Dad claimed he wanted the best for me, but his real problem was that he was still grieving Mom. He had no right to project his problem onto me and insist I was grieving my husband. “I don’t even miss Brett.”
“That’s good to hear.”
I sat up straight again, having gradually melted into a slump. “When he divorced me, I was sad, but after a few months, I knew a huge burden had lifted. Brett had been suffocating me for years, and when he left, it was like I could finally breathe again. Since then I’ve hardly thought about him, and all my other problems seem insignificant in comparison. I’ve done my grieving, and I’ve moved on.” My fingertips tapped against my lips. I hadn’t meant to say all that.
“As long as you’re facing your problems squarely, your dad should be at peace.”
“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned facing problems, and I just want you to know that I am. Facing my problems.”
“Good for you. It’s an important step in recovery, Cecily.”
“I know all about recovery.” I stood, walked toward the trash, and tossed my half-empty cup. “Dad doesn’t really understand the situation, because if he did, he wouldn’t accuse me of wallowing in grief. Brett left me over a year ago, and I’m fine now. I went through months of counseling after the divorce, and I’m taking steps to get on with my life. Like moving back to Canyon, getting a job, spending time with my dad.” I realized that I’d frozen in place by the trash can, one arm tightened across my waist while Mirinda watched me from the back of the shop, her head cocked to one side in curiosity. I shoved through the door and out onto the sidewalk. “So you see, I don’t need your services, Graham, but thank you for following through on your promise to my dad.”
“I’m glad to hear you’re doing well,” he said softly. “But I think I may have led you astray. So, before you go, can I set the record straight?”
I paused on the sidewalk, and my reflection in the shop windows smirked back at me. “Okay.”
“It’s just that your dad didn’t tell me you were wallowing in grief. I never said that.”
Was he lying again? Or was I remembering things wrong? Sometimes my brain was so foggy. “You used the word wallowing. I remember that.”
“But I didn’t say you were wallowing in grief.” I could hear him take a breath, and his next words came cautiously. “Your dad said you were wallowing in self-pity.”
The breeze caught my hair, whipping the long side in spirals that landed across my cheek, and as I reached up to hold it away from my face, my tattooed arm formed a right angle—a sarcastic salute to my haphazard confidence. And on the other side of the window, Mirinda, in all her perfection, let her gaze sweep over me one last time. I turned away from the glass and both images vanished from my sight.
“Graham?” My knees shook, and I couldn’t seem to get away fast enough. From the Barbie. From Michael Divins. From Graham Cracker, who had sounded authentic at first but was now gently picking away at my sanity. “Please don’t call me again.”
Chapter Five
Cecily, it’s Brett. Listen, your dad called me this afternoon, and the more I think about it, the more it rubs me wrong. He was asking questions he could’ve just asked you, so I figure you’re not talking, but good God, it’s been a year, right? I know you’ve still got hang-ups, but it’s not my problem anymore. You know? So . . . could you please ask him to stop calling?
Brett wanted my dad to leave him alone. And he had said please. Probably he thought one word of politeness softened the entire voice mail, and maybe it did in a way. At least he hadn’t been as demanding as in the past. I listened to the message one more time, then dropped the phone to the carpet in front of the mirror that hung on the closet door.
I stood in my pink-and-white teen girl’s bedroom and examined my body. My nightgown fell loosely around my breasts but puckered near my waist and tightened at my thighs. Brett had never liked this gown, and there was no question as to why. Gripping the satin, I jerked the garment over my head and wadded it into a tight ball. I hurled it toward the mirror, but the silky fabric merely brushed against the glass and fell to the floor, an insignificant demonstration of emotion. To make up for it, I balled my hands into fists and pounded my thighs as hard as I could, but just like all the other tantrums I had pitched over the years, nothing made the injustice go away.
My inpatient therapist had told me I placed waaaay too much emphasis on body image. Well, duh, anyone who had known me more than a week could’ve figured that out and for a fraction of the cost. What I needed to know was why. Apparently emotional abuse from my narcissistic husband wasn’t enough to send me to the loony bin, and there must’ve been a deeper, more fundamental reason. Whatever.
I reached for a pair of athletic shorts and stepped into them, then pulled on an old T-shirt, being careful not to look in the mirror again.
My bulletin board, covered with teenage keepsakes, caught my eye. Tonight was just as good a night as any to purge all those childish mementos and begin the process of turning my room into an adult woman’s sleeping space. I reached for my pink mesh wastebasket and started decluttering.
The first pushpin came out with a squeaky pop, a satisfying sound, and the movie stubs it had been securing fell neatly into the can. Next came a newspaper article, an empty wrapper from a Snickers candy bar, and the paper insert from an *NSYNC CD. I held it up and studied the boy band I had idolized in junior high. I ran a fingertip across their faces, remembering myself at twelve years old as I morphed from a laughing child into a timid adolescent startled by the fact that people noticed what I looked like. At first, that knowledge had made me feel important—mature—and I paid close attention to clothes and speech patterns and status symbols, but by the time I was grown, I had become frustrated by the impossibility of it all and told myself I didn’t care. But I lied.
I tossed the paper insert into the trash can and returned to my task.
A spirit ribbon from a regional basketball game went into the bin as well. Then a love note from Brett that I didn’t bother to read. I paused when I uncovered a birthday card from my mother. She hadn’t written anything other than Love you, Mom. I clicked my thumbnail against the edge of the cardstock, then tucked it into the top drawer of the dresser next to a pair of scissors.
Those were Mom’s old sewing scissors, and as I let my thumb and fingers slide into the orange handles, I imagined her working with fabric and yarn and paper. She had loved to make crafts. I carefully set the scissors on the floor by the mirror, making a mental note to give the horrible nightgown what it deserved when I’d finished with the bulletin board.
The next pushpin released a piece of sheet music, something I had written for one of my teachers. I hummed a few bars of the melody, which only made me want to hear every note of every chord, but I decided against playing the piece on the piano in the living room.
I popped out two more pins, releasing a small advertisement for a sample of Shalimar perfume, a dried and withered corsage from a piano recital, and a flattened, rainbow-striped snow cone cup. But then I stopped.
Nestled behind a college brochure was a picture of Brett and me, taken just before we left for college. I brought it close to my face and scrutinized my eighteen-year-old self. I had thought myself pretty then. The girl in the photo had long—almost waist-length—hair, thinner hips, no tattoos, but she was definitely me. Same flat chest, same pug nose, nothing special. And there was Brett, as handsome as ever, his arm hanging limply over my shoulders.
Even then Brett hadn’t been completely satisfied. Even with my long hair and thin hips and flat, smooth stomach, he had wanted something—someone—a little better.
I yanked everything else off the bulletin board in five groping handfuls. Brett Ross could take a flying leap right into the pink mesh trash can. Just like he’d said on the phone, I was no longer his problem.
Peeking into the mirror, I ran my hands through my hair, wishing for the length I had back then and remembering the day I
got it cut. I had obediently followed Brett to the salon, and the hairdresser had obediently followed Brett’s instructions, and when we left the shop, I felt confident and attractive.
The girl had gone on and on about my thick hair and smooth complexion, but now I figured she had simply been trying to sell more products. She knew as well as I did that Brett’s bank account ran deep when he wanted something. Turns out they were both liars, and I was a fool to believe them.
I wrapped my fingers around the long side of my hair and yanked, hard, as though I was pulling a rope in a tall bell tower, while Brett’s words from that day echoed in my mind.
It’s not quite what I had envisioned.
Somehow I thought it would be different.
You’re still beautiful, though. Of course.
My teeth ground against each other as I stared at the limp hair in my fist, and I growled. Then in one sudden movement, I fell to my knees and snatched the scissors from the floor. My hands trembled as I stuck my fingers through the handles, and the blades slid against each other noisily as I drew them to my forehead.
But then I stopped and stared at myself in the mirror, startled.
And I laughed bitterly.
No wonder Daddy was worried about me.
I dropped the scissors and retrieved my phone from the floor, intending to slip it into the pocket of my shorts, but there was no pocket. Instead, I found myself listening, just one more time, to my ex-husband’s voice mail.
Chapter Six
It wasn’t everyone who could rappel fifty yards from their back deck, but our property sat right on the edge of the canyon, and hurling myself off cliffs was something I had learned when I was tiny. The canyon itself had been the source of so many family outings that it overlapped my childhood memories like an intricately woven bedspread.
The cozy size of our cabin stood in sharp contrast to the broad expanse of the canyon, but our home had always been big enough for the three of us. As my dad and I stood on the rim, buckling harnesses around our waists, I realized the house felt too spacious now that Mom was gone, as though her personality had taken up more space than her five-foot-six-inch frame should have.
“How long’s it been since you rappelled?” Dad tightened a strap on his thigh.
“A while, but it’s like riding a bike, right?”
“I reckon it is.” His mouth lifted on one side to reveal a crooked incisor in the line of otherwise straight teeth. Mom had always called his smile distinguishing, and I couldn’t argue. At the moment, his simple grin told me several things. Like how much he enjoyed rappelling, and how he was glad our time apart had finally come to an end—even under the circumstances—and how, as always, his heart contained an overpowering void in the shape of my mother.
“Things going all right out at the state park?” I asked.
“They’re making changes again, new rules and regulations, more inspections.” I noticed a tinge of gray hair at his temples as he busied himself, flaking the rope by coiling it into a neat figure eight so it wouldn’t get tangled when we tossed it down the cliff. “It’s always something,” he said, “but what about you? You see any old friends in town?”
Dad was undoubtedly referring to Graham Harper, but I didn’t take the bait. In the past twenty-four hours, I had done a fairly thorough job of ignoring any mention of the good doctor.
“Only Mirinda Ross.” I rolled my eyes. “She’s a little fancy, but we could probably hang out.”
My dad laughed loudly, and I liked the sound of it. “She dates Michael Divins. Did you know?”
I froze. “No kidding?”
“Well, they’ve been on-again, off-again for a while now. One or both of them can’t make up their minds, I reckon.”
I breathed in. I breathed out. No wonder Mirinda had stomped away when Michael asked me to the movie. No wonder Michael had seemed tense. But why had he asked me out in the first place? “Holy crap,” I muttered.
Dad frowned for a split second before asking, “Where did you run into her?”
“At Midnight Oil. I ran into both of them.” I yanked the straps of my harness, making sure everything was tight, and decidedly not telling him about my pending date. If Michael was trying to make Mirinda jealous, he was stirring up a hornet’s nest.
“So how’s the job hunt going?”
“Crappy.”
He picked up the rope. “You never used to talk like that.”
“Like what?”
“Crappy.” He pointed his voice into the canyon, making the adjective seem shallow and weak.
Good grief. I was a grown woman, and if I wanted to use hard language, I would. I scrunched my nose. “I never used to be job hunting in Canyon, Texas, either. It requires a whole new set of vocabulary words.”
He worked in silence then, attaching one of the red straps of the belay anchor to a strong cedar and the other to a thick metal rod that he had driven deep into the ground years ago. As he worked, I watched an eagle soaring in the distance, occasionally dipping down to the treetops before sailing skyward. Probably the bird was hunting for a mouse or a rabbit or some other small animal to eat. Hopefully she would have better luck with her hunt for lunch than I was having with my hunt for a job.
“You know?” Dad uncoiled a few feet of rope. “Now that I think about it, there was a “Help Wanted” sign in the window of Dr. Harper’s office. He’s in that strip shopping center on Twenty-Third Street, where the Monday clinic used to be.”
I refused to look at him.
“It wouldn’t be the worst job in town,” he continued. “I bet he pays better than minimum wage, and he’d be reasonable if you needed a day off.” Dad seemed to have forgotten the task at hand, and he now stood holding the ends of the anchor straps in one hand and the rope in the other. “Come on, Cess. I know Dr. Harper called you, and I know you’re ticked with me, but could you at least give it a try?”
If Dad knew Graham had called me, then he must’ve talked to him again. I sighed and I could feel my pride seeping out with the oxygen. “Wallowing in self-pity?” My voice broke on the last two words, so I tightened my diaphragm before adding, “Why did you tell him that? I’m not wallowing in self-pity.”
“Maybe not.” His eyes softened and he gazed far across the canyon. When he spoke again, his voice was so low, I barely heard him over the swish of the wind through the cedars. “It’s just that I see you’re hurting, Cess. I can’t help you, but I know Graham could.”
How did he know that? I squinted at his profile, closing one of my eyes against the morning sun, then closing them both against his sadness. Poor Daddy, missing his wife, remembering her long battle with disease, wishing year after year that he could have helped her. A thought crossed my mind, and I dug my thumbnail into the nylon fibers of the rope I was holding. “Have you ever gone to Graham for counseling?”
The question prompted him to resume his work with the belay. He took the middle of the rope and attached it to the anchor, then he attached a personal anchor to the harness on my waist. I didn’t push him, knowing if he never answered, it would be all right.
He tightened the carabiners, then double-checked that they were locked. “I’m still paying off your mother’s medical bills.” He looked away from me, away from the house, probably away from his own memories. “Sometimes I get real stressed, and I just need someone to talk to.” When he looked back at me, I noticed that his eyes—which only moments before had been filled with concern—now appeared hollow.
“But you’re all right?”
“Aw, sure.” He shook his head slightly, as though he were clearing his mind of cobwebs. “I shouldn’t have said ‘self-pity,’” he said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have talked to Dr. Harper at all.”
A hundred questions flooded my mind, but Dad tossed the rope over the side, indicating he had done all the sharing he could stand. I stepped to the edge of the cliff, and he checked my gear one last time.
“I’m just worried about you, Cess,” he said.
<
br /> Suddenly I was his little girl again, rappelling down the canyon for the first time, and as I stood on the edge of the abyss with my dad in front of me, anchoring me to safety, I was incredibly glad to have him in my life. He wouldn’t ask me how I had been broken, but I heard the implication, and I knew he wanted to fix me. He’d always been the fixer, and here he was, talking to the local therapist, helping me find a job, offering his bumbled words of encouragement—all in hopes that I would change back into the person I had been ten years ago.
I stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “I’m alright, Daddy. Truly.” Then I leaned back over the rim of the canyon and let myself fall away from him.
Chapter Seven
Dr. Graham Harper’s note-to-self (as scribbled on a yellow Post-it):
1. Buy extra tubes for bike tires.
2. Check on details for new support group.
3. Call Mom back.
Graham Harper’s thoughts were focused on Cecily Ross as he swiveled in his office chair, tapping a ballpoint pen against his leg. He was hardly ever still. His father chalked it up to the H in ADHD, but Graham knew it wasn’t anything so clinical. Motion simply helped him focus, always had, and right now he was focusing on a gray SUV in the parking lot. He wasn’t positive it was Cecily, but he had a strong suspicion.
Dub Witherspoon had called him again, asking if Graham knew of any place in town looking to hire an inexperienced, untrained, slightly depressed young woman. Graham imagined Cecily’s dad was only doing what any good father would do: overreacting. But that didn’t keep Graham from wanting to help—more out of compassion for Dub than for Cecily. Graham remembered Cecily as an ambitious yet humble girl who knew what she wanted in life and quietly worked to make it happen. He had never been able to figure why she’d hooked up with Brett Ross—other than the fact they looked good together.
The end of the ballpoint pen found its way into Graham’s mouth, and he chewed on it gently as he glanced at his wall clock. His next client was due in thirty minutes. Tossing the pen on his desk, he stood and rotated his arms like a wind-blown whirligig, trying to loosen tense muscles in his neck and back. He stepped into his break room, following the worn path in the thin carpet, and poured himself a cup of coffee.
Looking Glass Lies Page 3
