Hurricane

May 2005

Another month passed, and things were starting to change. Things seemed to be looking up for me.

I still had to stay with my parents, but I no longer had my therapy sessions. Patty had released me, saying that there was nothing more that she could do. In other words, I was hopeless. I got over that though. My mom also went back to work—only part time, but at least I got some time by myself.

The only thing that was different was that there were daily inspections. I felt like a child as I would watch my mom search my room and then check my body to make sure that I wasn’t hurting myself. My mom would also check on me in bed every few hours, to make sure I was still breathing. I only knew this because I had trouble sleeping most nights.

But some things got worse over this month. I seemed to be spiraling farther down every day into a depression that only I knew about. I constantly felt all alone—I had no one. I thought about Pete. About his number on that piece of paper that I carried with me at all times. I wanted to scream, to have someone just listen to me. I even wished that I hadn’t been so stupid when I had therapy. I should have opened up to Patty.

Each day, the urges to just end everything grew stronger and every day I resisted. I’m not so sure why. Before I would have gladly ended my life, but now I was trying to hold on. I was looking for some last ray of light in my life, but all I was finding was darkness.

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I was surprised one day, when I received a phone call from Pete. He was the first person I had talked to that wasn’t my parents in a month.

“Molly?” he asked when I answered the phone.

“Yes,” I said.

“Hey, it’s Pete,” he said.

“Oh,” I said. It was silent for a moment.

“I just wanted to check up on you,” he said. “How are you?”

“I’m…fine,” I said, whispering that last word.

“What?” Pete asked. I shook my head and closed my eyes, holding the phone tightly to my ear.

“Nothing,” I said. “It’s…nothing.”

“Is everything okay?” Pete asked. I couldn’t believe it. I was starting to cry. I wiped my eyes and sniffled. I instantly regretted it. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said, forcefully. “Just—I don’t know.”

I knew why I was crying. Someone had actually asked me if I was okay. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had cared. Or even pretended to care.

“I’m coming over,” Pete said.

“No,” I said. “Don’t.”

But it was too late. The dial tone was all I could hear. I started crying harder. I turned the phone off and set it on the receiver. I took deep breaths, trying to calm myself and stop my tears. After a few minutes, they stopped and I dried my face. I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror, and groaned at the sight of me. My eyes were bloodshot and my hair was a mess. I ran my fingers through it to try and make it look a little bit better. I turned on the faucet in the bathroom sink and splashed some cold water on my face.

About ten minutes later, there was a knock on my front door. I made my way to the door and opened it hesitantly. Pete was standing there, looking at me with concern. We were silent for a moment before Pete spoke.

“Are you going to let me in?” he asked.

“Sorry,” I said before pulling the door open further and stepping back, allowing Pete to come in.

We stood by the door for what seemed like forever in an awkward silence. Pete had his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans and he was glancing around at the parts of the house that he could see from where he was standing. I was watching him. After a moment, he looked at me and I felt my face heat up at the fact that he had caught me staring, but I didn’t look away. I was pretty good at keeping eye contact. No matter what.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Pete asked.

“Talk about what?” I asked.

“Why you were crying,” he said. This time, I looked away.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. I looked up again and our eyes met. Pete’s stare was different this time. I felt like he was looking inside of me—like he could see all of the things that I didn’t want to talk about. And I didn’t like that. I held the gaze longer than I wanted to, and I looked away again.

“Fine,” said Pete. “What do you want to talk about, then?”

I looked at him again, and this time I felt slightly angry and annoyed.

“I don’t want to talk about anything,” I said. “You’re the one who came here and started asking all sorts of questions.”

“I’m sorry,” said Pete. “I didn’t mean to barge in and pry. Would you feel more comfortable if I told you more about me?”

“I don’t need to hear about your problems,” I said. I added quietly, “I have enough of my own.”

“Ok, then,” Pete said, nodding his head. “Then what do you want to do?”

“Why are you here?” I asked. He sighed, pulling one of his hands free from his pocket before scratching the back of his head.

“I just want to make sure you’re okay,” he said. “It’s tough going through what we’ve been through. I’m still dealing with some of my issues, as I’m sure you’re dealing with yours.”

“Well, I’m fine,” I said.

“Now we both know that that’s a lie,” he said. “But I won’t push you to admit that out loud.”

“There’s nothing to admit to,” I said. I could feel myself growing angry again, and I could tell that Pete knew that he was making me angry.

“I’m sorry for barging in, then,” Pete said, backing up towards the front door. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

He turned and opened the door. Before leaving completely, he turned to look at me.

“Call me if you need anything, okay?” he said. I found myself replying with a quiet “okay” as he shut the door.

If only I knew what I was getting myself into.