Silhouettes

By the time my mother got home at 7:35, earlier than usual, she was not in a good mood. I could tell from the way her shoulders were squared and her face looked like her thoughts were a thousand miles away. My dad had gotten home at exactly 5 o’clock, and after a brief conversation with him about our day, he had retreated to the kitchen to make a quick dinner. I sat around in my room, writing in my journal and watching TV until he called for my mother and I.

We all took our seats around the large, oak table, serving ourselves food and getting comfortable.

“How was school today Grace?” I glanced up at my father as he passed the bowl of mashed potatoes to my mother, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. I shrug my shoulders carelessly.

“It was fine,” I mumbled, placing a napkin on my lap.

“Elbows off the table Grace,” my mother said, not even glancing my way. I pulled back, and I could feel myself shrinking into myself.

“You had therapy today?” My dad questioned, taking a sip of his water.

“Oh yes, how was that?” I could tell my mother was fishing for some secret answer; some piece of information that would allow her to dig further into my mind. From the tone of her voice to the way she was watching me with an expectant and almost threatening look, her expression gave away every unspoken emotion and thought swimming in her mind. She knew something and she was just waiting to see if I was going to straight-up tell her or if she was going to have to pull it out of me. Obviously, I had no intention of admitting anything.

“It was uh- fine.”

“You’re being open with Jill, right?” I hated the fact that my parents were now on a first name basis with my therapist. It made feel uncomfortable, knowing that I have had to be examined by someone who has entered my life for a horrible reason and wanted nothing more than simply ‘figure me out’.

I shrugged, not really wanting to lie but not willing to tell the truth either.

“Grace, she is there to help you. She won’t cast judgment or anything; she just wants to help,” my father spoke up.

“I know,” I sighed, looking down at my plate and pushing the untouched food around.

“Stop playing with your food, Grace. What are you two?” My mother snapped, throwing a dark look at me. I simply stared at her face, dropping my fork and folding my hands in my lap.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure you are. Aren’t you always?”

“Rose.” My father sent my mom a look, one that clearly told her, in the nicest way possible, to stop being critique me. He cleared his throat, throwing the awkward out the window, if only temporarily, before looking over at me with a smile. “Do you like your teachers?”

“Yeah, they’re all fine.”

“I hope this change from being home schooled to being sent to school once again doesn’t affect your grades too much. It’s almost time to start applying to college and now is not the time to start slipping.”

“I know, don’t worry.”

“Do you know what you want to do?”

“Of course she does,” my mother spoke up, “She’s going to become a doctor, isn’t that right?”

I didn’t answer and instead shrugged my shoulders. A doctor was the last thing I wanted to be. Doctors are around the sick, the dying, and the hurt. I couldn’t stand to have to heal countless people nor could I deal with not being able to help someone if there was ever a case that was incurable. Doctors are heroes – they save lives on an everyday basis. They help the young, the old, the dying, and the recovering. I’m in no way someone who could ever save a life. That’s too much pressure to have to handle. But that doesn’t matter to my mom because the best job that her perfect daughter could have is a doctor and there’s no other option.

“I don’t think she wants to be a doctor.”

“Oh, Henry, please. She has no idea what she wants. Doctors are universal. There’s always a need for them and they are all very successful.”

“Grace knows what she wants. She has a mind of her own – she’s very talented, Rose. Don’t doubt her.” My dad always stuck up for me – every time my mom felt like causing an argument, he was there for me.

“Do you know?” My mom asked expectantly, staring at me strongly.

“I don’t want to have this conversation again right now,” I muttered, glancing up at my mom, meeting her eyes.

“We just-“

“Want what’s best for me, yes, I know.”

My parents glanced at each other, sending each other telepathic messages. I just went back to my food, slowly lifting a bite to my mouth.

“Grace, I think we need to talk about your…wellbeing.”

“Rose, I don’t think-”

“We’ve avoided this long enough, Henry. It’s time we had this conversation.”

“Fine, but not during dinner.”

“Then when, Henry? When would be a good time for you?”

“There’s no need to raise your voice Rose. I’m just considering-”

“No, you’re trying to avoid this. I want Grace to be fixed.”

I tuned my mother’s voice out from there, my blood boiling at her words.

Fixed. I didn’t need to be fixed. I needed help; there may not be much of a difference between those two simple words to anyone else, but to me the two simple actions lied on opposite spectrums. I’m trying to work through a traumatic period of my life, as Dr. Robert’s likes to say. I wasn’t shot, or cut, nor was there any outside physical damage done to me. I wasn’t some broken down car or loose nail; I didn’t need to be repaired. I needed someone to listen to me and someone to simply understand and make me forget. I did not need to be fixed.

“-that is all I’m asking!”

I casted a look at my exasperated mother and then at my father through my eyelashes, but made no sound and or movement. There was a strange tension rolling around the room, something I couldn’t quite label but not anything unfamiliar. My dad was doing all he could to avoid my eyes and my mother was intensely staring at his face, her nose wrinkled in annoyance and her lips pursed so tightly it looked like she had just had some Botox injected.

“What is going on?” I finally found my voice, though it came out like a small child’s; meek and confused.

My mother waited patiently, expecting my dad to speak up, but when he didn’t she sighed dramatically, placing her fork down on her plate, turning to face me.

“Grace, your father and I understand that what….that what you went through was not easy. We may not know exactly how you feel or how you’re coping with this situation, but that is no excuse for how you have been acting.”

“Rose-“

“How I’ve been acting? How exactly have I been acting?”

“Like you’re never going to get over this; as though you can’t move on with your life. The world is a large place, Grace, and there are going to be plenty more people for you to meet and grow with. There’s no need to be so hung up a single person, however important they used to be in your life.”

I wasn’t even sure how to respond. My eyes burned into my mother’s as she sat, smiling at me, like her words opened some invisible door of realization. My hands wrapped around the edge of my chair so tightly, it felt like my skin was burning. I couldn’t get a grip on my breathing as deep breaths entered and exited through my nose. I failed to be able to wrap my head around every word spilling from my mom’s mouth. Somewhere, in her sick and twisted mind, she felt her little speech was encouraging and helpful and yet it did nothing more than send me into a fit of silenced rage. I wanted nothing more than to jump up and wring her neck until she felt the same amount of remorse I felt every day of my life. Maybe then she’d realize that her words are doing nothing more than tearing me down and sending my mind into an even deeper area of seclusion.

Slowly, and with as much grace as I could manage, I pushed the chair back from the table, unwrapping my fingers from their cast iron grip on the chair painfully, and stood up. I moved my eyes from my feet to my mother’s face as she stared at me, that same fake, relaxed smile on her lips. I stood there, heart hurting and eyes wanting to spill those annoying drops of salt water, gathering up as much courage as I could.

“Maybe you don’t understand, mother, but…Adam wasn’t just some person who entered my life. He was everything to me and I lost him in one shot. Maybe you don’t understand the meaning of love-“

“Now, Grace, I don’t think-”

“No, mom, you’re right. You don’t think. And frankly, I don’t care anymore what you think.”

“Grace,” my father said, finally speaking up.

“May I be excused?”

Not waiting for an answer, I turned and walked away, my mother’s beckoning calls going unanswered and ignored. Stress bubbled in my blood, pulsing through my entire body in every vein. I took a deep breath as I climbed the stairs, two at a time. I headed straight to the bathroom and stripped off my clothes, throwing them carelessly to the floor and climbed into the shower, using the scalding water as a memory scraper. The shower was like fire against my skin, but it distracted me from my own thoughts, keeping them at bay, if just for the time being. Water cascaded down my body, washing away all regret and emotion down the drain. I couldn’t tell if the tears I had tried so hard to fight off had spilled over, the water dripping down my face making it impossible to recognize. But as my vision blurred and a sob strangled my throat, I knew. I knew that finally, after weeks of playing pretend, I had cracked. The stability and to-do structure I tried so hard to hang onto resolved away as the water washed away any sense of dignity and composure I had.

I held on, as tight as I possibly could, to the strength I so strongly wanted to have. It was a futile effort as my mother’s words, as his words, as the last few months swirled around in my mind, images flashing across my vision like a quickly moving silent movie. Nausea washed over me as I blindly washed my hair and body, scrubbing my skin down until it was red and marked with lines of irritation. I didn’t realize how long my shower had been until the water grew cold and a shiver ran up my spine.

I finally stepped out, turning off the water, and folding a towel around my slim frame. The mirror was fogged over from the steam and I leaned over the counter, wiping away the condensation with the heel of my palm, staring at my reflection. A heavy sigh left my lips, my eyes tracing down my reflection. I looked as miserable as I felt, tired lines forming all over my face. My lips tugged in a frown, pale and depleted. My shoulders hung low and my body felt and looked hollow. My stare was blank and empty, even as I tried as hard as I could to gather up any other emotion from somewhere within me. But no matter how hard I tried to fool myself, it didn’t work. Because other people may not be able to see the truth, my inside my own mind, I heard every daunting thought and I couldn’t hide from my own inner thoughts.

I brushed my hair, letting it fall over her shoulders, and instead of taking my time in washing my face and braiding my hair like usual, I gave up, moving from the bathroom and into my own room. Closing the door with my foot behind me, I grabbed some shorts and one of Adam’s old long sleeve shirts from my closet and put them on, throwing the wet towel onto my computer chair behind me.

My mother never understood my relationship with Adam. In her mind, he wasn’t the best influence. When I first met him in 7th grade, I was nearly the perfect child – I got good grades, listened to what every adult told me, cleaned my room, and stayed in on the weekends. I was an overall good child, very rarely causing issues with or for my parents. And then I met Adam and he changed everything. He was born a free spirit; everything about him made you just want to smile and be around him. He drew people in like moths to a flame. Even when he found himself in trouble, he always knew just what to say and do to get himself out scotch free.

Throughout our friendship, I found myself jealous of him in a way. My parents always held a high level of expectation for me, my mother more than my father, but none the less, they both expected a lot out of me. A lot of the time, I wasn’t able to hit that mark over my head and somehow, they’d end up disappointed in me. But Adam, he always found a way to surpass me in everything. He didn’t even try in school and yet his grades exceeded most hard working, stay-in-on-the-weekend nerds. He was just the perfect person in everyone’s eyes, including my own. But Adam hated when I put myself down – if there was one person in the world who always stood by me and defended me to the end it was him. It didn’t matter what the problem or situation was, Adam was always right next to me, whispering encouraging words into my ear.

I find it hard to even think about him anymore – because despite how much I try to convince myself otherwise, I may never see him again. The simple things people say are enough to make me want to vomit – even basic condolences and sympathetic words. In my mind, it’s nothing but crashing waves that drown out any sense of closure. There’s nothing anyone can say to make me feel better or to bring light to the situation, but there’s a whole lot that can make me feel like I'm drowning.