When I'm Not Myself

by Deborah J. Wolf

  And the wisdom to know the difference.

  Katie knew about Cara’s disagreement with Mel but despite the probing, neither Cara nor Mel would come clean with the details. It was Claire who had told her, not in so many words, but enough so that with a few pointed questions to Will and Luke, Katie knew that something was significantly wrong.

  Claire and the boys had been allowed to visit after the first month Katie was in rehab. They came on a stormy Saturday, which made it impossible for them to walk the grounds or play in the makeshift park that sported a climbing structure and a few swings. Instead, Claire, Will and Luke were forced to sit on the scratchy plaid couch opposite two straight-back chairs. Katie sat in one of the chairs.

  “How are things at home, you guys?” Katie asked all of them at once. She didn’t expect much of an answer and she hadn’t gotten much of one from the boys. Will shrugged his shoulders; Luke turned his attention back to his Nintendo game.

  Only Claire offered any insight.

  “Horton keeps barking all day long while Mommy’s at work. The neighbor says that he’s going to call the cops if we don’t get him to stop. Barbie’s getting really, really big now. Oh, and Mommy and Auntie Mel are fighting. They don’t even talk to each other anymore. I think it makes Mommy sad, but she says that, ‘Auntie Mel needs to remember that she’s not the center of the universe.’” Claire reported the sound bites, as if she was broadcasting the six o’clock news.

  “What do you mean they’re not talking?”

  From the other end of the couch, Will piped up. “It was just some stupid fight. It’s no big deal.”

  “When was the last time you saw Auntie Mel?” Cara asked.

  They all reclined on the couch, fidgeting and squirming.

  “Dunno,” Claire answered. “I can’t remember.”

  “Why are you and my mom fighting?” Katie asked Mel.

  Mel narrowed her eyes, a wrinkle forming just above her nose, indicating she didn’t particularly want to discuss the matter.

  “C’mon, Mel, what happened?”

  “It’s just a difference of opinion, Katie. It’ll blow over.”

  Katie wasn’t so sure. She had asked her mother the same question early that afternoon. Her answer wasn’t quite so dismissive.

  “It has nothing to do with you, Katherine.”

  Her mother had called her Katherine. She used that tone only when she was very angry.

  “What does it have to do with?”

  “I really don’t want to talk about it, honey. It’s between Mel and me and, well, we just can’t seem to see eye to eye on this one. I hope she’ll come to her senses and understand that she’s done a very unfortunate thing, and that she’s hurting a lot of people, but I just can’t be sure this time. I really can’t be sure.”

  “Is she hurting you?”

  Cara crinkled her forehead, confused. “Um, well, no, not exactly. But it’s difficult to watch her hurt someone else.”

  “But why do you care? If it’s not hurting you, then what’s the big deal?”

  “It’s not like that, Katie. It’s just; well, it’s just very hard to understand is all.”

  Katie studied her mother. Cara was visibly uncomfortable; she looked like she would give anything to have the conversation behind her.

  God grant me the serenity

  To accept the things I cannot change;

  Courage to change the things I can;

  And wisdom to know the difference.

  Katie let the words play over and over again in her mind like a song she kept hearing on every station no matter how many times she changed the dial.

  14

  It was raining the day Melanie showed up after fifth period, her worn, stuffed to capacity, black duffel in hand. When Cara’s mother, Joan, opened the door and found Melanie standing in the downpour, her hair plastered to the sides of her head and shaking, she opened her arms wide and pulled Mel inside the house. Melanie would never forget how the woman’s arms felt around her body, tender and comforting, protective, and the way they wrapped her entire body and drew her near, pulling her into the tiled entryway. She would never forget the smell of ginger and cinnamon that hung on Cara’s mother like perfume, warm and inviting. It was as if the world had stopped spinning out of control for a split second and everything inside of Mel, everything that had been churning since the day she went home after school to find her mother had walked out the door, finally was still.

  Later that night, Melanie told Cara she could never go back. They were lying next to each other in Cara’s twin bed, the black night filling the room like ink spilling out over a clean piece of paper. Joan had made up the pull-out in the guest room, which doubled as the office, but Cara had snuck Melanie up the stairs to her room and pulled her close to her beneath the duvet. Their legs were intertwined and they held hands, their soft breath meeting somewhere in the middle of the bed.

  “Does Dermott know where you went? Did you leave him a note?” Cara asked anxiously.

  “No.”

  “But Mel, don’t you think you oughta . . .”

  “No, Cara. I don’t want him to know where I am,” Mel answered firmly, leaving no room for debate.

  “He’s going to figure it out soon enough. My mom will tell him, for sure.”

  Melanie stared at her friend through the dark, her eyes straining to make out Cara’s features, the definition around Cara’s strong jawline, her large, round eyes. She wasn’t so sure Cara’s mother would turn her in the way Cara thought she would. Something in the way Joan had held her when she opened the door told Mel that she was safe here, that she could stay for a while without being forced to go home. Something made Mel wonder if Joan understood, in some way, what had happened.

  “She can’t tell him. He can’t know that I’m here.”

  “What happened, Mel?” Cara whispered through the darkness, afraid of the answer.

  Against the pillow, Mel shook her head.

  “You can tell me. I won’t tell my mom if you don’t want me to; I promise.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, of course I’m sure. I won’t say a word to anyone.”

  Mel sat up, resting her weight on her left arm. She didn’t say anything at first, but pulled her legs up to her chest and hugged them tightly, resting her chin on her knees. She shook her head as if she was trying to clear away a bad dream.

  Cara sensed something had gone very wrong; it wasn’t like Mel to be without words, speechless. Cara sat up and gently draped her arm around Mel’s shoulder, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

  “What happened, Mel? What’d he do to you?” Cara whispered, pleading with her.

  Mel didn’t answer, not at first. She swallowed down a vicious lump in her throat and blinked back the hot tears that burned in the corners of her eyes. She stared ahead, her eyes locked as if she’d been transfixed by a memory too wicked to bring to life.

  “On your life, Cara? You can’t tell a soul.”

  “I promise.”

  “He raped me, Cara.” She whispered the words, nearly breathless as if saying them as quietly as she could would negate the act itself.

  She wasn’t sure she had confessed what had happened, not out loud, anyway. She wasn’t sure what had come from her mouth was anything more than a hint, so soft that it was practically rendered inaudible. But when she looked up, she knew she’d been heard. For the first time, she’d told someone, her very best friend, the only person in her life she could trust at that very minute, that her life had been changed forever.

  “My God,” Cara whispered back, equally as softly, as if breathing a word about it would actually make it truer than it was. She flipped on the lamp and shielded her eyes, blinded instantly by the harsh light that flooded the room.

  “No one, Cara. You can’t tell a single soul. You promised me.”

  “My God, Melanie,” Cara whispered again, trying to make sense of it, and at the same time trying to figure out what to do next. She’d h
ave to tell her mother, there was no question about it. Joan would have to know. Joan would know what to do. She may have made a promise to Melanie, but this was beyond something she could keep to herself. An adult would have to know, someone who could do something. Someone who could help them. Dermott shouldn’t get away with something like this, not something this enormous.

  “Cara,” Mel said to her more harshly, using her normal voice this time. She cupped Cara’s chin in her hands and jerked her head toward her until Cara was looking at her, staring straight into Mel’s eyes. Mel wasn’t entirely sure Cara was looking at her; she appeared to be in a bit of shock, so she shook her again. She grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her hard until Cara came to. Pleading with her, Mel said, “Cara, please, you have to promise me that you won’t tell anyone. No one can know about this.”

  “But Mel. He should be put away for what he did to you; he should be locked up for good. You can’t let him get away with this; you just can’t.”

  Mel stood up abruptly, pacing the area rug in front of Cara’s bed like an angry child who wasn’t being heard and needed to make her point. “This is not up for discussion, Cara. You can’t tell anyone, do you hear me?” she asked, lecturing her friend. Panic crept over her skin and set her heart racing. “You can’t tell anyone.”

  Cara sat on the edge of the bed, weak at the knees and nauseous. She wanted to run but she wasn’t sure she could stand. And even if she could move, she was fairly sure Mel would tackle her at the waist and pin her down.

  “Okay, Mel, I won’t. I won’t say anything to my mom or my dad. Or anyone.”

  “No one, Cara. Not a single person. Not Leah or Paige, no one at school.”

  Cara shook from head to toe, fearful. She nodded her head slowly, agreeing reluctantly.

  When Dermott came looking for Melanie, he did so with fire in his eyes on a steamy weeknight just before school let out for the summer. Joan answered the door with a dish towel in hand. Dermott had been drinking; she could make out the distinct scent of Wild Turkey on his breath. He stared her up and down until goose bumps formed on her arms, but she stood her ground, sturdy in loafered feet.

  “Okay, Joan, time to send Melanie home. I’d say she’s just about overstayed her welcome.”

  Melanie and Cara were out running an errand for Joan, but she pulled the door closed behind her anyway and stepped out onto the front porch. She didn’t want to be interrupted, or saved, should her husband feel the need to do so. This was between her and Dermott. After all, Joan was the one harboring the child he’d come looking for. The sun had left purple-gray streaks in the sky as if bruised by the day. Joan dried her hands on the dish towel and straightened her back as if she was readying herself to go a few rounds with him.

  “She’s not here, Dermott.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I’m not lying to you; she’s not here. Not right now, anyway. And even if she were I wouldn’t let you take her. Not in this condition.”

  Dermott’s eyes raged. “What the hell are you talking about? What sort of condition are you referring to?”

  “You’ve been drinking. Certainly you shouldn’t be driving.” She nodded toward Dermott’s well-maintained pickup, one of the few things he took care of. “Why don’t you come in and sit for a while. I’ll make you a cup of coffee and we can sit down and have a little chat. It would be good if we could have ourselves a little talk about all of this.”

  “I don’t want your coffee, Joan. And as far as I’m concerned, there ain’t nothing to talk about. I want you to send Melanie home. Tonight. You got it? Not tomorrow, not in a week or so. Tonight.”

  Joan sighed, unimpressed. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from Bea.”

  He bristled at her question, and then spat the words at her, “Christ, no. That woman is gone for good. I don’t expect I’ll ever hear from her again.”

  Joan took a deep breath, in and out. She could feel the pressure building at her temples, her head beginning to feel heavy, a migraine coming on. She wanted to close the door on Dermott, shut out his problems and his demands and go lie as still as she could on the sofa on the sunporch, the heavy shades pulled closed so that the room stayed dark and cool.

  “I’ll let Melanie know that you came by. And I’ll tell her that you’d like to speak with her. But that’s the best I can do, Dermott. Mel’s welcome to stay here as long as she’d like. She’s like another daughter to us, you know.” She placed her hands on her hips and stood her ground, even-keeled and even-tempered.

  His eyes grew to slits, tiny and hard. He looked as if he might like to come at her, but she held her own. “I could call the authorities, Joan. I could suggest to them that you’re keeping Melanie against my will. I could suggest that she’s a runaway.”

  “You sure you’d want to involve the police in all of this? Because I have a feeling there’s a few things Melanie might want to let them in on, given a chance. And a little encouragement.” Joan was bluffing, of course. She had a feeling something was amiss between Mel and the man who stood in front of her reeking of booze, but she couldn’t be sure of it, not for certain. Try as she might, she hadn’t been able to get anything out of the girl. Or her own daughter, for that matter.

  But it worked, and she sensed her instincts were right on. Dermott backed away, if only a bit. And in a much quieter voice, he said to her, “Damn it, Joan, she ain’t your problem. I’m warning you, I want her at home. You tell her she’s got a day to pack her things and come home.”

  “Warning me, Dermott? Or threatening?”

  “I think you understand where I’m coming from, Joan.”

  “And I’m almost certain you understand where I’m coming from, too.”

  She watched him strut across the porch, his bull-legged stride carrying him back to the truck. “It’s time for her to come home. One more day, that’s all she’s got left. You need to send her home,” he shouted on his way down the driveway, all too ineffective.

  “Well, you finally fucking made it home.”

  Cara’s mother had knocked on Dermott’s paint-chipped front door the next night. He must have thought it was Melanie finally making her way home. When he answered the door he threw it back and greeted Joan with a surprised look.

  “I beg your pardon, Dermott. That is a perfectly unacceptable way to speak to me.” Joan eyed him harshly. She had known him a long time. She hadn’t come to return his daughter; she hadn’t even told Melanie, or anyone, for that matter, that she was coming to see him at all. She felt like she had to come. After Dermott’s visit the night before, she felt as if she had to put a little more finality around everything, Dermott wanted Melanie home; Joan wanted to reassure him there was no way that was possible.

  He looked her up and down. “What d’ya want, Joanie? Did you bring Melanie with you?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the door frame.

  A weak storm had blown through earlier, leaving a smearing of humidity hanging in the air, unusual for Northern California. Dermott’s work shirt hung open at the waist, revealing the white sleeveless T-shirt he wore underneath it. He was damp at his armpits and his belt was unfastened and hung loose at his waist.

  She glared at him in response. “No, Dermott. She isn’t here. I told you she wasn’t coming back here.” Joan paused then, waiting for him to come undone. When he didn’t, she asked him, “Aren’t you going to ask me in?” Joan craned her neck around Dermott in order to better see inside the house, but it was dark, save for the television blaring the evening news from the corner of the room.

  “You sure you wanna come in, Joan? It’s sure been a long time since you’ve been over for a visit.” He leered at her hungrily, but Joan ignored him. Dermott didn’t frighten her.

  He moved back and pushed open the front door for her with his foot. She stepped into the aging, cramped house. The leather couch was covered in random newspaper stacks that Dermott had left astray. She took in the clutter and made her way straight to
the kitchen, surveying as she went. Dust hung in the air and the floors were filthy. The sink was full of crusted dishes, even more sat stacked in piles on the counter. The house was stifling, pungent and stale.

  Joan stared out the back window and concentrated on the neglected, overgrown garden. A sprinkler that Dermott had jerry-rigged in the yard sputtered but did little good to soak the brittle lawn, the area where weeds had taken root and were multiplying. Earlier in their marriage, when things had still been good, Bea had meticulously maintained the garden and filled the house with vases of flowers. But when Dermott had left and neglected Bea, she had turned on the yard. Now, no one tended to the flowing jasmine that desperately needed to be cut back, the heavily weighted eucalyptus, the rotting fruit hanging from the lemon and orange trees. Suddenly, Joan wasn’t sure of her reason for coming, the thing that had brought her here in the first place. This house, the emptiness it posed without her friend, left her feeling depressed and incomplete. All at once she missed Bea desperately.

  Joan looked around the room, taking in the disarray that was apparent on every shelf, in every part of the kitchen. “Looks like you’re really keeping the place up,” Joan said to him, smugly, baiting him. “It’s disgusting, Dermott. You should be ashamed of yourself, living like this, letting Mel live like this.”

  “Are you passing judgment on me?” He looked her up and down through hard, squinted eyes.

  “Look, I came to talk to you about Melanie.”

  “It’s simple, Joan. It’s time for that girl to come home.”

  “What’s the point, Dermott? Why don’t you just leave her be? Let her stay with us; she’s no bother,” Joan sighed.

  “She belongs here; this is her home. She doesn’t need to be burdening you or anyone else with her problems.”