Fly Away (18 page)

“I know about abandonment and grief. I know about shutting down. When my gran died,
I barely let myself grieve. When my mom left me—every time—I told myself it didn’t
hurt and went on.”

“And with Mom’s death?”

“It’s been harder. I’m not bouncing back well.”

“Yeah. Me, either.”

“Dr. Bloom thinks you should attend that teen grief therapy session Wednesday night.”

“Yeah. Like that will help.”

She saw how her answer wounded Tully. Marah sighed. She had too much of her own pain.
She couldn’t bear Tully’s, too.

“Fine,” Marah said. “I’ll go.”

Tully got up and pulled Marah into a hug.

She drew back as quickly as she could, smiling shakily. If her godmother knew how
alone and desperate she felt, it would break her heart, and God knew none of them
could handle more heartbreak. She just needed to do what she’d done for months—get
through this. She could handle a few therapy sessions if it would get everyone off
her back. In September, she’d be a college freshman at the UW and she could live however
she wanted and she wouldn’t be constantly hurting or disappointing people.

“Thanks,” she said tightly. “Now I’m going to lie down. I’m tired.”

“I’ll call your dad and tell him how it went. He’ll be here on Thursday to meet Dr.
Bloom after your next appointment.”

Great.

Marah nodded and headed down the hall toward the guest bedroom, which looked like
a suite in some elegant hotel.

She couldn’t believe she’d agreed to go to a teen grief therapy meeting. What in the
hell would she say to strangers? Would they make her talk about her mom?

Anxiety seeped through her, turning into a physical presence, like bugs crawling on
her skin.

Skin.

She didn’t mean to go to the closet, didn’t want to, but this buzzing in her blood
was making her crazy. It was like listening to some staticky overseas line where a
dozen conversations tumbled over each other and, no matter how hard you listened,
you couldn’t hear anything that made sense.

Her hands were shaking as she opened her suitcase and reached inside the interior
pocket.

Opening it, she found the small Space Needle knife and several squares of bloodstained
gauze.

She pushed her sleeve up, until her bicep was revealed, so thin it was just a knot
of muscle, pale in the darkness, as soft and white as the inside of a pear. Dozens
of scar lines crisscrossed her skin, like spiderwebs.

She touched the sharp tip of the blade to her skin and poked hard, then cut. Blood
bubbled up. It was beautiful, rich, red. She watched her blood well and fall, like
tears, into her waiting palm. Every bad emotion filled those drops of blood and fell
away, left her body.

“I’m fine,” she whispered.

I am the only one who can hurt me
.
Only me
.

*   *   *

Unable to sleep that night, as Marah lay in the bed that wasn’t hers, in a city that
used to feel like home, listening to the nothingness that came from being perched
in a jewel box high above the city, she replayed tonight’s conversation with her dad.

Fine,
she’d said when he asked how the meeting with Dr. Bloom had gone. But even as she
said it, she thought:
How come no one asks me how I can be so fine all the time?

You can talk to me,
he’d said.

Really?
she’d snapped.
Now you want to talk.
But when she heard him sigh she wanted to take it back.

Marah, how the hell did we get here
?

She’d hated the disappointment in his voice; it made her feel both guilty and ashamed.

I’m going to a teen grief support meeting Wednesday night. Doesn’t that sound fun?

I’ll be there on Thursday. I promise.

Sure.

I’m proud of you, Marah. It’s hard to face pain.

She’d fought for composure, felt the sting of tears. Memories had besieged her—times
she’d fallen or been hurt and run to her daddy for a hug. His arms had been so strong
and protective.

When had he held her last? She couldn’t remember. In the past year, she’d pulled back
from the people who loved her, and grown fragile in their absence, but she didn’t
know how to change. She was always afraid of bursting into tears and revealing her
pain.

The next morning, she woke feeling sluggish and headachy. Needing coffee, she put
on a robe that belonged to Tully and wandered out of her room.

She found Tully asleep on the sofa, one arm flung onto the coffee table. An empty
wineglass lay on its side on the table, a pile of papers beside it. There was a small
orange prescription pill container near it.

“Tully?”

Tully sat up slowly, looking a little pale. “Oh. Marah.” She rubbed her eyes and shook
her head as if to clear it. “What time is it?” Her speech was slow.

“Almost ten.”

“Ten! Shit. Get dressed.”

Marah frowned. “Are we going somewhere?”

“I have a surprise planned for you.”

“I don’t want to be surprised.”

“Of course you do. Go. Take a shower.” Tully shooed her down the hall. “Meet me in
twenty.”

Marah took a shower and put on a pair of baggy jeans and an oversized T-shirt. Without
bothering to dry her hair, she pulled it back in a ponytail and went out into the
kitchen.

Tully was already there, dressed in a blue suit that was at least a size too small.
She was taking a pill and washing it down with coffee when Marah came up beside her.

Tully yelped when Marah touched her, as if surprised. Then she laughed. “Sorry. Didn’t
hear you come up.”

“You’re acting weird,” Marah said.

“I’m excited. About my surprise.”

“I told you. No surprises.” Marah eyed her. “What are you taking?”

“The pill? It’s a vitamin. At my age, you can’t forget vitamins.” She studied Marah,
frowned. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“No makeup, even?”

Marah rolled her eyes. “What am I doing, trying out for
America’s Next Top Model
?” The doorbell rang. Marah was instantly suspicious. “Who’s that?”

“Come on,” Tully said, smiling now, herding her toward the door. “Open it,” she said.

Marah opened the door cautiously.

Ashley, Lindsey, and Coral stood there, clustered together. When they saw Marah they
screamed—really, it was this ear-piercing shriek—and surged toward her, pulling her
into a group hug.

Marah felt as if she were experiencing it all from some great distance. She heard
their voices but couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. Before she knew it,
she was being swept out of the condo on the tide of her three best friends’ enthusiasm.
They were all talking to her at once as they climbed into Coral’s Honda and drove
down to the ferry terminal, where a boat was waiting. They drove right on and parked.

“It’s
so
cool that you’re back,” Lindsey said, bouncing in the backseat, leaning forward.

“Yeah. We, like, couldn’t believe when Tully called. Were you going to surprise us?”
Ashley asked.

“Of course she was,” Coral said from the driver’s seat. “Now, we have to tell you
everything
!”

“Start with Tyler Britt,” Lindsey said.

“Right. Totally.” Coral turned to Marah and launched into a long, laughing story about
Tyler Britt dating some skanky girl from North Kitsap and getting caught by the cops
in his underwear and getting a minor-in-possession ticket and being banned from the
homecoming football game.

Marah kept a smile on her face the whole time, but what she was thinking was,
I can hardly remember my crush on Tyler Britt
. It felt like a lifetime ago. She forced herself to nod and smile; sometimes she
remembered to laugh when they told her funny stories about the grad party.

Later, when they were at Lytle Beach, stretched out on brightly colored towels, drinking
Cokes and noshing on Doritos, Marah didn’t know what to say.

She felt oddly separate, even though they lay close enough together that their shoulders
touched. Coral was talking about college and how glad she was that she and Ashley
were going to be roommates at Western Washington University, and Lindsey was whining
that she didn’t want to go off to Santa Clara alone.

“Where are you going?” Coral asked Marah.

Honestly, she was so out of it, barely listening in fact, that Marah didn’t hear the
question the first time it was asked.

“Mar?”

“Where are you going to college?”

“UW,” Marah said, trying to concentrate. It felt as if a warm gray fog had fallen
around her—just her.

She didn’t belong with these girls who giggled all the time and dreamed of falling
in love and starting college and thought their moms were too strict.

She wasn’t like them anymore, and by the time their day was over, and they drove her
back to Seattle, the awkward silences in the car attested to their understanding of
this truth. They walked her up to the condo and gathered around her at the door, but
now they all knew there was nothing to say. Marah hadn’t known it before, but friendships
could die, too, just wither away. She didn’t have the strength to pretend to be the
girl they used to know.

“We missed you,” Coral said quietly, and this time it sounded like goodbye.

“I missed you, too,” Marah said, and it was true. She would give anything to make
it still true.

When they left, Marah walked back into Tully’s condo. She found Tully in the kitchen,
putting dishes away.

“How was it?”

Marah heard something in Tully’s voice, a slurring of words that didn’t quite make
sense. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Tully had had a few drinks, but it was
way early for that.

And really, Marah didn’t care. She just wanted to climb into bed and pull the covers
up over her head and go to sleep. “It was great,” she said dully. “Better than great.
I’m tired, though, so I’m going to take a nap.”

“Not too long,” Tully said. “I rented
Young Frankenstein
.”

One of Mom’s favorite movies. How many times had Mom said, “Valk ziss vay,” and pretended
to hunch over like Marty Feldman? And how many times had Marah rolled her eyes in
impatience at the old joke?

“Great. Yeah,” she said, and headed for her room.

Eleven

“Tell me that’s not what you’re wearing,” Tully said when Marah walked into the living
room on Wednesday night, wearing torn, low-rise flared jeans and an oversized gray
sweatshirt.

“Huh? It’s teen grief therapy,” Marah said. “Let’s face it, if you’re invited, fashion
isn’t your biggest problem.”

“You have pretty much dressed like a bag lady since you got here. Don’t you want to
make a good impression?”

“On depressed teens? Not really.”

Tully got to her feet and crossed the room to stand in front of Marah. She reached
up slowly, placed her palm against Marah’s cheek. “I have a lot of really great personality
traits. I have a few flaws, I’ll admit—gaping holes in the fabric—but mostly I am
an amazing person. I don’t judge people on anything except their actions, even when
they do bad things; I know how hard it is to be human. The point is, I love you, and
I’m not your mom or dad. It’s not my job to see that you grow up to be a smart, successful,
well-adjusted adult. My job is to tell you stories about your mom when you’re ready
and to love you no matter what. I’m supposed to say what your mother would say—when
I can figure out what that would be. Usually I’m in the mud on that, but this time
it’s easy.” She smiled tenderly. “You’re hiding, baby girl. Behind dirty hair and
baggy clothes. But I see you, and it’s time for you to come back to us.”

Tully didn’t give Marah time to answer. Instead, she took Marah by the hand and led
her down the hallway and through the master bedroom and into Tully’s huge walk-in
closet (it used to be a bedroom—that was how big it was). There, Tully chose a white
crinkly fitted blouse with a deep V-neck and lace around the collar. “You’re wearing
this.”

“Who cares?”

Tully ignored the comment and took the blouse off the hanger. “The sad thing is that
I thought I was fat when I wore this blouse. Now I couldn’t button it. Here.”

Marah yanked the blouse from Tully and went into the bathroom. She didn’t want Tully
to see her scars; it was one thing to hear that Marah was a cutter. It was something
else to see the web of white scars on her skin. The patterned white fabric was deceptive;
it seemed to show skin, but there was a flesh-colored liner beneath. When she walked
over to the mirror, Marah barely recognized herself. Her thinness was accentuated
by the fitted blouse; it made her look fragile and feminine. The jeans hugged her
slim hips. She felt strangely nervous as she walked back into the bedroom. Tully was
right: Marah had been hiding, although she hadn’t known it. Now she felt exposed.

Tully pulled the elastic band from Marah’s long black hair, let it fall free. “You
are gorgeous. Every boy in the meeting will be driven crazy by you. Trust me.”

“Thanks.”

“Not that we care what therapy boys think. I’m just saying.”

“I’m a therapy girl,” she said quietly. “Crazy.”

“You’re sad, not crazy. Sad makes sense. Come on, it’s time to go.”

Marah followed Tully out of the condo and down to the lobby. Together they walked
down First Street to the oldest part of the city. Pioneer Square. Tully came to a
stop in front of a squat, blank-faced brick building that dated from before the Great
Seattle Fire. “Do you want me to walk you inside?”

“Oh, my God. No. That guy with the eyeliner already thinks I’m Miss Suburbia. All
I need is a chaperone.”

“The guy from the waiting room? Edward Scissorhands? And I care what he thinks why?”

“I’m just saying it would be embarrassing. I’m eighteen years old.”