Truth of the Matter

by Beck, Jamie

  “Do you want to talk about how you feel, or would you rather sleep on it?” she asks, holding her breath.

  She’s scared about me cutting again. The urge is still there—I can’t lie. The rubber band helps, and I don’t want more scars. My goal is to make it to my next appointment with Dr. Grant without another scar. “I’ll think about it. Right now, I need to shower before Tomás shows up.”

  “Let me get that roast out of the oven before it’s totally ruined.” She removes her smock and hangs it on the hook.

  I’m not great at telling people how I feel, but there are a lot of feelings right now, so I catch her by the hand.

  “I love you, Mom.” I hug her really hard. She holds me so tight I’m surprised we don’t both pass out.

  We break apart without saying more. She kisses my forehead, and we head to the house so I can clean up. The hot shower doesn’t fully soothe my uneasiness.

  No matter what she says, she’ll be sad if I go live with Dad. Dealing with Lauren more often sounds worse than sticking it out here. Graduating from this high school will also mean less competition within my class for the top schools. That ups my chances for UVA or Georgetown. Some of the girls on my soccer team are nice. I could try harder to insert myself into their groups. And then there’s Tomás. He’s nice. And cute, in a geeky kind of way. When that makes me smile, I frown.

  Sometimes I wish I could see the future and know everything will be okay.

  Downstairs, Mom’s plated slices of roast beef with roasted potatoes. Comfort food, as she calls it. We don’t say much while taking our seats. I guess we’re the same—all mixed up and trying to figure out what to do next. Rather than talk about that more, I change the subject.

  “Did you ever ask Grammy about Billy’s obituary?”

  “I did.” She bites her lip. “To be honest, there’s a lot more to the story.” She launches into this whole thing about Grammy and suicide attempts and ECT. I can hardly believe any of it. “It puts a lot of things in a new perspective. My mom doted on me completely before she died, and then Gram did after that. My whole life I thought they were examples of ‘perfect’ motherhood.

  “But knowing what Gram suffered—what she lost and why—has helped me start to look at our life differently. For the better, I think. It must’ve been frustrating for her, trying to be that square peg in a round hole. But I know she wants something different for us now. I think the first step is that we respect each other and honor our own needs. That said, I emailed Dr. Grant about Gram’s suicide attempt because depression can be genetic.”

  If my stomach was queasy before, it’s worse now. “Do you think I’m suicidal? ’Cause I’m not. I don’t want to die.”

  “No, honey. I don’t think you’re suicidal, but depression can run in families, so we should treat it like heart disease and diabetes. We give our doctors all the facts so they know what to watch for.”

  “Does Pop-Pop know?”

  She nods. “I told him yesterday.”

  “Why?” I drag a potato through some of the beef gravy. “I mean, it’s not like it makes much difference to him now.”

  “I hope it explains why she wasn’t warmer to him when he was young. It wasn’t personal, but she was still close to her grief and wrestling her choices. Maybe that will help him make peace with it before it’s too late.” She shrugs, fork and knife in hand, with a huff. “Or maybe it won’t make a damn bit of difference to anyone but me.”

  “What about Grammy? Does she remember telling you all her secrets?”

  She leans forward, chin on her fists. “I’m not sure. But I hope, in the moment she unloaded it all, it gave her some closure.”

  The doorbell rings before I can ask more. “That’s probably Tomás. Please don’t be weird.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she says drolly. She was actually okay the last time he came to work in the studio, so I shouldn’t worry.

  I trot to the door, feeling a little lighter after Mom and I have cleared the air. Surprise, surprise—Elmo’s in sweats and an old T-shirt instead of his typical hipster clothes. I must be staring, because he says, “I was helping my dad with the leaves.”

  I nod and wave him inside.

  Mom waves. “Hey, Tomás. Are you hungry?”

  She never said what she thinks of him, but she must notice how different he is from the guys I used to hang out with—and not only because he’s half their size.

  “I ate already, but thanks.” He shoots me a look. “Are you finished with dinner?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You two go on. I’ll deal with the dishes,” Mom offers.

  “Great. Thanks,” I say.

  Tomás waves to my mom. “Nice to see you, Mrs. Chase.”

  I get why my mom flinches every time someone calls her that. It’s a crappy reminder.

  I lead Tomás outside.

  “Are you bummed you aren’t putting anything in the show?” he asks, slowing down.

  “A little.” I snap the rubber band.

  His gaze drops to my wrist, and he twists his mouth. “When do those stitches come out?”

  I stare at him, mortified. “Soon.”

  He’s studying me. “I want to say something, but don’t take it wrong. It’s, like, not a judgment at all, but I think I know what the deal is with that rubber band. I had a cousin who cut herself for a while, but she’s better now. It gets better.”

  Rather than hide, I hold my arm out. “I’ve only done it twice.”

  “That’s really good.” He surprises me when he takes my hand and squeezes it. My body fills with warmth. He’s so not my type, but I like Tomás. Like, I might like him like him.

  I pull my hand back but resist the urge to rub my thumb on my palm where his fingers had been. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For being straight up. Not playing dumb. It’s actually nice to be able to talk about it with someone besides my doctor or my parents.”

  “Trust me, there’s no way you’re the only one at school who cuts.”

  “You think?” I can’t imagine other kids as screwed up as me.

  “Think about it. No one sees this side of you at school because you project this tough act. Most kids envy you—the girl with everything—while they sit at home wishing they had your life.”

  “Joke’s on them.” I try to laugh it off, but it’s hard in the face of my stitches. How ridiculous that anyone would envy me. Then I think about how I look on the outside, how my old friends look in their Insta feed, and I get a crazy idea. “What if we took pictures of my arm? Like a series of photos—a statement about high school and stress . . . sort of the anti-Finsta poster girl.”

  His brows rise so high they’re covered by his bangs. “It’s super brave to be that real. Like really real.”

  “My camera is in the studio.”

  “I’ll shoot them for you. You just tell me how you want them—you know, angles, close-ups, whatever.”

  I glance around the patio, but it’s too dark for good photos outside. “Okay. If they come out good, we can submit them as a joint project.”

  “Cool.” He smiles. “Where do you want to start?”

  “I guess in the studio. Go ahead up. My camera should be on the desk. I need to grab my X-Acto knife, otherwise it won’t make sense.” After the second cutting, Mom removed the knife from the studio and put it in the kitchen junk drawer. I can hardly blame her for taking a precaution.

  He grimaces. “That’s bold.”

  I shrug. “Be right back.”

  When I duck inside, my mom asks, “Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah. I need my knife.” I see a moment of terror cross her face before I go into the kitchen. “Don’t worry. It’s for the pictures.”

  “What pictures?” She blinks.

  Tomás is already waiting for me, so I quickly relay my idea. My mom’s heart is beating so violently I can see an artery in her neck pulsing.

  She swallows hard. “If you think you�
�re ready for that, I trust you. Take the pictures and see how they turn out. If you change your mind, that’s fine, too.”

  That had to be super hard for her. I might change my mind, but right now I’m inspired, and not just because Tomás called me brave. “Thanks.”

  After I get up to the studio, I slide onto my seat with my forearm on my desk facing upward and the blade lying beside it. He takes one photo from a standing position, then he crouches to be even with my arm. When he’s that close, I can smell his deodorant—it’s spicy. And his hair is so thick and shiny I want to touch it. When I hear the click, I shift my arm back and tug at the rubber band with my other fingers. “Take this, too.”

  He does.

  Then I look at him. “Might as well go for it.” I hold my forearm up under my chin. “Somber or smiling?”

  “How do you feel?” he asks. Such a simple question on the surface, but so complex.

  I feel powerful, like I’m taking control over my scars. The courage makes me want to smile, so I do.

  Tomás takes two more pictures and then hands me the camera. He stretches his arms behind his back. “I bet more pictures have been taken since we were born than in all of history before that. People are obsessed. Dinner plates and selfies—it’s all kind of dumb. I only want to take pictures that mean something, like these.”

  “Does everything have to mean something? Sometimes it’s fun to see a picture of a really cool cake.”

  He tips his head side to side like he’s considering that. “Except all those meaningless pictures have replaced actual conversation.”

  I shove his shoulder. “You sound like my mom.”

  “I’m an old soul, I guess.” He laughs. I like that, because his laugh sounds like freedom.

  He is an old soul, which also explains why he doesn’t run with a crowd. Elmo doesn’t fit in, but he doesn’t care. There’s something liberating about that. He’s got no trouble making decisions or deciding what he wants. He’s not so screwed up that he’s abusing himself. Why does he even want to hang around me?

  Tomás kicks my foot playfully. “Jane, you seem . . . preoccupied.”

  I meet his gaze. “My mom just offered to let me go live with my dad so I could go back to Prep.”

  He pulls back, frowning. “Is that what you want?”

  I glance at my feet and shrug.

  His head tilts sideways, his eyes downcast. “I thought you didn’t like Lauren.”

  “I don’t.”

  He rubs his scalp. “Your mom is pretty cool to let you choose.”

  I’m not sure what to make of her, like all of a sudden she’s made this big U-turn on me. She’s basically giving me everything I said I wanted, but the truth is, what I actually want is to be like Tomás—centered and certain.

  He is pretty quiet now, but I don’t ask what’s on his mind.

  While I’m plugging the camera into the computer, Tomás flicks my arm. “Sorry if I’m being weird. You should go back if that makes you happy.”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “You should stay so I can have access to this place,” he teases. Then he clears his throat. “And ’cause I’d miss you.”

  A satisfied sigh forms before I can stop it. “You’re so honest . . . like you couldn’t care less what other people think. How do you do that?”

  “I care what some people think, like my family.” He shrugs. “But high school is just four years of my life. Why worry about most of those people’s opinions when I’ll move on soon enough?”

  Like my old friends have moved on without me.

  He smooths his hand along the edge of the desk. “I figure stuff will work out like it’s supposed to.”

  “But what if you’re wrong? What if nothing works out right?”

  He laughs. “I guess I’ll deal with it then.”

  “So you really don’t try to control anything, not even the stuff you wish would last?”

  “If something is important, I’ll work hard for it. But the best surprises come when stuff unfolds naturally, like getting to know you.” One half of his mouth lifts, and the air in the shed charges. My heart skips a beat, too.

  I hold up my injured arm. “You don’t have high expectations, do you?”

  “Don’t put yourself down.” He slides closer. “I like you, Katy. You’re smart and sarcastic. Sometimes even funny.” He makes a face at me. “Most important, you’re not a phony . . . That’s rare. Who cares if you’ve got some issues? Everyone does.”

  I’m not sure if I want him to kiss me or if I’m afraid that will ruin everything, so I bump shoulders instead. There’s no rush. I’m not going to go back to Prep. “I like you, too, Elmo.” I open Photoshop to prevent the conversation from going further. “Ready to see what we’ve got on here?”

  “I came to work.” He winks.

  I think we both know that’s not the only reason he’s here, and I’m kind of happy about it, which says a lot, since I can’t remember the last time I felt happy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ANNE

  “Before we go in, I want to tell you again how proud I am. You’re so much braver than me.” I reach across the center console and grab Katy’s hand, too aware of the six brightly colored rubber bands around her wrist—another statement, or badge of courage. “Are you worried about how other parents might react?”

  “Not really.” She shrugs. I wouldn’t believe her except that she’s been working with Dr. Grant a few times each week for the past month and been honest about the urge to cut. Bit by bit, she’s finding new coping tactics. “The whole point is to make people uncomfortable so they see what’s happening with kids. Since the photos went up this week, two students have DM’d me for advice about cutting.”

  “Have they?” Both hands hit my chest. “That’s amazing. It must feel good to make a difference.”

  “I don’t know if I feel good—I mean, it’s sad to hear those stories. And it’s not like I’m ‘cured,’ and have answers. But Dr. Grant helps me figure out how to talk about the daily struggle without making it sound hopeless.”

  The daily struggle. It’ll be many months or longer until I can fully relax, but Katy is taking ownership and putting in the work.

  We’ve found a nice rhythm in our house and with new friends. My hostility toward Richard has lessened since that teary apology in his home office, but I’m still working on accepting Lauren as part of our future. This morning I submitted a painting to Trudy for the Holiday Stroll opening event in a couple of weeks. It’s not my best-ever work, but it represents my first real step forward, which is the most important thing.

  Anytime I’ve thought to call Dan, I stop myself, uncertain of what to say. It’s been a few weeks since we last saw each other in my driveway. Whatever might happen between us in the future, it would need to progress very slowly. That seems like a selfish thing to ask of someone whose kindness I’ve already rejected.

  In any case, tonight is not for mooning over Dan or preening over my own progress. Tonight is about Katy and the rest of the teens who are putting their hearts on display at the school art show.

  “Well, I guess we should go in. Pop-Pop and Gram might already be here.” I open the car door. In recent weeks, I’ve visited Gram almost daily. Even Katy has come with me more often. After Ms. Pope told Katy and the other students about Jay Fleming, an area photographer, Katy shared his book Working the Water—environmental photographs taken in and around Chesapeake Bay—with Gram and convinced me to take us all on a field trip to his gallery in Annapolis last weekend. The trip was a bit ambitious, as Gram got confused and anxious throughout the morning, but it’s still a memory I will cherish.

  Katy follows my lead. “It’s nice that Pop-Pop came all the way down tonight just for this.”

  “He’s trying.” That’s as much as I can say. Despite my pleas and his knowing the truth about his mother, my dad will never make a sea change. He’s a loner, and I’m finally learning not to take that personall
y. “I’m not sure how long they’ll stay. The crowds and noise could be hard for Gram.”

  “It’ll be nice if she recognizes us, even for a few minutes.”

  I cross my fingers. “Let’s hope.”

  When we enter the lobby, I scan the crowd for my dad. He’s six feet three, so it’s always easy to spot his strawberry-blond hair. When I do, I wave and tug Katy through the crowd to reach them.

  “Thanks for coming, Dad.” I kiss him and Gram hello.

  Katy hugs Gram first, then my dad. “Thanks for coming to my show.”

  “It’s crowded.” Gram sticks close to my father to keep from being jostled. She hasn’t addressed Katy or me by name, so I’m not sure she’s fully cognizant of who we are yet. She appears comfortable with her son, though.

  I don’t ask.

  “Crowds are good—more buyers for the fundraiser,” my dad says. “Shall we get started?”

  “Have you seen my dad yet?” Katy asks, standing on her toes, searching for Richard. I take a deep breath and brush imaginary lint off my sweater. This will be the first time he and Lauren have socialized with my family for Katy’s sake. My stomach isn’t cooperating, but I manage a calm facade.

  Sure enough, Katy spots Richard’s black-and-silver hair and begins to wave her hands in the air.

  My dad puts a hand on my shoulder. His uncharacteristic physical show of support nearly makes me cry.

  I pat his hand and whisper, “It’s okay. Richard and I have to come together for Katy’s sake.”

  “Good for you,” Dad says quietly.

  When they reach us, Richard gives Katy a bear hug. I can tell he’s whispering something in her ear. As always, seeing them together produces a bittersweet pang in my chest. When they break apart, he kisses my cheek and shakes my father’s hand. “Robert.”

  “Richard,” Dad says, stone-faced, with a single shake and quick release.

  It’s stiff and awkward, but we all survive. I can count on my father to say very little, which in this case is a good thing.

  Richard blinks when he spots Gram. “Marie, this is a surprise. You look well.”

  “Thank you,” she says, not offering her cheek. Her blank look suggests she can’t quite place him. Or maybe she is being cold on my account. Hard to tell.