone who was eventually going to become a woman,” Jackie said. “To him, you were a person that he had to help to become independent. And as far as your mom goes, he wanted to take care of her, so he didn’t mind seeing her weakness. Maybe it made him feel secure, in a way. I’m not saying that it was right for him to think like that, but people don’t always do what’s most logical, even our parents.”

  “Maybe.” I tried to make the anger fade, but it still clung to me, giving me the urge to grab the ceramic cup from Jackie’s desk and throw it through the window.

  “I talk to a lot of patients who have lost someone,” Jackie said. “And most of them, probably all of them, tend to glorify their loved ones. They put them up on a pedestal, and you don’t seem to do that. You haven’t done that with me at all, and it would have been easier to just smile and tell me your dad was amazing.”

  “I guess I don’t really do that, not now or ever.” I felt my breathing become a little irregular, my lungs constricting just enough to make me sense a panic attack in the near future as the reality clawed at my throat, fighting its way out. “And I can’t see them as perfect. All I can see is…”

  “Is what?” Jackie prompted.

  I pressed my face into my hands, drawing as much air into my lungs as I could manage. My arms and legs had already started to shake. “I just see them in pieces…literally…body parts scattered all over the highway. I can hear them screaming, and my dad…he’s always decapitated. What does that even mean? Do I subconsciously hate him and I just cut off his head in this fictional version of their accident?”

  I didn’t remember feeling any tears fall, but they must have, because my hands and face were wet when I finally lifted my head. Jackie’s eyes were wide, and I knew she had to be thinking I was nuts or some kind of psychotic serial killing teenager. But at least I’d finally managed to put it all out there for her to see so she’d know what she was dealing with.

  Quickly, I wiped my face with the back of my hands and sat up straighter. “I just…I need to know more about what happened so I can shake this imagined version from my head. If you could just tell me…?”

  Jackie’s face filled with sympathy. “Karen, I don’t have that information. I’m sorry.”

  I closed my eyes again, drew in a deep breath, and opened them. “Okay, fine. Are we done for today?”

  “We don’t have to be. I don’t have another appointment until one. We can talk more if you’d like to. We can go over some techniques to use when you’re feeling panicked.”

  I shook my head. I’d already tried every basic method the Internet had to offer. None of it was specifically geared for my situation. “I’m ready to go.”

  As we approached the office door, Jackie rested a hand on my arm and said, “You can’t conquer everything in a day. Or even a week. Maybe not even a year. There’s no way to work hard at grieving. You just have to let it happen. And you are, so don’t fight it.”

  “I have no idea what that means,” I said, looking her right in the eyes.

  She started laughing and opened the door for me. “Exactly my point. Just keep being honest—with yourself and everyone trying to help you.”

  I sighed to myself as I headed back out into the cold air. Maybe I should have stuck to talking about sexting.

  ***

  I threw myself out of the moving car, tossing my body onto hard, frozen grass. I watched, breathless, as the car tumbled on the interstate, the missing letter on the gas station sign flickering from the side of the highway. Pieces of glass and metal rained down on me and a round hairy object bounced into the grass several feet away. I focused my eyes on it as it rolled toward me.

  My dad’s face came into view, eyes wide open, staring at me.

  ***

  I jolted upright in my bed, biting my tongue to keep from screaming. Sweat trickled down my neck and back and my chest heaved in and out so quickly I thought I’d pass out. I tossed back the covers and scrambled toward the door, forcing the light switch up.

  I glanced from corner to corner around the room, scanning the area for any round hairy objects. I leaned against the door, catching my breath before opening it and heading to the bathroom. After setting my retainer by the sink, I splashed cold water on my very pale face and tried to shake the nightmare.

  “Hey…” Jordan appeared in the bathroom doorway. He looked wide awake, like maybe he hadn’t even gone to sleep yet. His dark blond hair lay flat, not sticking up like in the morning, and he had gym shorts and a T–shirt on, not his usual boxers–only sleepwear.

  His eyes moved over me as I dropped the towel back onto the rack. “What’s wrong?” He stepped closer and placed both hands on my face. “God, you look pale.”

  I closed my eyes and drew in a breath. “Bad dream…very bad…”

  “Okay.” His voice melted over the top of me, already soothing some of the anxiety. “What should I search your room for? Monsters? Zombies?”

  I leaned forward and pressed my forehead into his T–shirt. “Round hairy objects.”

  “Got it.” He turned me around, guiding me by the shoulders back into my room. “The light’s already on, that’s good.” He stood behind me, rubbing my shoulders as he looked around the room. “Want me to check the closet first?”

  “I’m okay, seriously.” I turned around to face him. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

  “Talk to me. Tell me whatever you saw,” he said.

  We both sat down on the bed and I grabbed a pillow, hugging it to my chest. “It’s Jackie’s fault…”

  “The shrink?”

  “She made me talk about my dad and then I realized all this stuff I never thought about before.” I relayed the conversation from the most recent therapy session to Jordan, and he sat there and listened without interrupting. “Why do I keep decapitating him in my dreams and anytime I think about their accident? What’s wrong with me—”

  “Nothing is wrong with you,” Jordan said firmly.

  “But what’s the deal with my dad? Is he a total sexist pig or what? Why am I just now realizing this?”

  “I can’t answer that,” he said. “Not without knowing him. But maybe the real question is, why does it matter to you now? And I’m not even sure answering that question is going to help stop the nightmares.”

  “What will help?”

  He rested his hand on top of mine, thinking for a minute. “Maybe you need to remember something else. Like something good with your dad?”

  I closed my eyes searching my memory, sifting through moments and scenes from a very distant past. Finally, I looked at Jordan again. “Last summer at Nationals…”

  “Yeah?”

  “My parents met me in the media room after awards and my dad was wearing his ‘gym dad’ shirt and he had this giant button with my picture on it…” I swallowed back the lump in my throat. “I thought he was going to say how he was so proud of me for winning bars, but he grabbed me by the arms and shook me a little and said, ‘What was that bar dismount? I thought you were going to break your neck.’ And then he gave me the biggest hug and I was totally embarrassed because all the other girls were watching and my dad was picking me up like a little k
id. Mom just stood there shaking her head and finally said, ‘You nearly gave him a heart attack, Karen. He didn’t know you’d changed your bar dismount.’”

  “You used to do a double layout,” Jordan said.

  My eyebrows shot up. “Been looking me up?”

  He grinned but didn’t confirm or deny it. I exhaled and continued my story. “Anyway, I’d switched to the double front, and he thought I’d just peeled off and was heading neck first for the landing mats.” I wiped a tear from my cheek and smiled at Jordan. “I guess that’s not exactly a great memory, but I’d never seen my dad so worried about me before, and later, when we went out for dinner, we laughed about it a lot. Apparently he jumped out of his seat and someone had to yell at him to sit down. It’s not like he could have leapt through the stands and caught me or anything.”

  “I like it,” Jordan said. “If it made you laugh, that’s a good start. Much better than screaming.”

  “Yes, I learned that from Monsters, Inc. What about you? Don’t you have any good father–son memories with Coach Bentley?”

  Jordan laughed. “He’s still alive, you know? Not sure it’s legal to shift subjects on me like that.”

  I gave his shoulder a shove. “Come on, tell me something.”

  He let out a breath, letting me know he was only humoring me because of my current distress. “I remember riding on his shoulders everywhere. I was kind of a hellion child that didn’t seem to have any fear of taking off and getting lost from my parents. My mom would be yelling at me to stay close or hold her hand and Dad would pick me up and put me on his shoulders. It’s like he knew I just wanted to be able to see everything.”

  His gaze had been on mine the entire time he told his story, and the second he finished talking, I felt myself leaning forward, staring at his mouth. Jordan’s eyes started to close as he drifted forward and then they flew open, startling me. His hand shot out and touched my shoulder, preventing me from leaning closer.