by Kathryn Shay
“Speaking of dates,” Grace DiMarco put in, clasping her hands across her hefty bosom, “Mrs. Pacetti’s niece is staying with her for a while, Nicky.”
Nick took a long swig of beer. “Whoa, Ma, right there. I’m not in the market. I’m too busy to date.” His mother gave him that ‘you won’t get off that easily’ look she’d perfected over the years. “It’s not normal, you never going out with a woman. You got to get over...” Stumbling on her last words, Grace’s face turned as red as her sauce.
Everyone in the DiMarco family avoided speaking Suzanne Sullivan’s name. At Nick’s request. He felt it would be too hard on the kids to hear her mentioned. They hadn’t seen or heard from her since she’d left. Every Christmas and on their birthdays, the kids got cards from Suzanne’s parents and that reminder hurt them enough.
Beth coughed to cover the silence, and the scrape of Heather’s chair filled in the rest of the void.
Smiling weakly at everyone, Heather stood and picked up her half-filled plate. “I’ll start cleaning up, Nana. You did all the cooking and it’s the rule that if you make dinner, you don’t have to take care of the mess. Jason will help when he’s done.”
Nick squeezed his fork tightly. Anger that Suzanne had intruded on this meal swept through him. He knew the kids were shaken when his son merely nodded instead of giving his sister an argument about helping with the chores. Nick wished they never had to be reminded of Suzanne. It was best for Heather and Jason to excise her from their lives completely.
The tension at dinner did not dissipate and he mourned the fact that his one day to be with the people he loved most had been spoiled. Heather said almost nothing after Grace’s slip, picked at the apple pie her grandmother had made especially for her and retreated to another part of the house as soon as she could. He’d been watching her like a hawk and this was common behavior. He worried about it.
And so an hour later, he walked into his old upstairs bedroom and found his daughter huddled on the side of the bunks, with an open photo album on her lap and tears streaming down her face. She didn’t hear him enter. Finally, he let in Amanda Carson’s words that night in the kitchen. Heather is a sad young girl, and his own reaction, Are you telling me that my daughter wants to die?
Was she right? Was his little girl so hurt she might try to harm herself? Bile rose in his throat and he clamped his hand over his mouth. This was his greatest fear in life. He’d always known that the only thing on earth he could never handle was losing one of his children. The idea that it could happen to Heather—and happen by her own hand—was abhorrent.
Was it an indication of her tenuous state of mind that Heather didn’t know he was in the room until he crouched before her and lifted her chin? She peered up at him, dazed, and the agony he saw etched in her youthful face undid him. He sank to his knees. “Honey, what is it? Tell me. I can help.”
Heather shook her head and curled her body into a ball. Nick looked down at what she was holding and recoiled physically as if he’d been struck.
The photo album was open to pictures of Suzanne. Nick had destroyed most of them the day Suzanne walked out, but his mother had kept some because they were the only baby pictures of Heather she had. He’d insisted she store them out of sight but apparently Grace hadn’t buried them deep enough. How many times had his daughter snuck up here to torment herself? How many times had she sat isolated in this room and looked at pictures of her mother, holding her, pushing her stroller, giving her a bath?
“Talk to me, honey.”
For a moment, he thought she wouldn’t answer. Sitting down next to her, he reached over and stroked her hair, feeling the silky strands that were exactly the same texture and color as her mother’s. God, would it help to tell her this? Originally he had thought not. But he was beginning to question his decisions about his ex-wife and his children.
“I can’t talk to you, Daddy.” Heather’s voice was so soft, he had to strain to hear her. She hunched over, still and lifeless.
“Why not?”
She began to cry harder and Nick pulled her to him, tucking her head under his chin. Sobs racked her young body. Tears misted his own eyes but he willed them back, knowing she needed his strength. When she quieted somewhat, he said, “I just want to help.”
Heather looked up at him and smiled weakly. He saw a wisdom there far beyond her years and was shaken by the fact that his daughter had obviously experienced enough of life’s disappointments to have earned her that look.
“I know you do, Dad. It’s just that I’m afraid of—” She broke off, unable to finish the thought. Nick closed his eyes at the sight of her burrowing into him for the only kind of comfort she thought she could get from him.
“You’re afraid of what, sweetie?”
“Of...of letting you down,” she mumbled into his shirt, grasping a fistful of the cotton in her slender hand.
Nick clasped her tighter to him. “Heather, how could you possibly let me down?”
“I can’t tell you. I just can’t.”
Nick didn’t know what to do. Should he push her to talk? Should he insist? He couldn’t fathom the appropriate response.
But someone else could, you jerk.
I’ve got a hundred and twenty hours with some of the most prominent child and adolescent psychologists in the city.
Suddenly, the folly of resisting Amanda Carson’s aid came crashing down on him like a falling girder. How could he have been so stupid? There was help for his kid right at his doorstep and he had refused it like a stubborn jackass because of his fears for Heather and himself.
His arms loosened around his child and he lifted her chin to look into her sad eyes. “Honey, listen to me,” he said hoarsely, fearful his concession might be too late, praying that it wasn’t. “I know Ms. Carson has been helping you. Do you think you could share this with her?”
He felt Heather stiffen in his arms.
“What is it?” he asked.
She simply stared at him. Seeing the cold resignation in her eyes, he felt a deep, searing shame. He knew, God help him, what she was going to say even before she got it out.
“You haven’t said if I could see her again. I know you didn’t like the group thing.” Heather gulped as if she was unable to express the untenable thought, and Nick felt like one of the ogres in the fairy tales he used to read to her. “I thought you might say no to it all now.”
He’d save the pain and the rage at himself for later. His daughter needed strength now, not his self-flagellation. Running his hand down her arm, he whispered, “No, honey I’m not saying no to it all. As a matter of fact, I’ve decided it might be good for you to go to the group, too.”
Heather’s gasp of surprise only twisted the knife that had lodged in his gut. But he went on. “She makes you feel better, doesn’t she?”
When Heather nodded warily, he guessed she was afraid that he would retract his statement.
“Why is she so helpful?”
“I don’t know.” Heather paused, then relaxed her shoulders and leaned against him so his chest pillowed her cheek. “She seems to like me, Dad, though I don’t know why she’d bother with a nobody like me.”
Warning bells went off in his head. I’m concerned that she has so little self-esteem, Amanda had said.
“Why wouldn’t she like you, honey?”
“Why should she, Dad?”
Nick’s throat clogged and he was unable to speak for a few seconds. Finally, he eased away from her and tilted her chin. He looked directly at her and asked one of the most difficult questions he’d ever posed in his entire life. “Heather, do you know what kind of group this is?”
The silence of ancient tombs surrounded them for so long that Nick began to worry. Then, in a shadow-filled room on Second Street in Syracuse, New York, Heather DiMarco made the biggest and bravest confession of her young life with a few softly whispered words. “Yes, Daddy. I know what kind of group it is.”
Unable to hold them back, Nick’s te
ars escaped. They fell down his cheeks and he turned his head to shield his daughter from his show of emotion. He saw a droplet fall onto the open photo album, onto a picture of Suzanne holding Heather as if she had really cared about her.
Nick wiped his eyes. “When does this group meet?”
Reaching up, Heather slid her small palm over his cheek. She pulled her hand away and fingered the wetness that had collected there. Her gaze flew to her father’s eyes then back to the tears. “Daddy?”
But Nick grabbed her hand before she could turn the talk to him. “Shh. When, honey?”
“Mondays and Fridays. Right after school.” Her voice was husky when she answered.
He closed his eyes and kissed the top of her head. “Stay then, tomorrow. I’ll meet you there.”
Heather leaned into him the way she used to when she was little and when she was sick. Nick felt nausea churn in his stomach with the realization that she was no longer a little girl and that she was—he could hardly bring himself to acknowledge the thought.
His daughter had just admitted that she was suicidal.
o0o
“How did the raccoon get to the bottom of the hill?”
Several groans responded in unison. Amanda sat back in her office chair looking at the tall, thin black boy who sprawled before her. He wore his hair clipped short all over, the style usually accenting the bleakness in his black eyes. Today, though, they held a hint of humor. “I give, Ron. How?”
“On the end of a fender.”
“Sick, Marshall. Really sick.” The gibe came from Sandi Berrios, and was made affectionately as she finger-combed her dark curly mane out of her almond eyes. She sat across from Amanda, next to Ron, swinging her foot rhythmically back and forth. Once again, Amanda was impressed with how nice the three kids before her could be to one another, though Ron remained distant.
“Any more jokes to start the session?” Amanda asked.
Matt Barone had hooked a straight chair with his foot, turned it around and straddled it to become part of the semicircle. At only seventeen he was almost six feet tall. His unruly sable hair skimmed his collar and fell rakishly over his green eyes. He wore his usual deep brown leather jacket. “No, please, Teach, yours was almost as bad as Leronne’s.” Matt often taunted Ron by using the full name the other boy detested. His smile took the sting away. It was said around school that that dimpled grin had gotten him in more trouble with teachers, and into more girls’ pants, than anyone could count. Although the kids’ crudity still shocked Amanda at times, the description was apt.
“How’s everyone doing today?” Amanda casually guided the talk around to why they were all there.
Shoveling a chocolate chip cookie into his mouth, Matt reached for another of Carson’s Cache, as they had dubbed her treats. “Aw, just the usual depression, a little schizophrenia, one or two suicide warning signs poppin’ up here and there.” Again, his grin softened his sarcasm and Amanda made a mental note to thank him later for breaking the ice. He’d done it often in the six weeks they’d been meeting.
These three students were high-risk, potential suicide candidates who’d been referred last year before Amanda came to Eastside High. The number of suicidal teenagers at the school had spurred hiring someone specifically trained in this area.
Sandi was about to make a comment, when there was a knock on the door. Amanda frowned, knowing the secretaries had strict instructions not to interrupt these sessions. She rose from the chair, opened the door and came face-to-face with Heather DiMarco.
The young girl stood tall before her and only the trembling of her lower lip indicated how scared she really was. Amanda’s heart sank at seeing her. Much as Heather needed the help this group could give her, she could not be included over the resistance of her father. Damn his stubborn hide.
Excusing herself, Amanda stepped into the hall to explain this to Heather, only to come face-to-face with the hide she’d just cursed. She was so surprised that she was momentarily speechless.
“Hi.” Nick’s tone oddly humble. “I hope it’s not too late for Heather. To make this session, I mean.”
The statement was fraught with other meaning. Standing before her was a proud man who had overcome his own fears to admit his daughter needed help that he couldn’t give her. Amanda was sure it was one of the most difficult things he’d ever done.
“Of course it’s not too late. We just got started.” She smiled warmly, then addressed Heather. “You ready for this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I think you are.” Amanda turned to open the door, but saw, from the corner of her eye, Nick reach for Heather and give her an encouraging hug. He whispered something in her ear, then backed away.
Inside, Amanda seated Heather next to her and began the introductions. “This is Heather DiMarco. I mentioned last time that we might possibly have a new member soon and here she is. How about some introductions?”
Silence reigned. Heather’s wary eyes were glued to the schoolbooks she held on to tightly. At last, someone spoke up.
“Hi, Heather. I’m Matt Barone. Don’t believe all you hear about me from the other kids, except what a cool dude I am.” Then he winked at her, his green eyes sparkling.
Amanda smiled, noting Heather’s blush. She could have hugged Matt for his teasing.
“Sandi Berrios,” a sultry voice put in. “Glad we got another chick to even out the odds here, no offense, Ms. C.”
“None taken.” Amanda turned to the last member of the group and arched an eyebrow.
“Ron Marshall” was all he said, but his cold clipped tone spoke volumes. Amanda saw Heather’s whole body tense in reaction.
“Don’t mind Leronne,” Matt told her. He’s just p—sorry, ticked off that we don’t like his joke for the day.”
A good place to start. Amanda folded her hands in front of her to present a relaxed pose. “We begin with a joke every time, Heather, and Ron’s was particularly, ah, sick, today.”
The teenagers chuckled and Amanda continued. “Then we go around the table and tell how we’ve been doing since the last meeting. Usually, we find something to zero in on for the remainder of the hour and a half.”
Heather lifted her eyes from her books. “Okay.”
“If anyone wants to pass, he or she can,” Amanda added, and smiled encouragingly at the girl. “You can just listen today to get the lay of the land, if it’s okay with the rest of you.”
Amanda scanned the group, holding her breath they’d agree. She knew how important it was for them to make decisions and feel ownership of their time together, but she was hoping they’d take pity on the youngest and newest member.
Matt jerked his chin upward. “I’m cool.”
“Yo,” Sandi agreed, staring at Heather with assessing eyes. Amanda knew she was taking stock of the blond-haired, blue-eyed aristocratic looks Heather had inherited from her mother, so different from Sandi’s Hispanic coloring.
Amanda turned to Ron. He’d averted his eyes and was studying a poster. Quicker than a finger snap, he could create a shell around himself harder than any turtle’s and almost as impenetrable. “Ron?”
He nodded somberly.
After a pause, Amanda got started. “Sandi, you were about to say something before.”
The girl’s sad eyes lit up like sparklers on the Fourth of July. She made a fist and punched the air. “My ma’s back.”
Amanda was glad for Sandi, but wished this had not been the first thing shared today. The counselor in her sensed that Heather’s abandonment by her mother was at the heart of her difficulties, and the way the girl stiffened at Sandi’s comments seemed to confirm this.
“She clean?” Matt asked.
“Think so.” Slouching back into the chair, Sandi crossed her legs and fidgeted with the buttons of her shiny blouse. Some of her enthusiasm waned visibly. “She says she is, anyway. Geez, how can you tell?”
When no one else responded, Amanda did. “I guess you can’t ever
be sure. Rehab centers are often bad-mouthed for the fifty percent relapse rate, but don’t forget, that means fifty percent stay straight.”
When the teenager said nothing, Amanda turned to the others. “Guys? How’s it going?”
“Got my bike fixed after that bust-up.” Matt drummed his fist into his denim-clad knee, indicating he was upset. When there was no response, he scowled. “Had to borrow the money from my brother, though.”
As the bad boy of Eastside High, Matt had had many crack-ups with his motorcycle. Amanda worried about him constantly. The facts were chilling. Accidents made up a large proportion of teenage deaths, and who knew how many were real accidents and how many were intentional?
Matt’s home life was also in an upheaval. He lived with his brother and sister-in-law, but Amanda wasn’t sure how healthy the arrangements were. All he would say was that it was better than staying with “that bitch,” a term he always used for his mother. So far, he’d never said why he hated her so much.
Slumped in his chair, an ankle crossed over his knee, Ron toyed with the laces of his combat boots. “’Least somebody helped you, bro.”
Ah, the power of group therapy. Amanda knew that on her own, she would never have gotten Ron to open up; he would have remained a clam for the entire session as he had in all the private meetings she’d had with him. Maybe the same would happen with Heather, with those things the girl couldn’t articulate.
And so it went. Bits and pieces of their misery were revealed, falling together like a macabre tapestry, one tiny comment at a time, said in casual, understated tones. Amanda was sure it hurt more than picking glass slivers out of your arm. By the time the group ended, she was exhausted.
But she asked Heather to stay for a minute when everyone had gone, and took the seat next to her. “What did you think?”
“They hurt a lot.” The teenager sighed heavily, twirling a long strand of hair in her fingers. A look of commiseration shadowed her face. “Like me.”
“You want to come back?”
Heather nodded.
