Visitation hours couldn’t come soon enough. I was allowed to make phone calls, sure, but going this long without being able to see my sister whenever I wanted to wasn’t something I was used to. Being limited on when and how I got to see her wasn’t something either of us was used to. Growing up, we were all each other had, so putting limitations on our access to each other was something I hoped we wouldn’t have to experience again.
After dinner, Kendi and Thelma started a movie. Thelma wasn’t expecting any visitors, unlike Kendi, whose parents never missed a visitation evening. I decided to wait in my room until one of the nurses would come to get me, wanting to try to get a little bit of journaling done before my sister showed up with my entire life in a box. I hadn’t forgotten she had promised Daxton she would bring them tonight, though I doubted they would let me have access to them after security took them away.
Writing about causing serious physical harm to Craig brought me both joy and peace of mind. Thinking about hurting him brought a sense of control to my psyche that I had neverfelt before. The amount of control I had let him obtain over me made me sick to my stomach to think about—how I was still scared of him, of what would happen once I left the safety of the behavioral clinic’s walls, no matter how hard I tried to squash his influence.
While working through yet another retelling of the events that took place, this time with my imagination conjuring images of Craig being cooked and fed to Riley, a nurse I didn’t recognize came to escort me to the visitors’ rooms in the lobby. She was older and didn’t introduce herself as we walked quietly out the metal doors that separated our hallway from the rest of the building.
Thankfully, this time when I entered the visitors’ room, there were no unwelcome surprises from the man who had tried to kill me. Michelle waited in one of the worn chairs, still wearing work clothes, though her short brown hair looked like she had been running her fingers through it all day rather than keeping it in the usual way she liked to style it.
Without Daxton around to give me permission to physically touch my sister, I restrained myself. The last thing I wanted to do was give one of the nurses permission to remove her from my visitors list as well if I couldn’t follow the instructions that had been set.
“How’s Riley?” I asked, settling into the armchair next to her and tucking my slippered feet beneath me.
“He’s good, he misses you. The stubborn ass has me putting chicken in his food to get him to eat. I’ve been taking him to theclinic while I work to get him on some sort of routine. Everyone there told me to tell you hi and that they miss you.”
My heart ached hearing that. My job and my dog were my life, and I loved everyone I worked with dearly.
“Do they know, um, where I’m at?”
“I’m not sure what Dr. Faris has told them, but I don’t think anyone there would think you tried to kill yourself. They know you too well. There was a short story on the news when it happened, but they didn’t report your name or anything; they referred to you as a ‘local woman’.”
Her words didn’t ease my worry about thinking that when I showed my face back at work, I might be met with judgment. No one there knew about my history with self-harm. Since my blood tended to run cold and Dr. Faris was always on the move, the clinic stayed at a cooler temperature, and I usually wore a long-sleeved shirt under my scrubs, even in the summertime. I didn’t like having to explain the scars, and I knew most people couldn’t help but ask about them since they weren’t normal-looking.
“Did you bring the journals?” I asked.
“Yes, when I checked in, I told the security guard they were requested by your therapist. They said I couldn’t bring them in, but they would make sure they were delivered directly to his office.”
“Thank you for that, he said it would help him gain a better insight.”
“I really hope it does, I wouldn’t have handed them over if I thought it wouldn’t.”
“How have you been holding up? I can’t imagine the strain that this has put on you,” I said, worried about her appearance. She was always beautiful, but the stress was slowly taking its toll on her physical appearance.
Michelle was always the stronger one of the two of us. If a situation arose that needed to be taken care of, she always met it head-on without hesitation. She was consistent with how she handled her life and the obstacles she tackled, whereas my approach depended heavily on my mood. I either cowered and cried, or got my shit together and got it done in whatever way I deemed appropriate, without thinking through the consequences. There was no middle ground for me; I never possessed her ability to maintain a level head.
“I miss you, Rae, seeing you in here, knowing there isn’t a lot I can do to help you… I don’t like it. I can’t fix it, I can’t take care of you like I’m supposed to.” Tears were brimming in her eyes behind her carefully applied makeup, threatening to turn it into a mess.
“You do take care of me, you always have. Mickey, you can’t protect me from everything. I’ll find a way to get through this.”
“No, I haven’t been doing as good a job as I should have been.” She paused, taking a deep breath and collecting herself. “Rae, there’s something I should have told you a longtime ago, but I didn’t think it was relevant and didn’t want you to worry. For the record, I still don’t think it’s relevant.”
“What is it, Mickey? You’re starting to worry me a little bit.” I could feel the anxiety settling in my stomach. My sister never behaved like this. I was always the one whose life was in shambles, not put together, not her.
“Well, when your therapist called yesterday, he asked about the journals, he asked about something else as well.”
“Okay, what else did he want to know about?” I prompted.
“He asked about mom and dad, too. I didn’t talk about anything you went through; that isn’t my place. But I thought of something to tell him that I was told a long time ago and just never could find the right way to talk to you about it.”
“What about Mom and Dad?” Her hesitation to answer my questions was obvious, and I couldn’t fathom a reason why. We didn’t keep secrets—we just didn’t—it was our unbroken code.
“Well, Dad more so than Mom. Nanna told me a few years before they died that Dad was diagnosed in his early twenties as a paranoid schizophrenic.” She wouldn’t meet my eyes, her gaze focused on her own hands twisting a tissue on her lap, shame filling her every word.
It took a moment for her words to completely register with me. My first instinct was to argue with my sister; there was no way she would have kept something important from me all this time, especially after how they died.
“You’re joking, right?”
“No, Nanna told me in confidence. With everything you were going through, and then when they passed away, I just didn’t want to upset you even more. You had felt guilty enough after you found them. I couldn’t make it worse for you.”
