“It’s about Kelly Boynton,” Evie says. For a moment my blood stops pumping. I’ve been thinking about Kelly so much lately that the mention of her name feels like a weird invasion of privacy. My bite of PowerBar goes down painfully, sharp and cardboardy.
“Well,” Evie goes on. “It turns out she’s a cutter. And do you know who she decided to tell about this cutting? My brother. She showed him the scars on her poor little arms. And you know what he said, my brilliant brother? Instead of sending her straight to Mrs. Kingsbury, like any normal human being?”
This time Evie realizes she has lobbed a hand grenade of a name. She flushes slightly, and stops. H. J. takes over for her. “I told her to just cut a little bit,” he says.
This is so contrary to what I expected that I burst out laughing, even though I know it’s not funny at all. I picture poor Kelly, her tortured and tear-streaked face. I wonder if H. J.’s advice surprised her as much as it does me. I wish I could ask her about it.
Evie frowns at me, then turns back around in her seat. “I’m sorry,” I say to the back of her head. “I don’t know why I laughed. It’s definitely not funny.” I can see Evie’s face in the side-view mirror, staring out the window. She looks earnest and very young, little wisps of hair escaping from her wool cap.
I sit forward and place my hands on the back of Evie’s seat. She and H. J. ride silently, as if an argument to be continued later has been put on temporary hold. But I don’t want it to be on hold. I want to know, urgently, if Kelly told H. J. why she cut herself, if it had something to do with Luke. Did she start cutting when she and Luke broke up? Or when Luke started going out with me? After he died? Or maybe she started cutting for reasons completely un-Luke?
I think of Evie’s description, “poor little arms,” and I want to take the tubes of Mederma my mother keeps buying me and slather the lotion on Kelly. When I was at the hospital, Dr. Reisner told me that a lot of mental health professionals didn’t take wrist-slashers seriously as suicidal personalities. They saw it as just a bid for attention, not an honest attempt at death. “Especially now,” Dr. Reisner said, “with all the teenage cutters.”
H. J.’s brown hair curls messily over the back of his collar. I’m impressed that he doesn’t seem upset at all. There is something insouciant about him that I admire, as if the worst happened so early in his life that he’s committed himself to moving forward casually. I imagine H. J. counseling Kelly, and how he probably shrugged, and smiled a little, as if cutting were the most insignificant thing in the world. “It’s okay,” he would have said, unimpressed by the raised, red, crisscrossed wounds that she expected would horrify him. “Just do it a little bit.”
Just do it a little bit. I am healthy enough to recognize the words as bad advice, but still. I can’t help liking the sound of them. They sound, somehow, like forgiveness. Like hacking into your own flesh is not sick but perfectly understandable. Just don’t do it too much.
“Do you know,” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant, “why she did it?”
The two of them glance at each other, as if my question were intrusive. H. J. throws the question back at me. “Why?” he says, making the word sound ridiculous. As if there could never be a good reason for hurting yourself. I imagine Kelly, newly glassy-eyed from antidepressants, talking to a therapist—maybe even Dr. Reisner—who tries to convince her of different, more complex reasons than what she knows as the simpler truth.
“I was just wondering,” I persist. “I mean, I know there’s no good reason. But I saw her in school the other day, and she looked so sad. Do you know when she started? Cutting, I mean.”
“I wish I could tell you,” H. J. says. By now we’re on the last bit of road leading into Telluride, alternating ragtag horse farms and afterthought trophy houses. “But it doesn’t seem right. You know? Maybe you could ask her yourself. I’m sure she’d appreciate the concern.”
From someone who went even further, he doesn’t say.
I sit back a little in my seat. Through the window I see snow-covered pine trees, and up ahead the winding, icy trickle of Bridal Veil Falls. Luke used to say he liked looking up at the waterfalls because their beauty reminded him of his own insignificance. I’m not sure if they have the same effect on me. What I do know is that I feel more natural around these two—Evie and H. J.—than I have around anyone, for what seems like the longest, longest time.
* * *
H. J. takes the chair ahead of us, and Evie and I ride up together. “What does ‘H. J.’ stand for?” I ask her. Our feet dangle heavily beneath us, and even though Evie’s not much taller than me, her skis are about a foot longer. I feel slightly embarrassed and inadequate with my stumpy beginner’s skis. Both she and H. J. wear blue jeans, Evie’s with giant holes that show off pink long johns. It’s the kind of outfit you’d only wear if you knew you wouldn’t fall. Meanwhile I’m wearing all the state-of-the-art waterproof gear my Mom bought for me right after she and Paul got remarried and she felt giddy with new credit cards. Which is just as well, since I’ll probably spend most of the day on my butt.
“It stands for ‘Haskett Jenkins,’ ” Evie says. “They’re the last names of my mom’s grandfathers.”
“Fancy,” I say, and Evie nods. She can throw out those phrases, “my mom,” “my dad,” so casually. I haven’t said Luke’s name aloud to anyone since I got out of the hospital.
“ ‘Tressa’ is an unusual name,” Evie says. “Where did your mom get that?”
“I’m named after my father’s mother,” I say, and then I add, “not Paul.”
“I know,” Evie reminds me. Something about her openness makes me want to give her more information. So I do something I pretty much never do. I tell her about my father, how my mom dated him for a little while when she lived in Ireland. They weren’t together long, and Mom came back to the states when I was a baby. I tell Evie how his mom—my other grandmother—was with her at my birth and helped out those first few months. She showed her how she could use a dresser drawer as a cradle.
“I never saw her again, that grandmother,” I tell Evie. “But I’ve met my dad a couple of times. He came to visit once or twice, but he’s lived in Wales ever since I was little.”
“Is he Welsh?”
“No,” I say. “Irish. But he married a Welsh woman and moved there.”
“Do you hear from him much?”
I remember the letter my father sent while I was in the hospital. It was tentative and careful, like something you’d expect from a polite and distant relative. It made me sad, the sight of his handwriting—crowded close together on the page, unsure and filled with apology.
“Once in a while,” I say.
“Does he have other kids?”
“No. He doesn’t.”
“I bet he thinks about you a lot,” Evie says. “Maybe you can go to Wales and visit him someday.” This suggestion seems so obvious, it shocks me that the idea has never once in all my life occurred to me. Evie looks ahead, squinting into the glare off the snow, and I suspect she wishes that visiting her own father were as simple as a plane ticket to Wales.
The chair slows down, and Evie lifts the bar. I have the strange sense of extra cold air coming toward me, and a little bit of stage fright as we push off onto the snow. I reach forward with my poles, getting my balance unsteadily. As soon as I slide off the lift, I lose control, skidding down the snow and landing in a heap. H. J. has been waiting for us, and he skis over. Evie’s not far behind.
“I see we have our work cut out for us,” H. J. says. He wears goggles over his glasses, a Carhartt jacket, and a bomber hat, flaps down. The look wouldn’t fly in Aspen, but for Telluride his rugged dishevelment is right in vogue.
“Sorry,” I say. “I told you I’m not much of a skier.” Evie holds out her hand and helps me get to my feet. The strength of her tug surprises me. “Let’s do See Forever,” she says. “There are some nice mellow stretches.”
“All right,” I say. I push myself over to
the blue sign at the beginning of the run and let Evie and H. J. go first. I think of a scene from The Bell Jar. Esther goes skiing, and stands at the top of the run looking down. The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
Evie and H. J. whoosh down onto the run, so I bend my knees and push off, following. Despite my klutziness it feels good to be active, the cold air on my face and the sun climbing high enough in the sky to warm the slopes and the top of my head. I resist the urge to fight it—feeling good. Strangest of all, I find I like this new idea of going to Wales. The notion feels so odd and foreign, it’s like trying on someone else’s clothes and discovering that they don’t quite—and may never—fit. Unless I somehow, someway, manage to grow another inch.
The three of us ski together until a little after noon, and then we head to Gorrono Ranch Restaurant. It’s crowded, the Saturday after the first big snow, and the sounds of voices and clanging silverware echo through the high-ceilinged space. Evie piles her tray, and because I have been exercising all morning, I allow myself to do the same. We all crowd together at a round table in the center of the way, with steaming chili and huge hunks of crusty bread. Across the way I see the family I used to babysit for, the Cummingses, and I sit down with my back to them, hoping they won’t see me.
H. J. and Evie both wear the kind of gloves Luke used to—thick wool mittens covered by leather farming mittens. Luke swore it was the warmest possible system, and looking at their hands—rosy and flexible, I think he must have been right. Must be right, I correct myself. I press my bare hands against my hot paper coffee cup and take a sip. The warmth feels good going down my throat. I barely listen to H. J. and Evie’s conversation about a pair of movie stars who sit bundled up and scarfing chili a couple tables over. Evie announces that the pair are Scientologists, which somehow segues into a book about palmistry that H. J.’s reading.
“I think it’s all a load of crap,” Evie says. “Don’t you, Tressa?”
I shrug, not thinking much one way or the other but not wanting to offend either of them.
“Evie’s a nonbeliever because she has a very short life line,” H. J. says. “I keep telling her not to worry. Mine used to be short too, but then it grew.”
“That can happen?” I ask. It must be unsettling to have a short life line, especially for them.
“Sure,” H. J. says. “Your future’s always changing, depending on the paths you choose. Here.” H. J. reaches across the table, toward me. “Let me see your palm.”
Instinctively I pull my hands away and place them in my lap. My thick Gore-Tex gloves with the liners still inside them lie on top of the table, and I curse myself for taking them off.
“No, thanks,” I say. “I don’t believe in that stuff.”
“Ah, but when Evie asked, you shrugged. That means you’re still open to possibility. Let me make a believer out of you.” H. J. pushes his glasses up on his nose, then holds his palm out for me to see. “See how my life line snakes all the way around my wrist?” he says. “It used to end right here.” He points to the center of his palm, and I peer into it politely. He has big hands, wide and chapped. I find myself thinking he’d be good to have around if a jar needed opening.
“Come on,” H. J. says, tugging at my sleeve. “Let me see your palm.”
“H. J.,” Evie says, her voice full of warning. “Tressa said no. Didn’t anyone ever teach you that ‘no’ means no?”
Apparently not. H. J. reaches down to grab my hand. He tugs it insistently and a tiny bit roughly toward himself, acting like he doesn’t know that I’m supposed to be dealt with very, very delicately. Maybe he considers his own history worse and so doesn’t care.
H. J. stares down at my palm. My sleeve is in the way, and he pushes it up in one big sweep so that it bunches at my elbow, revealing a bare stretch of white wrist polluted by red scars. I haven’t seen my scars this way—publicly, under bright light—in a very long time. They look raised and screaming. They climb upward, like an invasive foreign species—kudzu vines—and I think how they reveal way more information than the lines on my palm ever could.
I feel more naked than if I’d pulled my whole shirt over my head. But H. J. doesn’t say anything. He just stares intently at my palm, his brow knit in concentration. With the tip of his index finger, he touches three spots on my hand, then says, without looking up at me, as if he’s still contemplating, “You have a mystic cross. Look. It’s right between the head line and the heart line.” He touches both these lines as he speaks, a light and gentle touch. His fingers are surprisingly warm—another point for Luke’s mitten system.
“What’s a mystic cross?”
“You see?” he says, pointing again. “It’s that little x right there. It means you’re in tune with the occult, the spiritual. Yours is very prominent. In fact, it’s the deepest one I’ve ever seen.”
I lean my head in closer and say, “What else?”
H. J. still doesn’t look up at me. One of his hands holds my upper arm, his fingers closing around my sweater sleeve. The other hand hovers above my palm. He points his index finger again and this time lets it land on my wrist, right on top of my scars. Then, as he didn’t do with my palm, he begins to trace them with his fingertips.
“You have a death wish,” he says.
The room falls away beneath me. I sit there, completely frozen. Not because I hear Evie gasp a little, or because I feel her kicking H. J. under the table. Not even because of the words H. J. used, or the fact that nobody since the hospital has ever mentioned my scars, and even there nobody touched them. Nobody has touched my wrists since the doctor in Durango sewed them back together with dissolving thread, and nurses swabbed them with disinfectant when they changed the bandages.
Everything around me disappears. Nothing exists but this astonishing discovery: I can’t feel H. J.’s fingers.
I can feel his hand, closed around my upper arm like he’s testing my blood pressure. I can feel the edge of his knees, knocking ever so slightly into mine as he continues to lean toward me. But I can’t feel his fingers at all. I can’t pick up any sensation whatsoever. Not warmth, not skin, not anything.
Just like when Luke touches me anywhere else.
I pull my hand out of H. J.’s grasp. “Thanks,” I say. I can feel my face, burning with possibility. Probably H. J. and Evie mistake it for embarrassment.
“H. J.,” Evie moans. “That was so inappropriate.”
Massively inappropriate, I want to say, but I would say it with a smile, and I know H. J. would smile back. He picks up his hot chocolate and takes a sip, staring at me over the brim.
I laugh, a short tremulous burst. “It’s fine,” I say, finally able to speak. “I don’t mind at all.”
Evie looks worried. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks.
“I’m fine,” I say, trying to contain my jubilation. H. J. smiles, but the tone of that smile is inscrutable. Not that I care about what he’s thinking. This time right now means nothing. The time over the next hours—the afternoon of skiing, dinner with Mom and Paul, the quiet nightfall in my bedroom, will be endured. None of it has any importance, none of it matters until tonight—when I will see Luke.
And I will see him, no matter what I have to do, even go to the river. Because now I have stumbled upon this most important key.
( 8 )
TRESSA
I can’t remember when I started drawing maps. It’s just something I’ve done, for as long as I can remember. We don’t have any of the ones I did when I was really little—Mom never kept anything like that. But my grandmother did, so we’ve got a good collection of the ones I drew starting at six or so, silly little crayon lines, with square houses and stick figures. Grandma of course liked the ones of Rabbitbrush, or her house, or rooms in her house. She’s got her favorite one framed and hanging in the front hall. It’s the very first thing you see when you walk in the front door.
At some point I got old enough to save the m
aps myself, and I’ve got a pile of accordion folders brimming over with them. My favorite ones I tack onto the wall, but I don’t frame them like Grandma, because I always have a new favorite. I like having a record of all the places where we’ve lived.
Sometimes when you read articles about famous actors, it will say their parents were in the military, or academia, or some other profession that made them move a million times, and that’s what shaped them. They had to learn to be a class clown or a charmer or a chameleon, so that they could fit in quickly in different places. But that’s not what happened with me. I was shy, no good at acting, more comfortable in solitary pursuits. As a kid I always felt the need to observe the customs awhile before understanding them, and by the time I figured out that it wasn’t cool to wear your backpack over both shoulders—poof! We’d move again, and at the new school nobody but me would be carrying their bags lopsided, plus the black nail polish that had been de rigueur for my old classmates made all the new ones think I was a creepy Goth. So I stopped trying. My mom never connected to my sadness over my perpetual loner status. “What do you care what those kids think?” she would say with a wave of her hand. I wonder if she liked the way it heightened the sense of her and me being the only ones who mattered, and she never had to worry too much about yanking me away from a school where I didn’t have friends anyway. It didn’t matter—except when she grabbed me away from Luke.
Luke didn’t care how I wore my backpack or what color my nails were. From the very first second I ever saw him, he just . . . liked me. That sounds so simple, but I don’t know how else to say it. With Luke, even as a tiny child, I felt an instant recognition. Oh, there you are, as if we’d been together before and I’d only been biding my time till we could be together again.
The summers my mother brought me back, or times I spent with my grandparents—Luke had all the friends I had ever wanted, but he had no problem leaving them behind for me. He would try to give me all the information I’d missed out on. He taught me how to ride a bike in the parking lot of Paul’s real estate office. We swam in the freezing community pool, and in the trout-stocked, man-made lake past the Mackenzies’ sheep farm, those fluffy white herds dotting the hills. Once as we hiked up the Franz Lubbock trail, a rattlesnake stopped us in our tracks. We reached out and grabbed hands, quietly backed up a few steps, and then turned and ran—screaming—down the path toward home. We would climb on top of Sturm and Drang and just sit there, hanging on to the horses’ manes and enjoying the improved view while they munched the grass with no intention of taking us for a ride. Luke and I knew every inch of my grandparents’ property, every square foot of this town, and we knew it together.
Meet Me at the River Page 7
