Therapy (7 page)

“It’s just that you’re beautiful in a simple, natural kind of way. It’s such a turn-on, and you’re nothing like what most people think you are. You’re strong, independent, and worth so much more than you seem to give yourself credit for.” He releases a sigh and continues, “It’s hard not to be attracted to the real you.”

I turn around slowly and look up at him, forcing back the tears that want to spill from my soul. No one has ever said anything like that to me before. My heart swells and my insides melt. He looks deep inside of me, penetrating the walls I’ve spent seventeen years building up. Brick by brick, layer by layer, he’s breaking through them.

“I. See. You. Jessica Alexander.” He cups my cheeks and repeats himself, “I see you. You need to see you too. If you look deep enough, you’ll see a strong, beautiful girl who has the world at her fingertips. Don’t let this life pass you by because of people like Elizabeth and Hailey. Do you understand me?”

He reaches down and takes my hand. I follow behind him as he leads us out of the pool. He walks over to his chair and grabs a towel, handing it to me.

“Here, dry off. Change of plans,” he says.

What is going on? What is the new plan?

He must see the questions in my eyes, but before I can voice them he says, “I’m taking you somewhere. I want to show you something.”

I nod without a verbal response, because he’s all broody and serious right now, so I’m not quite sure what to say. I’ve never seen this side of him. He pulls his tank top back on and slips on his sandals. He grabs the second towel and dries his hair quickly. Hurriedly, I pull my clothes on over my wet suit, then ring my hair out the best I can. I slip on my flip-flops and grab my bag.

Without a word, he starts for the exit and unlatches the gate. Nervousness crawls down my spine; something feels off, wrong. I don’t know how to explain it, but I have a feeling that wherever he’s taking me, it’s not a happy place. He walks around and opens the passenger door of his truck for me. The warm leather of his seat feels good on my skin as I buckle my seatbelt. He shuts the door before jogging around, hopping in, and starting the engine. His truck is as loud as it is big. I feel like I’m ten feet up in the air in this thing. He puts it in reverse and maneuvers around my little car with ease. When we get out to the road, he heads toward town.

Just before we reach the edge of town, he turns down a side road. As we drive a little farther, I instantly know where we are. My stomach twists and I grasp onto my bag as if it’s a security blanket or something. He turns off the road and pulls in through the entrance, right under a grand archway that reads
City Cemetery
in large scrolled letters.

Why is he bringing me to the cemetery?

This can’t be good.

“Different but not less.”

—Temple Grandin

“LISTEN, JESS. I know you’re probably confused right now, and wondering why in the hell I brought you here. I just need you to...understand,” he says, dropping his head to his steering wheel.

Understand what?

He’s all over the place. It’s actually freaking me out a little, and that’s hard to do. This is beyond awkward, beyond tense. The air in the cab of his truck is thick, and my level of nervousness has reached a high point. I need to say something, but what? Why, for the first time ever, do I feel like the strong one while he’s the weak and vulnerable one? This is not a feeling I’m familiar with, so I have no idea how to comfort him or how to react.

He saves me from my internal struggle when he opens his door. He gets out, shutting it behind him, and makes his way around to my side. The door opens and he reaches out, offering me his hand to help me out of his monster truck. After I jump down, he closes my door and tightens his grip on my hand as I follow along beside him.

“I’ve never brought anyone here before. No one knows other than my family. She was always a shameful secret that my parents saw as something that would stain their perfect, upstanding country club lifestyle.”

Who? Who’s he talking about?

I am so utterly confused right now, but I don’t ask questions; I think he just needs someone to listen. So I do. I just listen. He takes in a deep breath as we approach a beautiful headstone that has two cherubs perched atop it on both sides.

My heart drops into my lower stomach and my jaws clench. He squeezes my hand tighter and I feel a cloud of sadness hanging over us. Releasing my hand, he kneels down in front of the gravesite.

“My sister. She was autistic, and her life was cut short because of people like Elizabeth, because she was different,” he says through gritted teeth.

I look down and see the muscles in his neck tense. He reaches up and runs a hand through his hair. I sense his pain and the loss he’s feeling, the loss he probably always feels. My eyes glance at the headstone next to his sister’s and I see that it belongs to his father. I know his dad passed away years ago from cancer but being here like this just makes it that much more profound. I may not have the best family, but at least they’re all still alive. My heart breaks a little as I kneel down next to him and wait for him to finish telling me the story.

“She’s been gone for two years. Until recently, I’d done everything in my power to try and forget that horrible fucking day.”

He puts both hands on top of his head and grips his hair, dropping his head onto his forearms. I reach over and place my hand on his back, silently comforting him.

“After she was born, Mom had really bad postpartum depression, so she hired a fancy high-paid nanny to take care of her. As she got older, her differences started to make themselves known. By two and a half, her pediatrician told my parents that she was most likely autistic. As she got closer to school age, but was still behaving like a toddler and barely talking, my mom insisted that she be put into a special needs school. She practically hid her away from everyone and allowed the nanny to do most of her caretaking. Mom seemed to be at a loss, and her coldness towards Genevieve was sad. I never really understood it since Mom had always been so focused on me growing up.”

He sighs and reaches out, running his fingers across the engraved words on the headstone before continuing.

“She rode a special needs bus to and from her school every day. Like I said, it was as if Mom wanted to hide her from everyone here. Even though Genevieve didn’t really express herself verbally, and she didn’t like physical affection, she’d always let me hug her. Everyone else thought she wasn’t connecting socially, but she connected with me. She’d always reach out, touch my face, and smile. She was so adorable and innocent. I always felt like she was lonely, even though the doctors said she probably would prefer being alone and would need time to herself often. I would go into her room and play with her daily. She loved to line random objects up across her floor, so I’d help her. It seems dumb, but it was our special time together.”

A single tear streams down his cheek and my heart cracks for him again.

“One day as she got off the bus, some middle school kids were walking by and yelling stuff at her. Mean, nasty things. It made me so angry; I ran to the end of the driveway, screaming at them to shut the hell up and leave her alone. I was the one who always met her and walked her to the house when she got off her bus, so I had to see those punks every day.”

I feel him tense up as he stands quickly, wiping a tear from his face. “One day I was late,” he says, breaking down. Painful sobs erupt from his throat, and his body quivers as he covers his face with his hands. He shakes his head back and forth as if he’s trying to will away the memory of what happened.

“I was too damn late, Jess. Those fucking kids started throwing rocks at her and she got spooked. She started running. When I ran down the driveway, all I saw was Genevieve running and a trail of kids behind her, taunting her. The damn bus had driven off, even though protocol was for them to wait ‘til someone got her. She was probably so scared. She darted out into the street unexpectedly and was hit by a work truck that was speeding by. She was killed instantly—right there in front of my eyes.”

His body shakes as he cries the most heartbreaking sound I’ve ever heard. It’s as if he’s crying for his loss for the first time. I reach over and put my arms around him, holding him. He drops his head to my shoulder and I feel the wetness of his tears soak into my T-shirt. In this moment, he’s like a scared little boy, not the big, strong quarterback. And I feel like the tough girl holding him up, not the weak girl who lets everyone put her down. He sniffles as he pulls his head up and wipes his eyes. He straightens his shoulders and suddenly becomes strong Jace again.

“I’m sorry. You must think I’m some sort of big crybaby or something,” he says, raking his hand over his face again.

“No, I don’t. If you had told me that story without shedding a tear, I’d think something was wrong with you,” I say as my own tears slide down my cheeks.

“After she died, for the first time since she gave birth to Genevieve, my mom acted like a mother. Her death rocked my mom and dad to the core. Guilt and regret plagued them. My mom has never been the same. She spent weeks in her bedroom not eating or showering. Our house was like a tomb for a long time. My mom finally went into therapy for her grief and depression, and the therapist convinced her that the entire family needed to get therapy as well. We started attending family sessions and I learned to stop hating my mom for being the kind of mother she was to Genevieve. Until then, I never really saw how broken-hearted and tortured she was by her guilt.”

The sadness on his face is painful to look at. It’s heartbreaking.

“Ever since, I’ve tried so hard to be the perfect son for her, especially after Dad died. I just want her to be happy, you know? It was my fault, after all, that Genevieve died. If I’d been there on time, it would’ve never happened. I don’t want her to see me as the person responsible for my sister’s death. I want her to see me as the son they’re proud of.”

He presses a kiss to the tips of two fingers before reaching down and placing them on top of the headstone. “I miss her every day,” he whispers. My heart cracks right in half for him.

“So you see, I can’t stand by and let someone bully you, cut you down, just because they have some twisted superiority complex. Just because someone is different doesn’t mean they aren’t worthy of others’ respect. She was different, socially awkward, and odd, but she was a person. A sweet girl who didn’t deserve for others to look down on her, tease her, or make fun of her and neither do you. Just think, if only one of those kids would’ve stepped up and said something, made a stand against their friends, this could’ve been avoided. But they did nothing. They just stood by and let it happen, which makes them all equally guilty. I won’t be that person. I can’t be.” He shakes his head back and forth in disgust.

All of the pieces of the puzzle that are Jace Collins begin to fall into place for me. I’ve been so conflicted by his kindness. I’m not sure why he just now noticed how horrible those girls always are to me, but I understand why he feels so strongly about it. Seeing me physically hurt probably brought it all to the surface for him.

I want to ask him a million questions, but I don’t because I know how badly I’d hate for someone to pick me apart if I was in his shoes. Why people do the things they do, or act the way they act, almost never lies on the surface. It’s always hidden behind fears, anxiety, or a lack of understanding.

I know for me it’s unknown. I have no idea why I feel the way I do, or why I think the way I think. It’s the biggest part of the problem for me. Sometimes I feel that if I had a real reason, I could find a solution.

Jace had a traumatic event occur in his life that has matured him faster than most people our age. He had to deal with a tragedy that most could never imagine. It makes my problems feel so very small, insignificant. Okay, so my Mom drinks, and my Dad acts as if I don’t exist, but I’ve never had to face what Jace has had to face.

It makes me all the more at odds with my emotions and daily bouts of depression and anxiety. My mood swings of highs and lows, the desperation for acceptance and love; the feelings are so extreme, so strong within my mind that I literally feel like I am on auto-pilot at least half the time, without any control over my emotions at all. The rest of the time, I am completely shut down and numb.

That’s why I cut. I control that pain, own it. I can start it or stop it on my own terms. The thoughts that reel through my mind daily like a bad show rerun never stop; they replay day after day. It’s a constant struggle, one that I really have no explanation for. That’s what frustrates me the most—I seriously doubt that having absentee parents could cause such deep-seated pain in a person. Who knows? I’m not a psychiatrist or anything. Maybe I need one of those, although the thought of divulging the deepest, darkest parts of me to anyone scares the hell out of me.

“I’m so sorry that happened to your sister, to your family, but you can’t blame yourself.”

I try to stay calm and fight back my tears over his loss.

“It wasn’t you that chased her. You didn’t do this, those bullying kids did.” I try to relieve some of his guilt, though I’m pretty sure that’s easier said than done. Even so, I have to say something and this is what I feel strongest about. He needs to know he didn’t do anything wrong. I know my words probably give him little comfort, but I want him to know I’m here for him.

“I know. I spent hours in therapy learning how to say ‘It’s not my fault.’ It’s just really hard not to feel that way because I know if I had gotten there on time, she’d still be here today.”

“You can’t know that. You can’t take this on as your responsibility. You were a kid too. It was a terrible tragedy, but it wasn’t your fault,” I say urgently, wanting him to understand.

He lets out a huge sigh and runs his hands through his hair again. He does that a lot, I notice, and I wonder if it’s just an anxious habit of his.