Drowning Instinct(2)
Author: Ilsa J. Bick

i

I‘m beating around the bush. I know I am. I don‘t want to tell this story, Bob, and you know why? Because this is a fairy tale with teeth and claws, and here‘s what completely sucks: you‘re going to want black and white, Bob, right and wrong. I‘m not sure I can give that to you. That‘s the problem with the truth. Sometimes the truth is ambiguous, or a really bad cliché.

But this is the truth, Bob: I‘m a liar.

I am lucky, a liar, a good girl, a princess, a thief—and a killer.

And my reality—my story—begins with Mr. Anderson.

2: a

Of course, the library doors were locked.

Score another point for Psycho-Dad, who got impatient when I reminded him to double-check and make sure the school librarian would be there to let me in. ―Stop worrying about it,‖ he‘d said the night before. ―I talked to the school last week. They said there was no problem.‖

Well, wrong-o there, Dad.

b

Turing High was one of those Psycho-Dad command decisions, same as us moving to a new McMansion ninety miles north of Milwaukee after my stint on the psych ward. Or was that my breakdown? No, no, it was my ―little episode,‖ Psycho-Dadspeak for my stay in the place where the nuts feed the squirrels. My father always called it a ― little episode,‖

as if my life was a sitcom and we could simply channel-surf right on past.

We were in Rebecca‘s office when he first floated the idea in March, and although I hadn‘t known it then, I‘d only see my therapist twice more: another linchpin in Psycho-Dad‘s clean-slate campaign.

―Turing makes sense,‖ he‘d said. ―Jenna‘s a bright, sensitive girl. She‘s just had a . .

. little episode, that‘s all. When she was on the, ah . . .‖

―Ward?‖ I prompted. I was sprawled in my usual spot, a plump, brown leather armchair. ―Unit?‖

Dad‘s lips set in this line above his chin, a fissure in granite. I never talked to my father like that at home, not unless I wanted Psycho-Dad to pay a visit. Of course, the go-to for that is he‘s a shock trauma plastic surgeon and and screws his nurse and has temper tantrums because he‘s just under so much stress. Not that we talk about the blow-outs or the affairs. All that‘s no one‘s business. It‘s a family matter. You know what I‘m talking about, Bob.

But Rebecca‘s office was my turf. Dad had to behave himself. Doctors are very sensitive about their reputations in front of other doctors, even if the other doc is a shrink and the lowest form of life because all docs know that the med students who become psychiatrists were always pretty squirrely to begin with, the ones who went all girly around blood and guts. Rebecca being a girll. . . well, that was proof.

―Yes,‖ he said. ―Your teacher there said you were light-years ahead of the other kids.‖

This was true, though that wasn‘t saying much. In the four months I‘d been an inpatient, there were only two kids who stayed long enough to need more than their regular homework delivered. One was eleven and manic half the time—when he wasn‘t in the quiet room, threatening to blow up the joint, that is. The other girl was seventeen, had gotten pregnant, and then started throwing up to stay thin. The baby finally starved, and she miscarried. Only she couldn‘t—wouldn‘t—stop puking. I think there was only one week where she wasn‘t walking around with a feeding tube taped to her nose, and a psych tech within arm‘s reach.

―I‘ve had a long talk with the principal and guidance counselor at Turing,‖ Dad was saying. ―They‘ve assured me that they are accustomed to dealing with kids who‘ve had . . .

problems.‖

―You told them about me?‖ I shot a glance at Rebecca, who was scowling. ―Did you know about this?‖

―Not exactly,‖ Rebecca said. ―Dr. Lord, don‘t you—‖

―I didn‘t think it was necessary to involve Becky in the preliminary stages.‖ Dad never called Rebecca Dr. Savage and even Rebecca didn‘t call herself Becky. ―This isn‘t Becky‘s decision to make anyway.‖

―But you didn‘t ask me,‖ I said, stupidly believing that maybe, oh, all those hours of family therapy had made a dent. ―We didn‘t discuss it.‖

Mom, the apologist, jumped in. ―Your father didn‘t mean any harm.‖

―Why can‘t I just go on being homeschooled?‖

―That‘s a nonstarter,‖ said Dad.

―Why?‖

―Because. Emily has her hands full with the bookstore. I‘ve got surgeries scheduled every day, and that‘s not counting emergency reconstructions. I‘m at the hospital six, sometimes seven, days a week. Neither your mother nor I have the time to babysit you.‖

That drew a little blood, as Dad had intended. I looked away, chewing on my lower lip, willing the tears not to fall. I turned to Rebecca. ―Please. Say something.‖

Rebecca sighed. ―Unfortunately, your parents have a point, Jenna. You do need to be around kids your own age, and preferably ones without serious problems. You won‘t get that if you hide in your house. Being alone is when you‘ve run into problems.‖

―Yeah, but I was in school when it hap—‖ I let that die. I couldn‘t argue. Even though I hadn‘t cut for over six weeks—a new record for me back then—the urge was there, all the time. It was like what that bulimic girl from the ward said: If I go an hour and don’t think about throwing up, I worry there’s something wrong. Puking’s the new normal.

Slicing and dicing myself would land me back in the hospital, though, and I knew it.

All the doors in the new McMansion had locks, but I wasn‘t allowed to use them.

Sometimes after I showered, my mom would barge in as I was toweling off with her patented: ―Oh! I didn‘t know anyone was in here.‖ Uh-huh. I saw how her eyes flicked fast, up and down, searching for new cuts, fresh scabs. I knew she checked the trash for bloodied tissues or used Band-Aids. Heaven forbid they ever looked behind the false panel beneath my vanity and found my nail scissors. I hadn‘t used them since I‘d been home, but they were . . . insurance.

I thought of something else. ―Wait a minute,‖ I said to Rebecca. ―Don‘t you need my permission before you release records or something?‖

Rebecca shook her head. ―Not technically. You‘re only fifteen.‖

―I‘ll be sixteen in September.‖

―It doesn‘t matter. Until you‘re eighteen, your parents have full say over release of your records. Legally, I can‘t stop them.‖

Dad snapped his fingers to get our attention. ―Let‘s stay on track, shall we? The point is, Jenna, you are perfectly capable of being around kids your own age, and Turing‘s an excellent private science and tech school.‖