Page 49 of Because of Dylan

I glimpse myself in a mirror. Stop. Turn to it. My reflection doesn’t lie. Pale skin, puffy, red eyes and dried, black mascara tracks on my cheeks. I see my mother’s face in mine.

Her hollow empty eyes sunk into dark circles stare at me in my dreams sometimes. It’s been nearly four years since I last saw or spoke with her. I don’t even know if she’s alive. She must be. If something had happened to her, I would have heard about it. Someone would have found me. She never tried to contact me. It would have been easy enough to find me. She knows where I am.

The door to the shower room opens with a creak that begs for oil. It’s followed by voices, and I retreat to the back. I find a shower stall, close the thick, opaque curtains and hang my things. Stripping, I then turn on the water and step into the spray before it’s warm enough to be comfortable. I welcome the initial sting of icy water as it jolts me out of my head for a few blessed seconds.

But as the water warms, the thoughts come back. All I’ve ever wanted was a loving family. A mother who cared and protected me. A father. Siblings. I’ve never known the meaning of family. But today, a nine-year-old and five-year-old taught me more about the love of a family than I could ever have imagined.

I want that. I want that so badly it scares me. What if they let me in? What if I allow myself to love them, and they find out about me? If they find out how unworthy I am. How unlovable. How I cheapened myself with sex.

I turn the water hotter, wash my hair, wash the mascara and makeup off my face, scrub at my skin with soap and a loofa until it stings. It’s been years since Theodore last touched me. Years since he died, but some days I can still feel his fingers on me, the press of his much larger body on mine. I can still smell the stink of weed, alcohol, and sweat.

I’ve scrubbed my skin raw too many times before to know that no amount of soap and water can wash off the memories in my head.

I want to say yes to my father. I want to meet my sister and brother. I want to go to Thanksgiving with them. I want all the things my father wants to offer me, but I know they’ll ask questions. I know they’ll be curious.

My mind plays a hopscotch game, jumping from one thought to the next.

I don’t want to lie. I’m tired of lies and deceit, but how can I ever tell them the truth?

I turn off the water, dry myself. Put on the robe that’s so big on me it swallows me whole. I grab my things and walk back to my room, making no eye contact with the few people in the hall. I lock my door behind me. Night has fallen, and I close the curtains and shut out the outside world of Saturday parties, hookups, and carefree fun.

I check my phone. I have text messages from both River and Tommy. Nothing from my father. Perhaps he changed his mind, and it’s already too late. Perhaps he decided for me.

I find my laptop. Log in. Grab my headphones. Navigate to the support page. I sink to my bed in relief when I see his name in bold. He’s available.

Therapist11. I click on the icon and wait.

“Good night.” His voice is warm, welcoming.

“Hi.” Mine quivers.

“What’s wrong? You sound like you’ve been crying.” He immediately picks up on my mood.

“How-how can you tell? I said one word.”

“You sound sad.” Now his voice sounds sad too.

“I’m having a hard day.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

“Do you ever get tired of hearing people’s complaints all day?”

He chuckles. “No, not really. And I don’t get a lot of calls.”

“No?”

“No. Besides you, I’ve only had two other people pick me.”

“I guess the being-a-guy thing might scare some girls off.” I’m still surprised I had the guts to pick a dude too, but I’m glad I did.

“Why did you pick me? You had other options.”

“You going to laugh at me?”

“Hmmm … maybe?”

“You’re supposed to say you won’t laugh at me.”

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