Her Side, Part 5

(EDITOR’S NOTE- In an effort to remove some of the stagnating WordPress pages on my domain, I am reposting some old content here. This novella originally was posted June 9, 2009. Her Side is not for kids. At all. Learn more here. )

They’d altered what rabbits do naturally because they thought they could do better.
~ Richard Adams, Watership Down

As weeks passed, It amused me that while the “no last name” rule was followed hard and fast, people still speculated, and even pried.

There was a small clique of senators’ daughters who looked down on those they assumed were US House kids. There were some kids who I understood to be sons and daughters of the rich elite, their families not in politics but certainly rich enough to influence our nation’s leaders.

Joseph never asked. He never speculated. And he never gave information about himself. C.V. told me over lunch one day that he was a long-term resident.

“People speculate why he’s here. It’s rumored he tried to kill someone. That he tried to kill himself. That he was a druggie. Someone even told me that he was sent here for a short visit, but then his parents died and so he’s here till he hits eighteen.” She shrugged her small shoulders and took a bite of mystery meat.

“He doesn’t talk much in group,” I said, chewing on my lip.

“Yeah, that sounds about right. You don’t have to talk in group if you don’t want to, even though they do ‘encourage.’” She made air quotes and rolled her eyes. “If you hold back in group, though, they really tear into you during one on one time.”

“Ugh,” I said. “Isn’t it bad enough already?” I checked my watch and sighed. I had a one-on-one session with Mrs. Laws coming up, and I dreaded it.

C.V. patted my shoulder. “You’ll make it through. You’re only a short term. And you’re talking in group, so you’re one they have hope for. Joseph? He’ll stay as silent as he can, get out of here when he’s 18, and probably end up in jail or something.”

I snuck a peek over to him, my thin, black haired Joseph. He sat alone reading a paperback book.

C.V. poked me. “Hey Clara. This isn’t summer camp. Don’t think about getting involved with him. There’s no love in The Hutch. It’ll all end in tears.”

I rubbed my ribs where she’d poked. “Thanks for looking out for me. I gotta go see Laws. Wish me luck.”

“Oh man, she’s a bear. Good luck.” C.V. turned back to her lunch and scowled at it as I got up from the table and headed to my appointment.

#

Mrs. Laws was a tall, plump character with silver hair piled on top of her head. She looked more like a governess than a psychologist. I slumped in the sofa opposite her desk and answered her questions about my life.

“So have you thought of a possible career?” she asked, looking at my folder. “You’re a bright girl, you could have your pick of most schools.”

I snuck a glance at the proud HARVARD diploma on the wall. I guessed Harvard didn’t fall under her umbrella of “most schools.”

I shrugged. “Not really. Just kinda think day to day lately.”

She took off her glasses and leaned forward. “Clara, your teen years are full of potential, confusion, and some consider them the most important time of your life to find yourself. You had some missteps in finding yourself, but I don’t think you’re too far off the path.”

I thought about the path that started with my mother’s suicide and took my father’s small time political life and launched it big. I thought about the feel of the knife on my skin, the relief of the blood coming out, like I was lancing a boil that was my life.

“I can’t think of another path,” I said. “Everything that has happened has seemed like the right thing.”

“Like your mother’s suicide?”

I clenched my jaw.

“Do you want to talk about that?”

I averted my eyes and focused on a plant in her office, a cactus with sharp needles.

She sat, and I sat, for a good five minutes. By then I’d thought of at least thirty-seven things I could do with the cactus as a whole, or the needles individually.

She finally broke the silence. “Clara, I want you to think about your mother’s suicide, and how’s it’s affected you. We don’t have to talk about it now, but we will talk about it.”

“Can I go?” I asked.

She gave me a long, calculating look, and then nodded.

I fled to the courtyard to watch the shadows creep down the brick. I had of course thought about my mother. She killed herself with a knife. It didn’t take Freud to tell me why I’d then taken the knife as my chosen toy.

“Do you like vodka?”

I looked up. Joseph was there, the sun shining over his shoulder, making him seem like a silhouette.

“I don’t drink.”

“Yet,” he said, and sat down next to me. “I heard you met with Laws today.”

I stared at my feet, too tired to ask him how he knew. “Yeah.”

“Let me guess. She talked about paths and made you think. She loves to ask people to think about the path they’ve taken. Does she want you to find yourself?”

I nodded.

“Never changes her tune.” He unstoppered a silver flask and drank from it. He held it out to me. I shook my head.

“So have you looked for yourself?” I asked.

He laughed, a startling sound. “Oh sure. I find that I’m usually at the end of a cigarette butt or at the bottom of a flask. You ever need me, I’ll be there.”

I smiled weakly. “And did you tell that to Laws?”

His face fell slightly, then he grinned again. “Course not. You think she knows I drink in here? No, I have a deal with a friend outside who sends me care packages. They don’t crack down too hard on smoking in here- it’s a pressure valve for most of us. But if they catch you drinking there will be hell to pay. But then again, we all could use a little more hell.”

He held out the flask again. I bit my lip and accepted it. The liquid was unexpectedly warm and harsh, burning as it went down. I coughed and wiped my mouth on my arm, embarrassed. I took another sip, forcing myself to be cooler this time.

“Atta girl,” he said.

He leaned in close to my ear then and I froze. His lips brushed my skin as he spoke, the words hot. “I can help you find yourself. And that path you want. Much easier than Laws’ homework.”

“Really? How?” I asked, willing my voice not to shake. He bit my earring and tugged on it, insistent, a little painful. I liked it.

“It starts with you finishing that flask.”

I tipped it up, draining it.

Find your path.