by Herta Feely
Phoebe’s response came in the form of loud panicked sobs.
“Phoebe? Sweetheart, talk to me.” Isabel kept her voice even despite the sudden onslaught of guilt. “Exactly what did he say?”
Between sniffles, she managed, “That he couldn’t trust me because obviously I must have told you about the drinking. And you know that’s not true! And then he claimed that I said Jessie’s fat and no boy would ever like her.”
“Did you? No, I mean –” Isabel cast around for the appropriate thing to say. “Phoebe, darling, are you there? I know you wouldn’t say that. Where did he get such an idea?”
“Mom, what difference does it make? I like him and now he says he won’t see me! Not at my birthday party! Not ever!”
Isabel recognized the panic in Phoebe’s voice. For the past year, she’d been flying into emotional overdrive at the drop of a hat, but she was also sensitive, overly sensitive. For an instant, Isabel saw the wounds on her daughter’s arms, self-inflicted cuts that made her want to cry. The whole thing actually did sound like a mess. But how had it happened? This guy was only a Facebook friend. “Honey, I’ll be home in ten minutes. I’ll make you some hot chocolate and we’ll sort this out. Okay?” She knew it might take her as long as half an hour, but she’d get there and calm her daughter down.
Why wasn’t Ron home yet, she suddenly wondered. He’d be there shortly, she reassured herself, unless some assignment had delayed him. She’d call him.
“This is horrible,” Phoebe moaned.
“It’s going to be all right,” Isabel said soothingly. “Just get off Facebook, okay?”
Once home, she’d explain the truth to Phoebe. She would explain how sometimes you have to make difficult choices, stand up for your beliefs, and that you can’t worry about what other people think. Is that what she’d tell her? And then there was this mysterious Shane character; she’d been wary about him, apparently for good reason. Who was he to treat her daughter this way? Maybe now, for once, Ron would listen to her. That’s when she remembered he hadn’t called her all day.
She waited for Phoebe to say something, but there was silence on the other end. “Phoebe, honey, talk to me.” She had to keep her on the phone. Then she heard her weeping miserably. “Phoebe, sweetheart, I’m sure he’ll see you. It’s just a misunderstanding.” The sounds of distress suddenly grew distant then stopped.
“Phoebe?”
She glanced at the phone and saw that Phoebe had disconnected the call.
The latticework of cuts on the inside of Phoebe’s pale arm, and many more on her thigh, swirled into Isabel’s mind as she finally reached 22nd Street and sped north, aiming for the entrance to Rock Creek Parkway near Dupont Circle. She had to get home, but traffic in the nation’s capital – oh hell, the light was turning red. She stepped on the gas.
Seconds later, a siren wailed behind her.
The furious lights of a police car blinked in Isabel’s rearview mirror. “Oh, God, not now.” She looked for a place to stop on the one-way street, hoping the siren was intended for someone else.
But the vehicle stopped behind her. “Damn it,” Isabel moaned. In her side mirror, she watched the policeman’s eyes sweep the length of her new convertible BMW, probably making a judgment about her. He sauntered up to the window in that idiotic, languid way some cops have of showing off their authority. If ever she needed to exhibit self-control, now was that time.
She rolled down the window, drew on her lawyerly restraint and explained to the man an abbreviated version of what had just transpired on the telephone with her daughter. Surely he’d understand her need to hurry. Seeing his bemused expression, his complete lack of interest, she went on to describe Phoebe’s high-strung personality, and then against her better judgment and sense of privacy told him of her tendency to cut herself when under extreme emotional distress.
But he just stared at her. “You ran a red light, lady,” he said, “I need to see your license and registration.”
Isabel fished through her purse, finally managing to locate the documents. “Please, officer, I’m telling you the truth.”
He took the items from her, glanced at them, said, “Be right back,” and strolled to his vehicle. She watched him retreat in her mirror. She picked up her cell phone and tried Phoebe again. After five rings Phoebe’s voicemail switched on.
“Hi,” her sweet young voice said. “You know what to do…so do it.”
Isabel felt the same alien anxiety she’d experienced earlier. I have to get home. With one more backward glance at the police car, she cut the lights, put the BMW into gear and eased into traffic. She drove toward the P Street entrance of Rock Creek Parkway, only a couple of blocks away. Never in her entire life had she done anything like this.
As the smiling gibbous moon shone overhead, she kept looking in the rearview mirror, but saw no sign of the police. Her foot pressed harder on the gas, one eye fixed on the odometer. She could kick herself for what she’d done on Saturday night. Calling 911 had been spur of the moment. She always said you shouldn’t act in the heat of anger. Still she’d been right to do it. Damn that Sandy! Now she had to explain it all to Phoebe. She tapped their home number and waited for someone to answer. Despite two more calls to Phoebe, plus one to Ron, no one picked up. Damn it!
Phoebe fought back her tears. She was struggling to make sense of the fact that her mother had called the cops. Now she knew for certain that Jessie and Shane had been right. But Shane had also accused her of having been complicit in Mr. and Mrs. Littleton’s arrest. Why can’t you just admit it, he’d said. And yet there was nothing to admit, she hadn’t told her mother! Worst of all, he was no longer interested in meeting her and he WASN’T coming to her party! She’d NEVER get to know him. She’d never be a “10” in his eyes! And now everyone would HATE her for what her mother had done.
She fetched the box cutter and began marching around the room. What could she say? How could she defend herself? She ran her thumb across the blade’s sharp edge, then returned to her computer on the bed and laid the box cutter beside it. She would announce that she was sorry, very sorry, but she couldn’t be held responsible for her mother.
Before she typed a single word, there in broad daylight, posted on her Facebook Wall, she saw that all sorts of people were slamming her. Messages from girls and boys, some she hardly knew. A couple she didn’t know at all. What a loser. Glad you’re not my “friend.” Several accused her of tattling to her mother about the drinking and called her mother “sick” for calling the police.
Oh, please, not again, Phoebe thought, she couldn’t take another year like the last one. She just couldn’t, and this was definitely worse.
How low! You are such a piece of trash!
Phoebe gaped at the words then defended herself once more, saying that she absolutely did not say anything to her mom about drinking at the Littleton’s party. At once a post appeared from Vanessa, a former Woodmont school friend of hers who she hadn’t seen since the summer: Your mom did that? If I were you, I’d leave home or…slash my wrists! Get it?
Somewhere in the distance the phone rang, but Phoebe refused to answer it, certain it was her mother. What could she possibly say that would make a difference? The damage had been done.
The words on the screen became a grating noise in Phoebe’s head. She closed her eyes and covered her ears. This can’t be happening. Make it stop. Please! And where was her friend Emma? She knew she could count on her. But the slights and insults kept coming.
Her hand flew to her mouth when she read: The world would be better off without you. She might have expected something this cruel from Skyla or some of the others, but not Shane. No, not Shane.
Isabel maneuvered the car along the curves of Rock Creek Parkway. She pressed harder on the gas pedal, allowing the speedometer to climb well past the speed limit. Half an eye on the road, she kept the other on her iPhone. “Hell’s bells,” she said aloud, fumbling with the icons, touching the wrong one, banging “end
,” then striking another. Finally, she tapped Ron’s name again and listened to the phone’s endless ring.
“Damn it,” she said viciously, “answer the fucking phone.”
A feeling of dread lodged itself in Isabel’s gut, and a sense of foreboding and darkness galloped through her mind. One moment it was the certainty that something bad had happened to Phoebe, and in the next the irrevocable fact that only minutes earlier she’d escaped the policeman, who couldn’t be far behind.
She looked into the rearview mirror every few seconds, knowing that when he or another cop caught up to her there’d be hell to pay. How would she talk her way out of this? Could she be disbarred? She only knew that she had to get home and make sure Phoebe hadn’t resorted to anything drastic. Anything, God forbid, irreversible. Then she remembered something she’d read on the Internet about cutting: the worst thing of all about self-injury is that it is strongly connected to later suicide attempts and death by suicide. No, no, no, she told herself. NO!
Concentrating, watching the car lap up the road, she chased the thought from her mind.
Once more, she tried the home number. But no one answered. The gibbous moon continued to stare down at her with its mocking smile.
Chapter Two
Two months earlier, Monday, September 8, 2008
There was something tragic about fall, Isabel thought, as she stared out the bay windows of her kitchen and saw a leaf flutter to the ground. She was in the midst of setting the table for breakfast, but in that instant, in Isabel’s mind, the entire maple tree’s foliage crumbled and fell. Though not often, because she didn’t allow herself to wallow, Isabel felt a deep staggering melancholy. Today was such a day. The children back to school. The relaxation and joys of summer vacation over. Back to an intense schedule. Autumn death and winter ahead.
A pair of cardinals, chirping and flitting about, rescued her.
“Phoebe, Jackson, time for breakfast!”
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?” Phoebe said.
With only a few minutes left before she had to catch the bus to her new school, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her fat freckled cheeks had slimmed over the course of the summer, or was that her imagination? No, she’d trimmed a few pounds off her weight and she’d gained at least an inch or two in height. She tilted her head and gazed at her eyes, almost amber in color – yes, they were still one of her most attractive features, something she and her mother agreed on. Phoebe batted her eyelashes, which matched her strawberry blonde hair, and tried on a smile. Then, turning sideways and drawing in a deep breath, she compared her body’s shape to the magazine photos she’d taped to the mirror’s frame, one of Emma Stone and the other of a skinny model from Teen Vogue.
Though her figure looked more slender than her pudgy eighth-grade self last year, she knew she wasn’t the fairest of them all, but was she even in the game? Making faces at herself, she dashed on pink lip gloss, then grabbed her lime green monogrammed book bag and ran out the door, yelling good-bye to her mother.
“But you didn’t even have breakfast! Don’t you want me to give you a ride on your first day of high school?” Her mother’s shout reached her as she crossed the recently mown lawn of her family’s three-story home that stood in the shadow of the National Cathedral. “I’m good,” she yelled back. She walked several blocks to the bus stop on Wisconsin Avenue and found a spot on the bench to await the bus’s arrival.
Today was no day to have breakfast, not on her first day as a freshman at Georgetown Academy. Ever since last year she’d vowed to lose weight and leave the ugly duckling years of middle school behind. She could still hear the hideous insults Skyla Van-Dorn had thrown at her after grabbing her thermal lunch bag last spring and dumping its contents onto the cafeteria table. For everyone to see! Two sandwiches slathered with peanut butter and jelly, a container of yogurt, a banana, an apple, a Snickers bar and two Oreos. The girls around her had pointed at the pile of food and laughed. “Gee, Phoebe, eat much!”
Her visiting great aunt Marta had packed the lunch, and even Phoebe was appalled. What had she been thinking? But Phoebe knew. Growing up in Hungary after the war, great aunt Marta had often gone to bed suffering hunger pains. And then Skyla captured the attention of a few boys wandering by with their trays, and they’d joined in the hazing. Even Noah, who she had a crush on, hadn’t defended her. Though he did avert his eyes.
Phoebe had wanted to die. Instead, her face had flushed red, even brighter than her hair, and tears sprang to her eyes. She rushed from the table and headed to the girls’ bathroom. In the last stall, she sank to a crouch on the floor and sobbed. She was sick of being humiliated, sick of being the brunt of jokes and teasing; Skyla had picked on her so often she’d lost count.
That’s when she found a paper clip in her pocket, and without thinking, untwisted it until one end jutted out like a tiny dagger. She’d taken the weapon and run the sharp metal across the inside of her thigh, pushing it hard until droplets of blood surfaced. Then she’d stabbed herself. She’d done it again and again. What had surprised her the most was the sensation of relief that had flooded her body. The way the ragged cuts absorbed her sadness. She’d let out a deep breath of air, then torn off some toilet paper and dabbed at the blood, watching the scarlet color spread onto the tissue. That was the first time she’d resorted to what Dr. Sharma called self-injury.
Isabel stepped out onto the veranda that wrapped around the front of their house hoping to catch sight of Phoebe, but she’d missed her. Her shoulders drooped a little. She took in several deep breaths of air, then a final long exhalation. She straightened, her hands on her hips.
Was it really true, only four more years before her darling girl headed off to some university? The words Vassar, Columbia, Brown, and Stanford cycled through her mind. They were all possibilities, though the thought that Phoebe might live all the way across the country left her breathless. Then again leaving the East Coast for a place like Stanford might be a good thing. Especially after last year’s horror.
She glanced at her watch, its single diamond glinting in the early morning light. A few more minutes before she had to leave for work. She lowered herself into one of the wicker chairs and closed her eyes. Her mother had taught her the value of prayer, and though Isabel didn’t place much stock in God, she did aim, each day, to be grateful for something.
Today she expressed gratitude for the fact that mean girl Skyla VanDorn would not be attending Georgetown Academy. It didn’t seem altogether right that she’d wished for this last school year, and then rejoiced when she’d heard the girl didn’t get in, and now felt so happy that it was the case. No, her gratitude usually followed more positive lines of thought. But once she’d discovered the perfidy of Phoebe’s grade school best friend – Skyla’s attacks had been nothing less than vicious – she couldn’t help herself. Since there was so little she could do to protect her daughter, not having Skyla at the same school felt like a step in the right direction. The other steps, as she knew all too well, involved building Phoebe’s self-esteem and ability to defend herself. And they’d been working on that all summer long. Hopefully the sessions with her therapist, Dr. Sharma, had helped, as well as the talks she’d had off and on with Phoebe.
Isabel opened her eyes. They landed on something lying beneath one of the bushes on the lawn. She craned her neck to see what it was. Then she stood and ran lightly down the steps to get a closer look. It was a brightly plumed goldfinch. Bloodied and mangled. “Oh, Hagrid, how could you?” She couldn’t help adding, “Please, God, protect my girl.”
Fifteen minutes later, with a mix of trepidation, hope, and excitement, Phoebe joined a stream of students walking up the main drive of the leafy, manicured campus. The school, formerly a mansion, sat amid an entire residential block of Georgetown, all of it walled off from the prying eyes of neighbors and passersby. The red brick walls – some overgrown with ivy and moss, while others showed years of decay – ha
d been constructed by the original eccentric and exceedingly private owner a couple of centuries earlier.
The school’s carved wooden doors stood wide open and seemed friendly, as if beckoning students, new and old, inside. Also welcoming them was the recently installed headmistress, Miss Kendall, who seemed young compared to Phoebe’s former principal. This woman seemed approachable. Though Phoebe hoped there’d be no reason to approach her. Not like at Woodmont, where visits to the principal had been too frequent. All had included Skyla. The principal always wanted them to resolve “their issues,” but they weren’t her issues, she thought, and anyway, Skyla was so good at faking it.
As Phoebe was about to pass by her, Miss Kendall said, “Hello.” Phoebe came to a halt and greeted her in a small voice. “Hi, Miss Kendall.”
“Phoebe Murrow, right?” The headmistress’s mouth and eyes smiled. Phoebe nodded. “Welcome aboard,” the woman added.
“Thank you,” Phoebe said, impressed Miss Kendall knew her name, and moved inside, hoping to find someone she knew.
“Hey, Phoebe!”
Phoebe glanced around in search of the familiar voice. Jessie! Their eyes locked. Friendly, smiling Jessie. New at Woodmont last year, she’d been Phoebe’s lifesaver, rescuing her on more than one occasion from the wicked Skyla. Now Phoebe ran to her, her book bag sliding off her shoulder as they embraced, clutching each other for a solid minute. As if they were long lost sisters. Then Jessie latched onto Phoebe’s arm and together they continued into the large central foyer called the Great Hall.
They caught up on the last few weeks while each had been away. First, Phoebe had visited her uncle on Martha’s Vineyard, then she’d visited her paternal grandfather on Cape Cod. His wife, her Nana Helen, had died shortly after she’d taught Phoebe how to sew a few years earlier, the two memories intertwined, making her both weepy and wistful at times.
