So, I went to the library, borrowed a stack of piano books. I studied them as if my life depended on it. And in a way, it did.
I joined a band a few months later and we jammed after school in the drummer’s garage. It was a good time in my life, and the arm thing became less frequent. But the drummer joined another band, and it all fell apart after that.
Shortly after, I started biting my arms again.
I tried football next, joined an all-girls team. But quit when I started getting bullied by the fullback.
A pattern emerged. I started a new hobby, immersed myself in it until it didn’t work anymore. Then I moved to something else. But they were short-term answers. And sooner or later, the arm thing came roaring back.
And then, by accident, I finally found something that worked. It wasn’t hobbies I needed. It was personalities.
There was a girl in grade eight. Her hair was chin length and flame red. Katy Kelly. She wore faded denim jackets and liked theMr. Beanshow. Katy said things like, “For reals,” “Slay me,” and “Totes.” It fascinated me, this foreign language of hers. So, I practiced saying those phrases until they settled under my tongue like I was born trying to say them. I watched Mr. Bean episodes one after another like I was studying for a test. I shoplifted a denim jacket when the store clerk wasn’t looking. And one afternoon, I used the kitchen scissors to chop all my hair off until it was chin length like hers.
Turned out, I had a secret talent for borrowing people’s personalities. I repurposed them, made them my own. I called them skins. Katy was my first.
Until she marched up to me on the school oval and demanded, “Why are you copying me?”
I plunged my hands into the pockets of my denim jacket, stared at her flaming hair with envy. I had plans to dye my hair red that very afternoon. I was going to take the bus to the general store and look for her exact shade. “I’m not,” I said. “For reals.”
She eyed me up and down, looking a bit uneasy. “Freak.”
I didn’t like her after that. So I abandoned her skin, gave the denim jacket to Sarah, and grew my hair out. Over the next few weeks, I felt like a crab without a shell.
My next skin was obvious.
Sarah.
She wanted to be a therapist, so I became one. She wanted Joe, so I stole him. She was quick-witted and had all the answers.
So Sarah I became.
Chapter 20
I feel like the house approves of my new diary. It loves reading all my wicked secrets.So, this is who you really are.The house smiles, reading each entry, its warm hand on my shoulder like an approving parent.I knew you were ugly.
I lean back in my desk chair, staring out my bedroom window at the night sky. Pain pulses through my head, but I’m so used to the headaches it barely registers. The sour air turns my stomach, and I wonder if I’ll vomit again. I’ve been vomiting a lot lately. Funny thing, though: I’m back on anti-depressants. Have been for a few days now.
“If you’re still nauseated in a few days, let me know,” the doctor said, tearing off my prescription and passing it across his desk to me. “The headaches should stop then too.”
They haven’t.
I reach for my mug and swallow a mouthful of cold coffee. I’ve been back to see Emily twice now. I’m not her client. I don’t know what I am. I lingered at her door after work today, telling myself I’d leave any minute. I’d get in my car, nod goodbye to my co-workers, and not speak a word to anyone until I saw them again the next morning. Like always. But she saw me standing there and waved me in. “Want a coffee?” she said. “I’mdyingfor a tea.”
So, we sipped our drinks in her calm little room, and I found myself relaxing. When Emily speaks, the words just melt from her. She’sgenuine in a way I’ve never been. Is this why I can’t seem to keep clients? Because I don’t come across as though I give a shit? Because they can tell that, underneath my oily advice, I’m just as artificial as my caramel highlights and SNS nails?
I cupped my coffee, and Emily gave me a friendly, patient smile. It said,I give a shit.I’m on your side.
I bet I’ve never made a client feel like that. And the longer I sat there, the more I felt like I was on trial and about to be found guilty. I take notes in my own sessions with clients, but I’ve never reallylistened.
“Tell me about your sister,” she finally said. “What’s she like?”
“She had a giant laugh and eyes as green as olives. She was very sure of herself, and she always knew the right thing to say.” I bit my lip, eyes downcast. “And she wanted to be a therapist.”
“I see,” she said finally, but I don’t think Emily understood.
I chose to be a therapist because I wanted tobeSarah. I was uncomfortable in my own skin, so I borrowed hers. I couldn’t tell Emily this, obviously. Even to me it sounds crazy. She doesn’t know the half of it.
I sipped my coffee slowly, allowing myself to think about my sister, to dwell on her for the first time in years.
