Truth of the Matter

by Beck, Jamie

  Maybe just once is okay. It will help . . . I’ll feel better.

  I slide my fingertip along the knife blade, determined despite strained, rapid breaths. Maybe the scissor blade is less risky. I don’t know. I don’t want to die; I just want relief.

  My hands tremble as I extend my left arm and hold the blade against the inside of my forearm.

  No. Too hard to hide there. I don’t want to wear long-sleeved shirts all year long.

  Getting high usually numbed the pain, but I’ll be kicked off the team if I’m caught smoking again. This is safer and quicker.

  I move the blade higher on the inside of my biceps, just below my armpit. My breath is heavy, chest heaving rapidly. Oh God. Am I really going to do this?

  Before I overthink it, I clench my left fist and slash my upper arm with the blade.

  Ah!

  It stings at first, angry blood oozing down my biceps. Then a bloom of relief—euphoria-like—takes over. I’m floating outside my body, filled with peace as my brain quiets down. It’s so good. I can breathe without pain. I’m in control and calm . . . It’s better.

  I drop the blade on the desk and stare at the cut. When that immediate sense of ecstasy recedes, my mouth is agape with shame. New tears blur my vision. I grab some tissues to press against the wound, then throw them in the trash and run to the bathroom to wash away the disgrace.

  The water is so hot it hurts my skin, but I want the punishment. Moments later, I think I hear my mom calling my name and stomping around, but it’s more like a dream than reality. Especially with steam billowing all around.

  I’m standing beneath the showerhead, crying quietly when my mom blows into the bathroom, shouting my name. She rips open the shower curtain, crying, the bloody pocketknife in her hand.

  Our gazes lock, and I almost throw up as I choke out, “I’m sorry, Mom!”

  “Oh, Katy!” She whimpers, shivering.

  The knife clatters on the tile floor as she grabs me into a bear hug, both of us sobbing as water douses her and the bathroom floor.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ANNE

  I can’t stop shaking. Katy’s bawling reverberates off all the tile, each sob a puncture to my heart. I don’t want to let go of her, but the bathroom is flooding with water from the shower spout. “I love you, sweetie. I’m sorry you’re hurting. I’m so sorry.”

  Tears gush down my cheeks. My breaths come in gulps as my thoughts alternate between fear and relief. When Richard called to tell me about the disastrous visit and Katy’s refusal to answer his calls, I raced home expecting trouble . . . but not this. Never this.

  I break away long enough to shut off the water, then yank a towel from the rack and wrap it around her, smoothing my hands over her head and her face while sending up silent prayers that she hadn’t done worse to herself.

  Her piercing blue eyes cloud and her features all crumple at once. “Don’t tell Dad. Please, Mom. Please don’t tell Dad.”

  She’s bawling. I kick the knife at my feet aside before helping her safely step out of the tub. While she clings to my chest, I whisper, “Sh. Sh, sh, sh.”

  I kiss her wet head, wishing for the power to absorb all her pain so she would be free of its burden. My baby hurt herself on purpose. That is so much bigger than anything I can understand and handle. And it’s not something I can keep from Richard, no matter how much she pleads.

  For years he’s talked me out of hiring a therapist to help with Katy’s anxiety. “She’s a teen,” he’d say. “All teens act like this.” I’d caved instead of trusting my gut. We’re soaked in blood and water now because I didn’t stand up to my husband.

  When Katy’s crying dissolves into hiccups, I guide her to the toilet and make her sit. Without saying a word, I raise her arm and inspect the cut. It’s pretty superficial, thank God. No need for stitches, although it is about two inches long. After retrieving first-aid supplies from the vanity, I drop to my knees, dry the area surrounding the slash, apply antibiotic ointment, then cover it with a large, square Band-Aid.

  Katy’s body goes limp while she looks at everything but me. I reach for her face, cupping her cheek and then turning her chin until she can’t avoid my gaze. “Can you stand?”

  She nods, so I rise and lend her my arm, although I’m still wobbly.

  “How about you put on some comfy clothes and then come downstairs. I’ll make tea and we can order pasta for dinner.” My heart continues to thump unevenly.

  New tears spill from her eyes. “You’re going to tell Dad, aren’t you?”

  She hunches, shoulders quivering.

  I clasp her biceps and briefly touch my forehead to hers. “We have to tell him, honey. He’s your father. He’s worried about you—that’s why he called me.”

  Katy puckers her face before hanging her head, so I hug her again. I’m entirely out of my depth. The only parenting tool I can access is to hold on tight and pray we both make it through this storm. “It’ll be okay. We’ll figure this out together, I promise. Tonight, try to relax. Can you do that?”

  “Are you ashamed of me?” Her voice cracks.

  “No!” I shake my head. “Never. I’m scared and I ache for you, but I’m not ashamed. You are my everything, Katy. My star and angel. My light and heart. If anything, I’m upset with myself for underestimating your pain.”

  Katy’s eyes reveal doubt, but she tugs the towel more tightly around her body and makes for the door. Once she disappears, I stoop to pick up the pocketknife. My daughter’s blood turns the sink bowl pink as I rinse its blade. Fresh tears—hot and stinging—coat my eyes.

  My gorgeous, talented girl was distraught and then harming herself while I was half flirting with Dan and enjoying my afternoon. Heavy loads of guilt climb all over my back, buckling my knees. I should’ve listened when she suggested putting off her visit. At the very least, I should’ve texted her to see how it was going.

  What if she’d accidentally cut too deeply? I smooth my finger along the knife’s edge, sick at the thought of her slicing her skin open. This is what happens when I take my eyes off her and do something for myself.

  Once the blade is dry, I fold it together, then slip it into my pocket. Icy water cools my face but does nothing to reduce its splotchiness. I dry my eyes, then go to check on my daughter. Tapping at her door, I ask, “Are you okay?”

  She opens it, wearing pajamas, and nods.

  “Good.” I touch her wet hair. “Would you still like pasta for dinner?”

  She pulls back slightly, then twirls her hair in her fingers. “I’m not hungry.”

  I stroke her cheek to satisfy the instinct to touch her, as if reassuring myself that she is still here with me. “I know, but it’s important to eat something. How about sushi?”

  “Maybe just instant oatmeal,” she says.

  “Done. Dry your hair and grab your slippers, then join me downstairs. Maybe we can watch something on Netflix.” I don’t want to leave her alone for long.

  “Okay.” She doesn’t ask for the knife back, which I take as a good sign.

  I pad downstairs, dread rising because Richard’s awaiting a call. After filling a bowl with water and oatmeal and popping it in the microwave, I dial my ex.

  “She’s home?” he asks without pleasantries.

  “Yes. She was home when I arrived.”

  “Good. Now I can be angry.”

  “Not so fast, Richard.” My voice wobbles, but I collect myself. “Katy cut herself.”

  “On what?” he asks, clearly not understanding what I’m telling him.

  “She took the pocketknife we bought her and slashed the underside of her upper arm. I found her sobbing in the shower.”

  “Jesus Christ!” he booms. He always shouts when he’s scared. It’s not something I’ve seen often, as he doesn’t scare easily, but for all his discipline and strength, he falls apart in a crisis. It sounds like he’s pacing when he repeats himself. “Jesus Christ.”

  Well, if that’s his idea of pray
ing, we’re out of luck.

  “It’s pretty superficial and she’s calmed down, but I think it’s time to take her to a therapist. She needs someone to talk to—a neutral professional whom she trusts.” I hold my breath, bracing for blowback.

  “You shouldn’t have moved, Anne. It was too much too soon.” His gruff judgment sets my teeth on edge, but I close my eyes and count to three.

  How can I argue when I’ve wondered the same thing? But even before the move, Katy struggled with her emotions. Whatever transpired earlier today brought everything to a head. “It’s more complicated than that, Richard. I’ve warned you for years that this is a deep-seated issue.” My thoughts shift to the possibility that Gram spent time in a psychiatric facility because of something that happened with her father. “Tell me exactly what happened at your house.”

  While I take the oatmeal out of the microwave and grab a spoon, he pauses long enough to suggest he’s not blameless.

  “Dammit . . .” It sounds like he’s scrubbing his neck or face with one hand. “It was going okay, but then Katy caught Lauren searching her suitcase for drugs.”

  “What?” My body flashes hot, then cold, while a roar gathers in my chest. How dare she!

  “She was worried that Zoe or Brody could stumble upon them. But she knows she handled the situation badly and apologized.”

  Handled it badly—is that all she thinks? My exploding thoughts override most of whatever else he’s blabbering. “I told Lauren there wouldn’t be any drugs.”

  “Katy mentioned that Lauren had called you. I’m sorry for that. I assure you, Lauren and I have discussed all of this, and neither of these things will happen again. You have my word.”

  Ever since he broke our vows, his word means nothing to me. “I want more than that, Richard. I don’t want her around Katy. Not until Katy wants to see her.”

  “That could take months.” He sounds panicked.

  I don’t care if it takes years. Our daughter shouldn’t be subjected to someone she can’t trust. “That’s not Katy’s fault. Lauren set off this spiral. Doesn’t that matter to you?”

  “Anne, I’m devastated, but it’s not fair to lay all the blame on Lauren.”

  My entire body vibrates to the point where I nearly kick a chair and throw my phone. “Tell yourself whatever lets you sleep at night, but for the foreseeable future, find ways to see your daughter that don’t involve your girlfriend. Take Katy away for a weekend. Have her visit when Lauren isn’t around. I don’t care. Work it out, but don’t expect your child to open her arms to Lauren just because you want it to be easy.” I draw a breath. “We’re in crisis mode, Richard. We need to tread carefully and support Katy. Speaking of that, her school has an art show later this fall. Katy’s idea for a family tree project will require both our help. It’d be nice if you’d get involved and make a point to come to her show. And I don’t want any more arguments about getting her into therapy. In fact, we need family therapy, too.”

  I grab my head to stanch the throbbing. If only I’d forced these things years ago. All this time I’d convinced myself the only person hurt by my biting my tongue had been me.

  He blows out a long breath. “Fine, but can we look for a therapist somewhere in between our towns? You know my schedule. If I have to come all the way down there, that’ll take nearly three hours in round-trip drive time.”

  My spine softens with his unexpected acquiescence. I dab the tears in my eyes. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Can I talk to Katy?”

  “She’s getting dressed.” I sprinkle a touch of brown sugar and a handful of raisins on the oatmeal. “I’ll have her call you later, but listen. She begged me not to tell you, Richard. She loves you yet is terrified of you, and she’s convinced she’s being replaced by Zoe and Brody. Whatever you do or say, please don’t use shame or guilt. Just love her. Accept her, flaws and all.”

  “I do!”

  My chin dips involuntarily. “Well, she doesn’t always feel that way, and her perception is what matters.” I hear Katy starting down the steps. “Keep your phone nearby.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll get in touch once I find a therapist. Bye.” I hang up and tuck my phone in my back pocket as Katy hits the bottom tread.

  “Was that Dad?” She’s as pale as her white terry cloth robe.

  “Yes.”

  Her face scrunches up. “Is he furious?”

  “He’s concerned. He also told me what Lauren did today. I totally get your anger.”

  Her eyebrows rise above wide eyes. “You’re not mad?”

  “No.” I hand her the bowl of oatmeal. “Let’s sit on the couch.”

  She shuffles across the floor and plops cross-legged into one corner of the sofa, then reaches for the bowl. I sit beside her, letting her take two spoonfuls.

  “Honey.” I grip her knee. “I think we need to find a counselor.”

  “No!” Her shoulders droop along with her mouth. “I swear I won’t do it again, Mom. Please don’t make me a freak.”

  “Sweetheart, you’re not a freak. But you obviously have big worries that neither Dad nor I are equipped to manage. I actually think we should all get advice learning how to be this new kind of family. Plus it’d be a huge help to have someone you trust teach you to manage your stress so this doesn’t happen again.” Tears form the instant I recall finding that bloody knife on her desk. “Katy, I don’t know what I’d do if anything terrible ever happened to you. It terrifies me to think about what might’ve happened if that cut had been deeper. Please, honey.”

  She pushes the oatmeal around with the spoon, her eyes misty, her cheeks red. In a weepy voice, she asks, “What’s wrong with me?”

  I gently take the bowl from her and set it down before snuggling closer and pulling her head to my shoulder. “Nothing’s wrong with you. But maybe you’ve always worked so hard to be perfect you’ve worn yourself thin, making the stress of this divorce and move harder to handle—and these things are never easy in the first place.”

  Katy mumbles, “Gee, wonder where I learned that?”

  Oof. I’m pinned to the sofa by that dagger, mostly because it’s laden with the weight of truth. There’s some caustic irony: compensating to ensure Katy didn’t end up with my issues has inadvertently pressured her into pursuing perfection. I close my eyes, defeated by that possibility. “Fair point. But all I’ve ever wanted was to give you what I didn’t have—a parent who’s fully invested in you. Not because I wanted you to be perfect, but because I hoped it’d help you to grow up secure and confident.”

  I ease back a bit to see her face.

  “Sorry it didn’t turn out like you expected. Just another way I’ve let you down.” Her eyes are dewy as she presses at the Band-Aid on her arm.

  I hold her tight again. “I never said you let me down.”

  “You don’t have to, Mom.” She pulls away. “You and Dad both think I’m some kind of superstar. I’ll never live up to that.”

  “Honey, we never meant to make you feel like that. We only get excited about your potential. It’s supposed to be a compliment. The sky is the limit for you.”

  “Stop,” she warns.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. I’m scared. But attacking me doesn’t change what’s happening inside you.”

  We sit in silence while she sniffles. I’m fending off self-loathing, but it’s difficult. I should’ve fought harder to better address her anxieties sooner.

  Suddenly a bitter laugh threatens to explode. I beat myself up for mistakes exactly like she does. Is that learned behavior or a genetic tendency? Either way, I can’t stop my daughter from doing it when I can’t even stop myself.

  If she’s subliminally mirroring me, then my interactions with Richard these past months might be tearing her in two.

  “I have a question, and please be honest. Do you feel pressured to dislike Lauren for my sake?” I hate Lauren and, in my heart of hearts, do not want her to be close to my daughter. But
my petty jealousy shouldn’t be foisted upon my child. When Katy doesn’t answer, I add, “No matter how I feel, you should form your opinions based on how she treats you. Don’t start off hating her out of loyalty to me, or because she hurt me.”

  “But she didn’t just hurt you. She screwed up my life, too,” Katy moans.

  “She crossed some lines, which makes her an easy target.” A target I love to hit again and again because that’s easier than admitting to the more complicated nuances in my marriage, as if refusing to examine them closely will keep them from hurting me. “The truth is, somewhere along the way, your dad and I stopped making each other a priority. I wish we both would’ve worked on that before it was too late, but we didn’t. I might not have been the one to walk away, but I have to take some blame for our breakup, too.” There. I said it aloud, and it didn’t kill me.

  She picks at fuzz on her robe, absorbed in her own thoughts. The way her eyelids twitch and narrow tells me she’s forming a plan. Richard taught her how to strategize, and I’m not sure I like it much.

  “If Dad realizes that he made a mistake, would you take him back?” Hopefulness floods her eyes.

  For a fleeting moment I consider lying because I’m terrified that she might hurt herself if there’s no chance.

  “I’d be tempted to for your sake, honey.” I kiss her head again in a lame effort to dry her tears. “But while there are things about your father that I’ll always admire, we weren’t making each other happy, and that’s not good for us or for you.”

  She slumps. “Now holidays and vacations and birthdays will always be a little sad.”

  I nod, my nose and eyes clogging with tears. “I’m sorry. But I promise I’ll be flexible. It won’t upset me when you want to spend some of them with your dad.”

  In truth, that will kill me, but she shouldn’t have to take on my pain.

  “Why should you spend a holiday alone when he’s the one who did this? Let him spend the holidays with his new family.” She scowls.