Page 129 of Mad Girl

“Nice way to change the subject,” I said with a sigh. “I told her I blamed myself for the attack. When she asked why, I told her that when something bad happens, I usually am to blame.”

“Elliot, it wasn’t your fault.”

I shrugged. “She asked me a couple of questions, too—and they really made me think.”

“About what?”

I hesitated, not quite sure how open I wanted to be.

“You don’t have to tell me,” you said softly. “But you can, you know? You can talk to me about anything.”

The part I didn’t tell you that day, but I’d said to my new lady therapist, was: “I think something’s wrong with me.” And when she’d asked me why, I’d said, “Because something’s definitely wrong with me. I’m not normal. I liked it when that boy hit me initially. I like pain. It makes me feel better. It makes me feel free.” She’d asked, “Free from what?” And I’d said, “Guilt. Rage. Sadness.” Then she’d glanced down at my still-bandaged hand and asked, “How long have you been hurting yourself?”

“She wanted to know how long I’ve been hurting myself—and I started to say it was after I stabbed Michael, but when I really stopped to think about it, I was hurting myself long before that. Like the incident in kindergarten.”

Carefully, you asked, “What incident?”

“I—um—I stabbed myself with a pencil,” I said, staring past you. “We were supposed to be making these handprint flower bouquets for Mother’s Day, but I didn’t have a mom, so the teacher suggested I make one for Eleanor. But Eleanor wasn’t motherly. Eleanor barely acted like a mom to my dad. Eleanor had nothing but pristine surfaces and all-white everything in her house and she would never, ever put a stupid handprint craft on display like other moms did—like Libby did. It would go in a drawer or the garbage, and there would be no hugs or kisses or thank-yous for me, like the other kids would get from their moms. So I crumpled up what I’d made so far and threw it in the trash, then grabbed my pencil and stabbed myself in the palm of the hand with it.” I flipped my hand over on the railing and pointed to a little black dot near the underside of my thumb. “See, I still have the scar.”

You picked up my hand, stared at the little black dot, and lightly brushed your thumb over it. You didn’t say anything.

I worried telling you had been a mistake. So I whispered, “That’s messed up, right? You think I’m fucked up, don’t you?”

“No,” you said, lifting your gaze to meet mine. “I think you were a little girl who desperately wanted her mother. And I’m sorry you were made to sit in a room, making crafts with children who were fortunate enough to not know what that’s like.”

A lump formed in my throat. “Yeah, my dad got pretty pissed about the craft thing, too.”

You searched my gaze for a moment, then drew in a deep breath. “You’re right. I did cry back there.”

“Why?”

“Because he asked about my mum, and I can’t talk about her without crying. So.”

I wanted to ask you to tell me more about your mom, too, but I didn’t want to make you sad. So I said, “Well, you just wait. Pretty soon you’ll be bawling like a baby.”

You narrowed your eyes at me. “Must you try to make me feel more uncomfortable about this than I already do?”

I laughed. “What’s wrong, Casey? You don’t like getting in touch with your feelings?”

“I’m not opposed to sharing my feelings in the proper setting—alright?—but I’d prefer not to share them with a stranger. Nor do I especially want to bawl like a baby in front of one,” you said, a small smile playing at the corners of your mouth, your arm propped against the railing as you cradled your latte between both hands.

“Hey, guess what?” I said, reaching for your bracelet. I twisted it around your wrist, an idea brewing. I knew the perfect gift to give you for Christmas. “I probably should’ve told you this by now…”

You ducked to meet my gaze. “Told me what?”

“I forgive you for taking care of those boys,” I said. “But I still wish you hadn’t. Because what if you’d been caught? What if you’d gotten into serious trouble? What if something happens and the Harrises miss out on knowing who you really are, and I’m to blame for that? Or what if something happens to Michael and on top of nearly killing him once, I also have that on my conscience? What if something happens to both of you? How will I⁠—”

“Hey,” you said softly, clasping my wrist.

“How will I ever⁠—”

Forgive myself.

But I couldn’t finish for the tears sprinting down my cheeks. You pulled me to your chest, shushing me as I clutched my latte behind your back.

“It’s okay,” you said into my hair. “Everyone’s here, and we’re fine, and everything’s going to be okay. You’re not losing either one of us. Not ever.”

But I’m crying as I remember you saying that, Casey. Which means you were wrong.