12.

 

 

I hate Dr. Sandburg. When I got home today after school, I walked into our kitchen and noticed the phone was beeping. So of course I check the voicemail messages, and there is her slow, melodic voice.

“Hello, Mr. Haven, this is Dr. Sandburg. You, of course, must remember I’m Jill’s psychologist at school. I…uh, was wondering if you could assist me, I mean, I think I can really get something done if you can help out. Jill is being very reclusive during our sessions, and I know you suggested them, so I was thinking if you could try and incorporate my methods in day to day life; maybe we can team up and discuss things soon. I have something important I need to speak with you about, something about…Jill. And it’s not definite, but I’m going to need some information. Call me, whenever. My office hours are….” And her rambling voice was fading from the sounds in my head.

I clicked the “stop” button on my phone, disgusted with the message. How could she? How could Dad? He…he asked her for this? Why? What did I do? Do I really look like I need help so bad? Are things really so awful that my own father will send me to some crazy lady instead of helping me himself?

I am in a fit of rage, and I throw myself against the sofa, slamming my body into the fluffy seat, my face contorted with betrayal and pain. I don’t cry, I don’t think I can. The heat flooding over my face reflects the boiling anger brewing in my body.

So, that’s what that was about? I was right! I was right. Dr. Sandburg doesn’t care; she just had to go her job. Because Dad asked her. She didn’t want to sit around with me and talk…she just wants to get her paycheck every two weeks. And…by the sounds of it, what are they doing? What’s wrong with me? I mean, it sounds like a secret alliance between the two of them.

I grab my head with my hands, trying to steady my thoughts, spinning out of control like a merry-go-round that was left unkempt by the operator. My fingernails dig into my scull, shooting bits of pain through the nerves of my body, trying to pull it out of disaster. 

I let out a desperate, choking scream. I pull my hands away from my head, and realize that I just ripped out massive chunks of my hair. My fingers anxiously let the locks of hair from their grip and gingerly pat the bald spots on my head. They are bleeding a little, but I don’t care.

 How could they?

I squeeze my eyes shut so hard that the inside of my eyelids flash blue, and I sit there, holding my breath, and I feel the blood rush angrily to my face. I stuff my face in a pillow on my sofa, trying to block everything out, but I can’t block out the inexplicable click of the front door.

“Jill?” I hear Dad ask, uncertainty rich in his voice.

Like he cares. I scream in my head. Then another.  Like you care. You don’t care about anything, remember? Numb?  I can’t…I just can’t. I need to let this go. Who cares? Who cares!? I do!

I feel my fingertips going numb, but numb in the lack of oxygen way. I wish I could just suck in my breath and never let it go, but I can’t. I would have done that ages ago if I could, I promise that. So finally I’m forced to open my eyes and start breathing again. My vision is blotchy from being shut so violently, and my head is throbbing as oxygen seeps into my lungs.

I look over and see Bethany sitting in a chair next to me. I wonder how long she’s been her. She gives me a quick glance, a glance of disgust and pity, but also one of protectiveness and bravery. She then breaks into a millisecond of a reassuring smile, and whispers “nothing will hurt you.” Her smile breaks when she redirects her look to my Dad.

She stands up, kicking the chair away from her. She marches over to the answering machine and plays the message, defiantly glaring at Dad. Dad doesn’t look surprised; he looks like he knew this was coming.

“What are you doing to Jill?” Bethany asks her voice shattering through my headache. “Do you think this is what she wants? Some stupid doctor isn’t going to change anything. You…you are a disgrace. How could you?” She spits at him.

Dad looks at Bethany, his eyes sad but his face tired and angry. “I hate it when you do this, we all know the truth. She is gone, Jill. And your imaginary crap isn’t fixing it, I can tell you that.”
            Her glare just becomes stonier.

“No, you listen to me. I can’t have this happen anymore. You can’t drink away your problems, and you are hurting Jill. You beat her. You beat her. When is it going to stop? Or are you going to just be sober enough to realize what you are doing? Don’t touch her. Don’t you ever touch her again.”  She glares at Dad, her shoulders back in an aggressive pose, her fingers curled up into tight fights.

Dad looks at her with his glassy eyes that have become so familiar lately. “What is wrong with you? Do you really believe this crap? What the hell is wrong with you, Jill? I thought Dr. Sandburg could figure this out. I can’t. And I’m sick of trying. And you know I’m sorry. You know it. I don’t mean to hurt you…I know I need help…but that doesn’t excuse what you are doing. So I drink…but you, Jill, are psychotic!”

Bethany’s eyes widened at this word and her face rushes scarlet with hate.         “PSYCHOTIC? At least I care about Jill! There’s nobody left to take care of her, so I’m doing something about it. I can’t let this go on, and you know it. You know it! This is what you want. You want Jill to go away. You are an alcoholic, ignorant, and uncaring fool!” Her forehead has sheen and her eyes are shining fiercely.

She grabs my arm quickly, and pulls me off the couch.

“Well, you got it. You get your freaking wish. We’re leaving. We don’t need you. Nobody needs you.”

I see Dad’s jaw clench and the arms in his muscles flex. His hand crunches into a fist and takes a step towards us. And so then we bolt to the back ground, and leave the house, and I am already fifty feet away from the house when I hear the back door screen click shut.