"TalktoRory, not about her," Dr.Schallinterrupts again.
My mother nods."Right.Ofcourse.Rory, you aren't sleeping more than a few hours a night.I'm not blaming you, I just think maybe we shouldreconsider-"
It's me who interruptsthis time."No fucking way."
My mother startles at mylanguage, but I don't care.I'm not taking those goddamned sleepingpills.I shudder at the mere thought of it.
"But maybe there's anotherkind we could try," my mom suggests.We both look to Dr.Schall—mymother for hope of a solution, and me for confirmation that noneexists.
"There are certainly othersleeping aids we could try," he says cautiously.
I shake my head."Theydon't work, Mom.I can't… I can't do it."It's not a veryarticulate argument, I admit.But she knows what I mean.Thesleeping pills do help me sleep.But they don't stop my nightmares,and so instead of waking up screaming, I find myself trapped interror, too drugged to awaken, my dreams more vivid than ever.Myfingers start to tremble as I remember the nights I took thosepills.Buried by my own medication inside horrors I can't escape,in which I can't tell the difference between dream and reality, orpast and present.It's how I would imagine my own, personalhell.
My mother's arm slidesaround my shoulders as she mutters apologies, withdrawing hersuggestion.I placate her, telling her it's okay, and force my maskback in place.Everything is okay.Iam okay.Or so my maskimplies.
"Okay, then," my mothercontinues, glancing over at Dr.Schall for what appears to beencouragement.I swallow anxiously."Well, maybe if we talk aboutthings.Maybe that will help."
I sigh in frustration."Mom, why do you think I come here twice a freaking week?What doyou think we do?Play Scrabble for an hour?"
Dr.Schall's moustachedtop lip quirks up as it often does at my snark.But my mother'snext words knock the jest right out of me.
"Have you talked aboutCam?"
She asks this like it'sthe most normal question in the world.Something we talk about allthe time.From her tone, you would never know that the only timeI've so much as referenced the best friend I lost in the mosttragic way possible was when I'd told her I'd talked about him toSam.No details.Nothing more than one sentence on the plane homefrom Miami saying I'd told Sam about him.
I'd been a vulnerablewreck.Barely coherent through my exhaustion and desolation.Andneither of us has brought it up since.
My anxiety is back now infull force, my heart twists painfully in my chest and my gut churnswith bone crushing grief.With all of the issues I've had to learnto deal with—orattemptto deal with—I'm fully aware that I have yet toprocess Cam's death in any healthy, appropriate way.But how do Ibegin to process something that threatens to send me spiraling intoa terrifying panic every time I so much as think aboutit?
Because the tragedy of whathappened to Cam is distressing enough.The guilt that consumes meover being the cause of it—it's not something I'm likely to evercome to terms with.But it's the harrowing loss, the despair-shapedhole left in Cam's place, that threatens to send me plummeting pastpanic, back into the pit of depression in which I spent the monthsbefore I moved here.And I know if I find myself back there again,well, I may never find my way out.
I sit there silently,unable to reply to my mother's question about Cam, so I do nothingmore than try to stay calm and force my eyes to remain dry, but mynon-answer answers for me.
My mother sighs.It's asad, resigned sigh, and it disheartens me even more.
"I spoke to Michelleyesterday."
Of course she did.She wason the phone when I got home from studying calculus with Samyesterday and hastily ended her call and hung up as soon as Iwalked in.It's what she always does if I walk in on her on thatcall she makes religiously every week.She thinks overhearing theconversation might trigger me, and in truth, she may very well beright.
It's completely messed up,I know that.But Michelle just reminds me of Cam, and the pain isstill too raw, too potent.I'm not strong enough.I don't know if Iever will be.
"She's sounding betterlately.She asks about you, you know," my mom continues.
"I-" My breath catches inmy throat.My heart beats too fast as Michelle-colored images swarmmy mind—of my childhood, of my past.Each fragmented image leavesremnants of Cam in its wake.It's all too connected, and there'sjust no way for me to extricate Cam from memories of Michelle.He'sthere, ever present, inextricably entwined into every happy memoryI'd ever had, and especially into those of his ownmother.
Damn it.I worry my lip between my teeth in an attempt not to allowmy frustration to manifest into sobs.Whyis she bringing this up now?
"I don't want to talkabout this," I mutter hoarsely.I take deep breaths, focusingintently on every inhale and exhale.
"I know that, Rory, honey.But you need to eventually, and you were able to talk to Sam Caplanabout it, so maybe if you just try—"
I stand abruptly.I don'twant to think about Cam and I don't want to think about Sam.All Ifeel is guilt and grief and I can't fucking bear it rightnow!
"Idotry!I try every fucking day,Mom!I have totryto do things that you justdo.I have totryto sleep, I have totrynotto sleep.I have totryto get up in the morning, to goto school.I have totrynot to break down at any given moment.I havetotrynot tofreak out when some random guy passes too close, looks at me toolong.I have to try to stop worrying that he's going to find meagain.To try and accept the fact that he's going to get away withruining my fucking life!"
My rant is hysterical, andmy awareness of this fact in no way helps me to change it.My tearsrun freely down my cheeks, and the horrified look on my mother'sface only delivers a fresh wave of guilt.
Dr.Schall clears histhroat, as if to remind us both that he is still present, but Idon't break eye contact with my mother.
