Perfectly Damaged

by E. L. Montes

  “Ah. Do you feel that the constant need to sleep has to do with the depression part of the disorder?”

  “Maybe.” I shrug, looking down at my folded hands in my lap. I spot the gold, heart-shaped charm (inscribed with Sisters Forever), which hangs from the bracelet snugged around my right wrist. I cherish this bracelet. It’s the one item that keeps me going. Brooke gave it to me at my high school graduation. Every year since then, she’s added a new charm. But not this year.

  “I’m going to prescribe you a higher dose of the antidepressants. We’ll see if that’ll help with your fatigue. Is that all right?” Dr. Rosario asks, disturbing my memories.

  I keep my head low, trying to fight back tears as I cling to the tiny heart-shaped charm. I nod. “Okay.”

  “Great. Now, let’s discuss a few things you can work on this week.”

  I nod again, allowing Dr. Rosario to go on, but her words sound off distantly as my mind is somewhere else. As usual, I react and answer at all the right times, so she thinks I’m engaged in the therapy, maybe even getting better. I have to make her believe it, or at least make myself believe it, because at this very moment I’d rather be in my room, entombed in my sheets, and locked away.

  After my visit with Dr. Rosario, I take a long walk around town. It’s the only way to clear my mind, to breathe. Anything to get rid of the hallucinations and the voices in my head. For once, I just want to feel normal. No one will ever understand it, not unless they’re going through it. Eventually, my legs tire and give out, and I’m forced back home—a place I dread going to.

  “Jenna, come here, sweetie,” Mom calls as I enter through the front door. She is nothing if not predictable. Sometimes I really believe she has a tracking device on me. I mean, how else could she know exactly the moment I get home? How else could she pelt me with questions and jabs and reminders and meaningless information the second I walk through the door?

  I somberly head toward dad’s home office, which is the direction her deceptively saccharine voice came from. I stand by the entrance, taking note that she isn’t alone. My mother looks like a queen sitting on her throne behind the massive cherry wood desk. Her silky smooth, natural red hair falls just above her collarbone, not a strand out of place. Her makeup is flawless as ever; never has my mother gone a day without her face made up just so. Come to think of it, never has my mother gone a day without dressing up either.

  Her red lips twitch into a slight pout at my appearance. We’re the opposite of one another—day and night. Where she wears dresses and skirts, I wear jeans and shorts. Where she wears overly expensive designer heels, I wear sneakers or flats. The only makeup I use is the dark shadow and liner around my eyes and a bit of lip gloss.

  I’m sure it took every ounce of my mother’s strength not to make a snarky comment about my chosen attire in front of our guests. After all, I am the daughter of Gregory McDaniel, CEO and co-founder of one of the largest financing and marketing companies in the tri-state area. So I’m certain ripped-up skinny jeans, black sneakers, and a Lady Gaga T-shirt, which features her practically naked on the front, doesn’t fit into my mother’s idea of what a perfect daughter’s wardrobe should be.

  “Jenna, sweetie,” she says, forcing a smile, “these are the contractors that’ll be working on the guesthouse. This is Mr. George Reed and his son, Bryson.” She extends her arm gracefully toward the two men sitting across from her.

  They turn in their chairs to greet me. The older man, George Reed, looks to be in his late forties or early fifties. The younger one, Bryson, appears to be roughly around my age, maybe a bit older. They both politely nod as I walk in and stand before them.

  I respond with the same gesture, but after my mother’s disapproving, narrow glare, I reach my hand out to each of them. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

  “The pleasure’s all mine.” George Reed shakes my hand sternly.

  “Same here,” Bryson says with a smile.

  “Should we get started, Mrs. McDaniel?” George directs to my mother.

  With a delicate wave of her hand, she lets out a giggle. “Please, George, call me Laura. And yes, we can begin now that Jenna is here.”

  I’m caught off guard. “Oh, I wasn’t aware I was allowed to be involved in this little project of yours.” My words blurt out rapidly in a harsh tone, but it’s too late to take them back now.

  Mother bites her tongue and a tiny, firm grin forms on her face. “Of course I want you involved with this project. Please have a seat, darling.” Darling? Ha! We stare at each other for an awkward, short moment.

  I try to find sincerity through her act. And would you look at that? I come up empty. Since I don’t want to make a show in front of our guests, I swiftly sit in an empty chair beside Bryson and nod for them to go on.

  George clears his throat and then spreads the blueprints on top of the desk. My mother squeals with delight. She scoots to the edge of the executive chair and leans in to have a better look. Bryson sets a laptop beside the prints, revealing a 3-D mock-up image of what the guesthouse will look like upon completion. “As you requested, Mrs.—Laura,” he corrects himself and goes on, “we designed the exterior of the property to be the exact replica of your home.”

  Mother brings a hand to her chest and inhales an awed gasp. “I love it.” As much as I hate to agree with her on almost anything, I have to admit, it looks really good. They’ve managed to take our eight-thousand-square-foot home and transform it into a two-thousand-square-foot replica.

  Bryson nods and continues, “I’m glad you do. Now for the interior, we’ve designed a two-story home as you requested. The architect was able to add in all of your wants and needs without complications. If you decide there’s anything else you’d like to add, we’d need approval from the architect before moving forward.”

  “No, everything here is exactly how I had imagined it would be. I’m sure it’ll be beautiful. Mrs. Cunningham mentioned how amazing your work is, so I know I’m in good hands.” The Cunninghams are great friends of my parents. Mr. Cunningham, formerly known as Senator Frederick Cunningham, graduated grad school with my father. They’re now frequently seen together at the local golf course.

  George strokes his dark grey goatee. “Laura, we understand that you want this to be a two-month project, but we usually ask our clients to give us an extra month. This gives us some leeway with ordering materials, weather conditions, and any delays or restrictions with the building permits. Again, this is just in preparation for any unforeseen circumstances that may arise.”

  “Yes, of course. So you’re looking at a deadline of mid-September?”

  “Roughly around that time. We’re pretty quick workers, so I’m sure we can have it finished by the end of August, providing there are no setbacks. We can start as early as Monday morning.”

  “Terrific. Jenna, is this time frame agreeable to you?”

  Both George and Bryson turn their gazes in my direction, waiting patiently for my approval. Why did my input matter so much to her? This entire thing was her idea. One day she woke up and said, “I want a guesthouse!” And bam, she made a few phone calls and now we’re here. Instead of making a fuss in front of our visitors, I simply nod.

  “Will it be just the two of you?” I’m not sure why I ask exactly; it just seems like a big project for two men to take on alone.

  George chuckles. “Oh no. There’ll be several of us. My nephew, a few other hard workers of mine, and some subcontractors like plumbers and electricians when the time comes.”

  “Oh. Okay, then,” is all I say.

  Bryson shuts off the laptop and rolls up the site plans. “Awesome. We’ll fax over the contract and see you on Monday.”

  My mother stands and shows our guests out. Before she returns to ignite an argument about my ill-mannered behavior or disappointing ensemble, I scurry out the back of the house, past the side of the colonial-style structure, and into the three-car garage.

  “Where the hell are they?” I mumbl
e beneath my breath. “This is ridiculous.” I huff out as I continue to rummage through the neat pile of plastic containers. It’s been over an hour since my searching escapade began.

  A red container labeled Christmas.

  An orange container labeled Halloween.

  A blue container labeled Fourth of July.

  There’s even a pink container that reads Easter with bunny ears drawn beside it. Every damn holiday is labeled on a color-coordinated container. Who needs Martha Stewart when there’s the OCD Laura McDaniel around? My mother makes certain that things are never left undone or unfinished, that everything is always in its rightful place. But for some reason, my two boxes are gone. I distinctly remember placing them in here almost seven months ago. I search every corner of the garage, every shelf, every cabinet. Nothing.

  “What are you looking for?” my mother’s breathy tone pokes from behind me.

  I take in a lungful of air before turning around and facing her. “Where are my boxes?”

  She leans against the entryway of the garage door. “Why on earth are you looking for them?”

  “Last I knew they were my things.”

  Mom tugs a hand through her perfect hair and her shoulders deflate as she sighs loudly. “Dr. Rosario—”

  “Dr. Rosario said I could start again.”

  A stunned expression lines her soft features. “Oh. Well, then. I placed them in the shed.” I nod and move swiftly past her, but before I can exit she reaches out and grabs my arm. Her touch is warm and soft. I shut my eyes at the contact. It’s abnormal for her, for me. “Jenna,” she says softly, “I’m trying to make things better between us. I know our relationship isn’t ideal, but I am still your mother. I do care for you.”

  I manage to open my eyes and focus on her troubled expression. Care? Interesting word choice. “Is that all you wanted to say?” I ask coldly. My mother’s stare lingers, turning hard as the muscles around her mouth tighten almost imperceptibly.

  “Jenna, you know these cold little remarks are not helping. I’m trying to make an effort here,” she bites out.

  “How? By having us design a guesthouse together? I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry.” Her hand drops to her side, releasing me and my arm from her uncomfortably intimate attempt to connect.

  That’s the end of that.

  My two boxes are neatly stacked at the far right of the shed. They’re both pretty heavy, so I have to carry them separately to the back patio by the pool. Once they’re both out, I open the one labeled Jenna’s Work first. I reach in and take out each abstract painting one by one.

  A soft smile tugs at the corner of my lips; warmth settles over me and soothes my chest. I don’t remember the last time I felt like this. There’s something about art that brings joy to my heart, always has been. It’s peaceful and beautiful. No matter how downright raw or gritty the appearance may be, there’s always a story behind it. As much as others try to figure it out, the true meaning remains with the artist alone. The paintings in this dingy cardboard box hold my secrets, my life, and my journey. They’re me…painted in different textures and colors, splashed with different emotions.

  Bliss. Fear. Love. Desire. Loneliness—most of all loneliness.

  Every one of my emotions is trapped in one large box.

  After examining each painting, I place them back and open the second box, which holds blank canvases, paintbrushes, and wooden pieces that, once placed together, create an easel. The fleshy pads of my fingers graze along the bristles of the brushes and tingle with the desire to pick one up and start again. But I can’t. Dr. Rosario thinks I’m ready to start painting again, but there’s something within me that lurches every time I think about it. Art brings out strong feelings for me, feelings that I’m not ready to face. I decide to hold off and put the boxes away for now.

  As if on autopilot, I find myself turning around and locking my bedroom door behind me.

  In my room I’m safe.

  With my headphones plugged into my ears and my music blasting, I’m away from everyone and everything, in a place where I can forget the world.

  Today is a good day.

  I woke up feeling better. Days like this I feel brave. Brave enough to conquer the world—even from inside my room, which is where I spend most of my time. I’m not sure if it’s the nightmare-free sleep or the fact that I’m able to paint again that has me feeling slightly optimistic today. Paint. I’m tempted to glide a brush along canvas, but I can’t fully find the inspiration to go for it. Before, I used painting as way to cope with my feelings; now, I’m just afraid.

  Fear is one of my most battled emotions. Fear of the unknown, of never knowing where each step I take will lead, terrifies me. For others it’s a rush, a thrill—the beauty of taking risks. For me, a risk can ruin me. It’s the reason why I grapple with every decision I make, constantly fearful that any and every choice will affect my life for the worse. To avoid triggers and potentially damning consequences, I keep hidden, locked behind my door.

  Maybe tomorrow I’ll find some more courage. But for now, I’ll continue to sit by the window with my legs comfortably crossed, watching the pool boy snatch debris with an extended net. My eyes scan over his sweat-dripping body as he reaches his arms out and slowly sways the mesh from side-to-side, just along the top of the clear water. His biceps flex as he taps the edge of the net along the concrete, dumping the debris aside.

  Swish. Tap.

  Swish. Tap.

  Swish. Tap.

  I’m not sure why I find this to be so very entertaining, but it’s the highlight of my morning—which proves just how lame my life actually is.

  The pool boy is making my life a bit more interesting by adding chemicals to the water when my phone rings.

  “Hello?” I answer, not bothering to check who’s calling.

  “Hey, slut. What are the plans for today?”

  It’s Charlie. She’s the person most people would call my best friend. She was originally my sister’s BFF and more like a second big sister to me, but after Brooke’s death, Charlie and I bonded. She loved Brooke like a sister; no secrets were left unsaid between the two of them. At first, after Brooke was gone, I tried to keep my distance from Charlie. I didn’t want to be bothered by anyone, especially not someone who reminded me so much of Brooke. But Charlie was persistent. She constantly called me and showed up to my home uninvited. It was quite annoying at first, but eventually I gave up and allowed her in.

  Charlie has some interesting traits: she’s blunt, has a great sense of humor, and uses profanity more than any other person I know. To top it off, Charlie has a very bad habit of taking any and all conversation and making it about sex. And I’m not just talking about sex in the general sense; she goes as far as making sure her hoo-ha is brought into the conversation somehow. Yep, that’s Charlie. But you learn to love her—or hate her as I do eighty percent of the time. We have a love-hate relationship.

  “Hey, Charlie.” I lean my forehead against the window, and my skin cools at the contact. “I’m thinking of a lounge day. Read by the pool and relax.”

  “Sounds good to me. I’ll be over in a few hours,” she invites herself, as always. Charlie huffs through the speaker, adding, “I have to take Nick to the mall. You know, big sister duties and all.”

  Charlie is the eldest of four. She’s always towing around her little brothers and sister. “Okay. See you later,” I respond.

  “’Kay, bye!”

  In my black bikini, cover-up, and flip-flops, I tread down the grand spiral staircase. The front door swings open just as I reach the bottom step. My father walks in with his cell glued to his ear. It’s pretty common to see him like this: cell in hand—usually crammed between his head and his shoulder—making deals, constantly on the go. At the edge of the staircase, I lean against the railing and study him as long as I can before he realizes I’m watching.

  Dad shuts the door with his foot as his rich, deep voice echoes through the foyer, “Stanley, I don’t
care what it takes to seal the deal. We’ve been working on this account for over a year. If Mr. Whitman wants a penthouse, give him a fucking penthouse.” His face is etched with irritation as he places his suitcase on the marble floor by his office door.

  I continue to admire him silently. Gregory McDaniel is a man who exudes power. His title as CEO of The McDaniel Corporation speaks for itself. The moment my father enters a room, everyone and everything in it instantly gets smaller, dwarfed by his mere presence. He may frighten others, but never have I seen my father as anything but that—my dad. With my mother or me, the tough businessman and CEO instantly turns into a big pile of mush. Just as he does right now, when his eyes scan the foyer and meet mine. His mouth twitches into a huge smile. “Stanley, just take care of it,” he says sternly as he winks and walks my way.

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  He leans in and presses his lips to my forehead. “Hello, beautiful. Going for a swim, I see.” His arm finds its way around my shoulder and he pulls me in close, guiding me as we walk together.

  “Yes. Would you like to join me?”

  “Sorry, sweetheart, I have a conference call in five minutes and then a hot date tonight.” He winks.

  I smile, knowing his hot date is indeed my mother. Regardless of what others interpret my parents’ relationship to be, I’ve only ever seen one thing between them: love. That’s one of the things I love most about my father—the love he has for her. The way he looks at her and the small, intimate gestures he manages with ease, all proves how much he loves her. And as much as my mother and I can’t see eye-to-eye ninety percent of the time, I appreciate the love she has for him too. Love like theirs is rare; it happens once in a lifetime. It’s the kind of love others envy.

  “Jenna, what is this?” my father asks. My gaze follows his pointed finger to the round mahogany table in the center of our foyer. Beside the large pear-shaped vase, filled with fresh long-stemmed yellow roses, is a medium-sized black toolbox with a silver inscription: Reed Construction.