“Get me a wet washcloth, Anya. Please.” I touched Nicci’s pulse, which seemed strong to me. I could see her chest rise and fall, so I knew she was breathing. Her lips were pink, so I could tell she was getting oxygen. “Stevie, any idea what happened?”
“I was playing video games when I heard a thud.” He wiped away a tear. “She going to live?”
“I hope so. I think so. Looks to me like this blood is coming from cuts on her leg.”
He nodded. “That’s what I think, too.”
“Nicci? Nicci, honey?” I tapped her cheeks lightly and she moaned. A good sign.
It seemed to take forever before Anya passed me a warm, damp washcloth. An area of Nicci’s thigh about six inches long by three inches wide was bloody, but it wasn’t spurting blood. Some of it had actually dried on her skin, forming a rusty border. Very, very gently, I dabbed. As I did, I noticed that the center seemed to be coagulating. Bit by bit, I worked my way from the outside toward that center, discovering as I wiped, a crisscross of cut marks. Working carefully so as not to encourage more bleeding, I noted with relief that the area affected was not nearly as large as it had initially looked.
“Could you rinse that out?” I handed the cloth to Anya and heard water running in the sink behind me. “Nicci? Nicci, honey?”
She roused a little. Her eyelashes fluttered and she tried to sit up. I lightly pinched her nostrils shut. Nicci’s eyes snapped open. “Wh-wh-what?”
“Nicci, are you all right? Where are you hurt? Just your legs?”
She nodded.
“What happened?”
She tried to push herself to a standing position. Stevie and I each grabbed an elbow to help. Metal clattered to the tile floor. I looked down to see a bloody razor blade.
how to use gesso on a Zentangle® tile
Gesso is a primer made of gypsum or Plaster of Paris and glue. It’s used to put a coating on rough surfaces, but we’ve found a couple other reasons to add it to your Zentangle® supply kit.
Black Gesso
Although tanglers are taught, “There are no mistakes. Only creative opportunities,” occasionally we all feel disappointed in how our tiles turn out. Not to worry. You can re-purpose a Zentangle® tile by painting it with black gesso! Black gesso does a wizard job of covering up your mistakes—giving you a new surface to tangle.
One of the outstanding properties of gesso is how quickly it dries. Once it feels dry to the touch, usually fifteen minutes, you’re good to go. You can tangle on your black tile with white ink, white pencil, gray pencil, black pen (for cleaning up or definition) or those specialty pens like the Souffle pens by Sakura.
White Gesso
Gesso also comes in white. You’re probably wondering why would you paint white gesso onto a white tile? Traditional Zentangle® tiles are a very absorbent paper. If you paint the tile with a coating of gesso, you can use markers that would otherwise bleed. In other words, now your markers will deliver a crisp line, giving you more control over your design.
* A tile is a pre-cut square of high quality paper.
sixty-six
After Nicci regained consciousness, I phoned Jennifer. I didn’t want to scare my friend, but I told her that I thought Nicci needed to be seen by experts. “We called 911. She doesn’t appear to be seriously hurt, but she did faint, and she might have hit her head.”
Jennifer thanked me profusely and instantly agreed with my assessment. Of course, there was more to the problem than I’d said. But as the shriek of the siren grew closer, I didn’t have time to talk. This was a job for professionals.
The cuts on Nicci’s thighs weren’t deep, but there were a lot of them and they had bled a lot. I suspected she passed out from blood loss or from shock or both, but I wasn’t qualified to make that call. After they loaded Nicci in the ambulance, Stevie, Anya and I followed in my car.
Emergency rooms are such strange places. Everything moves at breakneck speed if you’re bleeding or obviously hurt, but at super slo-mo if you’re not.
We hadn’t been at the hospital long when Jennifer and Steven burst through the automatic doors. Jennifer was out of breath, flushed and frightened out of her wits. Steven simply seemed irritated. The staff told them that Nicci was okay, being seen to, and the doctor would be out to talk with us in a while.
After she sagged down onto the seat next to me, Jennifer started crying. Her teeth chattered audibly. I sent the kids to get her a Coke and flagged down a nurse to bring her a blanket lest she go into shock. Steven didn’t seem to notice his wife’s distress. Instead, he tried to look manly, strutting around and playing with his Blackberry. What a jerk. I don’t have much use for him. He does make cute kids, but otherwise he’s a waste of space and air. There are cardboard boxes I’d rather spend time with.
A staff person came out and handed us each copies of a pamphlet on self-harming.
That got Steven’s attention. He nearly dropped and stepped on his Blackberry. Jennifer grabbed a handful of tissues and mopped her eyes. “Why? What?” she said.
“The admitting doc thinks this will help. There’s good information in there,” said the staff person.
At long last, the doctor came and talked to the Moores. He suggested they keep Nicci overnight until a psychiatrist could evaluate her. “Strictly as a precaution.”
Reluctantly, they agreed.
By the time Anya and I found my car in the parking lot, I could barely keep my eyes open. The drive home seemed endless. The warm yellow porch light outside my little cottage never seemed so cheery. Clancy met us at the backdoor. She had changed into one of my long T-shirts. Over the top she’d pulled a sweatshirt that bore the legend “Lowood Institution Lacrosse.” Of course, that’s a joke, because Lowood was the charity school that Jane Eyre attended. There surely wouldn’t have been a lacrosse team or any other sort of recreation at that gruesome place.
After Anya stumbled off to bed, Clancy poured herself a glass of my wine. Since I couldn’t drink, we decided she could be the designated drinker. Actually, that’s what I want to be when I grow up: A designated drinker. People can take me places and I’ll drink for them. I wonder if there’s a career opportunity there.
Clancy made me a cup of that nasty chamomile tea.
“Cutting. It’s an epidemic among young girls.” Clancy shook her head. “How long had it been going on?”
I rubbed my eyes. The kitchen clock told me it was nearly one in the morning.
“Jennifer thinks Nicci’s problems started last year when Stevie came out of the closet. I guess the attention he got only exacerbated all the negative feelings she had about herself. Anya told me Nicci had been teased at school about Stevie being gay. A couple of weeks ago, a boy she liked dumped her. Said cruel things about her on Facebook. I guess Nicci’s emotional cup runneth over.”
“Did Jennifer know what was happening?”
“She knew there was a problem. Wasn’t sure exactly what. She’d never heard of cutting. Nicci refused to bare her legs when the family took a vacation in Aruba. Jennifer chalked it up to body image issues. That’s what she was worried about. She didn’t think to worry about this.”
“What brought everything to a head?”
“Tonight Nicci cut herself more deeply than usual and passed out.”
“Anya found her?”
“Stevie did. He yelled for Anya.”
“Did Anya know this was going on?”
“Yes. Poor kid couldn’t decide what to do. She was afraid to tell on Nicci, for fear that her friend would get more upset and eventually commit suicide. She was equally scared not to tell anyone about it, for fear of the same. She worried that if she ticked Nicci off, things might get worse and no one would know until it was too late. The two girls quarreled over it. Nicci insisted that she wasn’t planning to kill herself, only that the cutting felt good. Called it a release. Of co
urse, that explanation left Anya totally baffled. Tonight Anya planned to tell Nicci that if she didn’t tell her mother, she would.”
“But Nicci is suicidal, isn’t she?”
“No. Health care professionals have recently re-evaluated cutting. They call it NSSI, for non-suicidal self-injury. They theorize that the act of self-harm releases endorphins. That release feels good, so the cutters become addicted.”
“You have to be kidding me!”
“Nope. One cutter compared it to getting high. Which is especially appealing if you feel like you need to escape. To walk away from your life.” As I spoke, Gracie growled in her sleep, her large body twitching in response to a bad dream. With my big toe, I rocked her shoulder to rouse her. She raised her heavy head, glared at me, snorted, and immediately fell back to sleep. “Hand me my purse,” I said to Clancy, who willingly got up from the couch. After she passed my bag over, I dug around for the pamphlet. “Wait until you hear the stats on this. Experts say nearly one in five girls today is or has cut herself.”
On her way back to her sofa, Clancy scooped up Seymour and put him in her lap so she could stroke his fur absent-mindedly. Martin jumped up onto the back of the sofa and watched. He’s a bit more shy than Seymour, so he watched Seymour soaking up the love.
“Growing up I never heard of anyone cutting herself. But lately I’ve read about it with Angelina Jolie, Princess Di, Amy Winehouse, and Lindsay Lohan. I guess I didn’t think about it with high school girls. Those celebrities are a pretty high-flying group of women. I mean, they all are—or were—terribly successful role models. What gives?” asked Clancy.
“I wish I knew. The brochure says that cutting seems to be catching. It’s much, much more common in girls than in boys. When one girl does it, her peers try it, too. I bet it’s an epidemic at CALA. They work so hard to keep up a good front. I wish the people in charge cared half as much about taking care of our kids.”
“That’s not fair and you know it.” Clancy sat up straighter. “When
I taught high school, parents threatened to sue us all the time if we shared confidential information about their kids. No one wanted Little Jenny or Little Johnny labeled as a kid with a problem. And who can blame them? It’s usually just a stage. Kids grow up and move on.”
She was right. I agreed with her. “But I have reason to think there’s
a bigger problem at CALA than anyone is admitting. On the way home tonight, Anya told me about cutting parties in the school restrooms. Can you believe it? What do I do now? Tell the administration? What does my daughter do? Become the cutting spy and tell on everyone?”
“I’ll tell you what I would do if I were you. I’d watch my kid like a hawk. Shake her down regularly for sharp objects.”
“Huh. That wouldn’t do much good. According to that pamphlet kids can be very cagy about where they hide their tools. One mother searched her daughter’s room but didn’t find anything. The girl had hidden a blade in a picture frame between the photograph and the cardstock backing. She taped another blade to the inside of a CD case.”
“Regardless, I’d still watch Anya carefully.”
I didn’t tell Clancy the details of my talk with Anya on our drive home. My daughter admitted being grossed out by Nicci’s problem. “I want to be Nicci’s friend, Mom, but I sure hope she stops doing this because the sight of blood makes me want to barf. I know that’s like totally selfish, but it’s true. It took me forever to get you the washcloth because I got sick in the other bathroom. Anyway I’m kinda glad this happened. I’ve been really, really worried about Nicci. Now I don’t have to rat her out.”
Clancy’s yawn brought me back to the here and now. I joined in.
Snug at home at last, Clancy had done an admirable job of turning my sofa into a makeshift bed. I told her goodnight, woke Gracie, put my hand on the dog’s collar, and walked the big girl into my bedroom. Once I was under the covers and Gracie sprawled on the other half of the bed, I started to fall asleep. I had a lot I could worry about. But I remembered what a German theologian named Meister Eckhart taught his followers, “If the only prayer you said in your whole life was, ‘Thank you,’ that would suffice.” And it seemed to me, as I snuggled next to Gracie’s slumbering bulk, that as worried as I was about Detweiler, I had a lot to be grateful for. So instead of reviewing my worries, I told myself: My daughter is safe. Her friend is getting the care she needs. Clancy is my rock. My sister lives nearby. Sheila is home. My friends have my back. Mert will forgive me someday. Dodie is in God’s hands. My boyfriend has a top-notch attorney, plus he’s innocent. And I have a baby to welcome into this world.
Life was good.
Mainly.
sixty-seven
Tuesday, Day 8—after the shooting
The phone rang earlier the next morning than I would have liked.
“Come on over for breakfast,” boomed the voice of Robbie Holmes.
“Be right there. Can I bring Clancy?”
“As long as she doesn’t eat anything. Hey, I’m pulling your leg. You can bring anyone you want,” and he hung up.
Boy, someone was in a good mood now that his honey was home!
No one makes better breakfasts than Robbie. He’s great with eggs, hash browns, pancakes, biscuits and gravy.
I called CALA and told them Anya was taking a mental health vacation for a day or two. Fortunately, the receptionist didn’t press me for details. Margit was scheduled to open the store at eight, and Dodie would come in soon after. Robbie’s timing was perfect, even if Clancy and Anya weren’t happy about getting up so early. I reminded both of them that Robbie was an excellent cook, and they grumped a little less.
I sniffed the armpits of my gray dress and pronounced it clean enough for another day’s wearing.
A short time later, I tapped on Sheila’s front door. It flew open and there stood my mom. As we tried to come in, she blocked our entrance. “Well! It’s about time, Kiki. You haven’t called. You haven’t been by to ask how I am. Here I am, all alone in this strange city and you haven’t made an effort.”
She swept her eyes up and down, studying me. “In that gray dress, you look like a whale.”
“Son of Blubber, huh? Or Daughter of Blubber as the case may be? Nice to see you too, Mom,” I pushed past her. “Robbie? Sheila? Hello!”
Clancy and Anya also edged their way past my mother, who continued to complain while following them into the kitchen.
The Sheila sitting in a kitchen chair was much, much smaller than the woman I knew. Pain diminished her, although her bright blue eyes snapped with intelligence. Leaning over, I gave her a kiss on the cheek. On the trip here I’d warned Anya that her grandmother might be fragile.
“I know, Mom,” said Anya. “I saw both of you in the emergency room, remember?”
My child’s face was suffused with love as she approached her Gran and slipped her arms around Sheila’s neck so lightly, she could have been a butterfly landing on a petal. “Gran! It’s so good to have you back. I missed you.”
“Harrumph,” my mother fussed in the background.
Amanda came in and I gave my sister a hug. She’d met Clancy at my house during the welcome home party, but I reintroduced my friend to my sister and started to introduce her to my mother when she interrupted.
“My daughter has forgotten her manners. Of course, I am Lucia Montgomery, Amanda’s mother. Kiki’s as well,” said my mother stiffly, extending her hand the way Henry VIII must have done for Thomas More to kiss before he had him beheaded.
“Mom, Clancy is the nice person who’s renting us the house in U City,” said Amanda. “Remember? You liked that place a lot. Very large. Great location. Nice yard.”
“Then I need to talk to you. Those windows haven’t been cleaned in a long time. That simply must be done. And you need to get a water softening system, as I have very delicate skin,” Mom patted h
er own face as if Clancy might need visual reinforcement to get the drift.
“Tell you what,” said Clancy. “Why don’t you make me a list?”
As Mom toddled off to find notepaper, Clancy leaned close to me and whispered, “So I can tear it to shreds and forget it. How’s that working for you, girlfriend?” And she gave me a high-five.
I snickered. “Really well. You might be able to keep her busy for weeks writing it over and over.”
Without my crabby mother, the kitchen was a warm and happy place to gather. Robbie’s hash brown potatoes with onions and green peppers gave off a tantalizing aroma. An accomplished sous chef, Robbie had all his ingredients for omelets at hand so he could take our orders and whip them up in no time.
“I filled the French press with coffee from Kaldi’s,” Robbie said to me as he slid the first omelet onto Sheila’s plate.
“Oh, you doll you.” I hugged him. I filled the eight-cup coffee maker with hot water from the special spigot at Sheila’s sink.
Mom walked back in. I watched her look around and I read the expression on her face. She was a deeply, deeply unhappy woman—and her sour disposition caused everyone to want to avoid her. Robbie and Sheila were joking and stealing kisses. Amanda and Anya talked about U City. Clancy caught me up on what had happened when she closed the store the night before. An empty chair sat open, waiting for my mom, but she simply stood there, staring at all of us. When no one immediately dropped what they were doing to cater to her, Mom pouted. “Well, I can see I’m not wanted,” she sniffed before leaving again.
The conversation turned to light-hearted matters. Sheila’s sling. Local news. The annual appearance of moles in Sheila’s lawn. Visitors who wanted to come by and wish my mother-in-law well. A few had dropped off packages at the house, leaving books and chocolates and magazines.
After an hour or so of chit-chat, Anya wandered into the great room to read her grandmother’s fashion magazines. We could hear the television in that room booming, which I rightly assumed was a passive-aggressive statement from my mother.
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