Grief Girl (14 page)

July 1984

M
erril's her name, fixing my head is her game. Or should I say “shrinking” my head? I hope she leaves me with a little bit. She's the school counselor. The administration thought it might be a good idea for me to see her. I'm not getting any better, you see. If anything, I'm getting worse. That seems to be the general consensus.

Ha! The grief handbooks are wrong! Are they written by someone who has been through grief, or someone who studied it in school and then studied others crying on a couch?

“Oh, she's a textbook case.” They'd love to be able to say that.

Merril's not like that. Don't ask me why, but I just know. She's petite. A little taller than me, with a tiny frame but long limbs. Her slightly tanned hands are long and thin with big plump, juicy veins. I don't know why, but I love looking at her hands. Her dark hair is cut in a short pixie style.

You don't mess with Merril. I knew it the first time I saw her, before I was the kind of girl who went to the school counselor. I thought you only saw her if you were swearing, taking drugs, not doing your schoolwork, or just generally being bad. No direction? Go and see Merril. Told the home economics teacher she can stick her butter up her butt? You must have problems. Go and see Merril.

I used to walk past her office and wonder who was in there, what were they talking about. Was she being cruel to be kind, or was she just kind of cruel behind that closed fake-wood-grain door? Then she'd walk out with the guilty party and you could tell she was the boss. Girls who could tell off a teacher at the drop of a hat would shrink in her presence. I don't know what she did, but it worked.

I've now been seeing her a couple of times a week for a month. I begged the school not to tell Tracy, and they haven't. I think they know I'll stop going if they do. Tracy hates my speaking to anyone about our life. Julie said she heard Merril talking to a teacher about Tracy's being too controlling. Tracy does like to control everything. It drives me crazy, but I know it's her way of trying to keep everything together.

I've asked Merril what to do about our relationship, and she says I have to be more patient.

“Try and imagine being in her position.”

“I know, Merril. I feel so guilty all the time.”

“There's no need to feel guilty, just try and understand. And your little brother…remember, Erin, he never even really knew your parents.”

“Yeah, I know. That seems so unfair.”

“It's unfair for all of you. But think of it like this: you don't have all that responsibility, and you had the chance to get to know your mum and dad.”

She's right. Why can't I work out this stuff for myself?

         

They've been good to me here at school. I know all the ladies in the front office rather intimately. They still let me come and go as I please without late notes and permission-to-leave-early slips and all that.

I have to ignore the bells when I'm with Merril. Sometimes I'm in there for “as long as it takes.”

Today is going to be one of those days. She's decided it's time I relive the night of the accident. That going through it all over again will lessen the pain. Like the more you use an eraser, the less there is; each time, a little bit gets rubbed off and blown away. I wonder, though. I think an eraser is at its best when it's new. Once you start using it, it gets all distorted and dirty and becomes a funny shape and you can never get it quite right again.

“Well, we'll just rub away and see what happens,” Merril says.

I suppose I've got nothing to lose at this stage. She calls the office and asks that they not disturb us. “Just relax, Erin. This will be hard, but it'll be good for you. I promise I won't let you go too far.”

“I don't think I can get this upset in front of anyone. It's embarrassing.”

“You should know by now not to feel that way with me,” she says. She puts her long, soft hand on my dry, scaly one. I wish I'd brought my hand cream. God, what an idiot.

She starts talking in a hushed tone. “Close your eyes, Erin. Deep breaths. You're sitting at home, waiting for your parents. They're late, you're starting to get worried. What happens next? Keep your eyes closed.”

It's working. I'm in the living room doing my tapestry…and then everything rushes back.

         

When I'm finished, I'm lying on the floor in Merril's office. I can't even remember everything I just said. Did she hypnotize me?

“How do you feel?” she asks.

“Isn't it obvious?”
I want to say, but I just smile meekly and say I feel good.

This is a lie. I feel worse than ever. The more you relive something, the easier it gets? That's bullshit. It just wears you down. At least my toothache has gone. Weird.

I want to live like Sylvia Plath. Sylvia was the real thing.

I want to be institutionalized so I can just lie around and do nothing but be crazy. I want to lie in a bed in a row of beds filled with other girls as fucked-up as I am. We can all lie there at night under our blue and white striped cotton blankets after lights-out and I'll read
The Bell Jar
with a flashlight. We can smoke cigarettes and not give a damn who smells them on us. We'll only see the psychiatrist if we're allowed to smoke in his office, and they'll let us because we're all so screwed up we absolutely must see him once a day. He's a busy man with a touch of sex appeal. He'll like me the most because I'll come out a winner, he can see it in my eyes. He can tell I'm smart and tough. The kind of girl nothing will beat. I'm the special one. The others are just girls with no future. They'll leave here and take drugs and fuck their tattooed boyfriends and wind up jobless with three kids, if they haven't killed themselves first. But me, I'm special. I didn't do this to myself, this happened to me. That will make him love me.

Merril's told me about a place for girls with problems. They live there while sorting out their lives. It's called Rivendell. I like the name; it sounds like something out of a great novel.

We're going there to visit this week. I don't want to tell Tracy, but Merril says I have to.

“How would you feel about me going to stay somewhere else for a while…a place where I can get some help for all my crying and stuff?”

The answer? “Do whatever you want.”

So I am.

When we get to Rivendell, it's exactly as I dreamed. The building is dark, old red brick and looks just like the place Sylvia Plath stayed in real life. Important. We walk up the long concrete sidewalk, just like in
The Bell Jar.
I'm definitely going to fit right in here. Inside it's all thick, dark wood banisters and doorways.

The first room they take us to is one of the girls' dorms. My fantasy is real. All the beds are lined up in a row. The only differences are that the blankets on the beds are pale green, not blue, and the beds are wooden, not metal. Next to each bed are cupboards to stash books and diaries. I want to live here so badly.

I try not to smile too much in the hope that I'll look like a good candidate. As we walk, a woman asks me stupid questions, which I answer as solemnly as possible.

“Would you like to live here?…Why?…What's home like?”

Next they take me to the head administrator's office so she can ask me more questions. So what was all that about? Did I waste my solemnness on a nurse? Oh well, at least it was a good warm-up.

I'm disappointed. She doesn't have a couch I can lie on either. Does any psychiatrist in the real world have one? It's the least they could do for us loonies.

“So, Erin, do you like our facilities?”

“Oh yes, very much,” I say, trying to make sure I sound as bad as I feel.

“Would you like to stay here for a while?”

“Yes, I think it would do me good.”

“Why?”

“Well, I recognize that I need help. My parents died eight months ago and I'm not improving. I seem to be getting worse.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, you know all those grief books and stuff? They say I should be at a certain stage and I'm not. It's all getting worse, not better.”

“But what do you think we could do for you?”

“I don't know. Maybe…um…”

“What's it like at home? You have an older sister and a younger brother, is that right?”

“Yes. I can't stand to be at home. My sister and I don't get along. I think it would be easier for her, and she'd be happier, if I were out of the picture. I'm a burden. And my little brother…well, I think I'm a bad influence on him because I'm so unhappy all the time. I want to kill myself a lot and I just can't cope anymore. I think I'm going nuts.”

“You're not going nuts, Erin. This is all very normal,” she replies.

There. She said it. Normal. Why does everyone think this is normal? This is nothing like normal. What do I have to do to make people see that? My friends don't have any trouble with it, for God's sake, so why do these idiots? She's supposed to be a professional, but even she doesn't get it. None of this is normal. Just because people die every day doesn't mean it feels normal. It's not like I simply scuffed my knee!

“Can I come to Rivendell?” I ask.

“It takes time. First we have to review your case.”

I'm sitting right in front of you. What's looking at a folder about me going to do?

“Now I'd like to speak privately with Merril.”

I give it one last shot as I leave. I can feel the tears coming, so I just let them. But I don't want to appear sad. I want to seem traumatized, not just plain old sad. Sad's too simple, it's easy to fix. I want more than that. I want to be complicated and complex. Sad is just the tip of the iceberg. Sad is the one thing people can deal with. Maybe that's why it's the one thing they focus on. I need her to see more.

So I beg. It's pathetic, but I don't know what else to do. “Please let me stay here. I need this so badly. More than anything. I think I might kill myself.” That gets the tears flowing. If she doesn't buy this, then she's the one who should be institutionalized.

“I feel Rivendell can help me. Please.”

“Don't worry, Erin. We'll do what is best for you.” I walk out sobbing, but these tears don't feel as hot and real as they normally do. What's going on? When I see Merril, I grab her hand. “Please tell her how much you think I should come here.”

But it doesn't help.

I'm not going to Rivendell. Funny how what people think is best for you never is.

“Sorry, Erin, I really thought it was perfect for you, but they don't think you're a bad enough case to warrant it,” Merril explains to me in her office the next day.

I'm not screwed up enough? How much more fucking screwed up do I have to feel?

“What do I have to do to be a bad enough case? Kill myself? Break the law? Burn the fucking school down?”

Merril narrows her eyes at me. “Don't say things like that, Erin.”

Now I'm sobbing like an idiot. Why didn't I cry like this at Rivendell?

What am I going to do?

I hate this life.

         

Because Rivendell didn't work out, Merril thinks it's time I changed schools.

“Nobody will know anything about you. You'll be able to start fresh.”

She seems to be implying that I'm using everyone's knowledge to my benefit. She's kind of right. I have been using the sympathy thing a bit lately. Hell, if people want to do stuff for me or let me get away with shit, then why shouldn't I let them?

“You've got to stop coming and going from school as you please,” Merril says.

“But I'm doing okay. I study at home, and my grades are still good.”

“Yes, but not as good as they could be,” she says.

She also thinks I should stop seeing Mrs. Stockbridge at lunchtime. She's organized a special meeting with Mrs. C-J and Mrs. Stockbridge. I can tell Mrs. C-J and Merril are looking forward to it, but Mrs. Stockbridge and I are dreading it.

It's set for lunchtime on Friday. Probably so we can “go away and think about it over the weekend.” That's a Merrilism.

I never realized how tiny Merril's office is. It's usually just her and me and the brown carpet, brown desk, brown chairs, and filing cabinets. I hate that it has no windows. Add two more people and it's like being squashed in an elevator.

We're all in here trying hard not to let our knees touch. Merril begins. “Who did you have lunch with Monday?”

“Mrs. Stockbridge,” I answer.

“And the day after that and the day after that and the day after that?”

“Mrs. Stockbridge.”

“Don't you both feel you've become too close?” Merril asks.

“Erin needs a friend she can trust, and that's what I'm being to her,” Mrs. Stockbridge says angrily.