Authors: Holly Chamberlin
Last Summer (3 page)
Yes, Jane thought, emptying the meager contents of the dustpan into the garbage and returning the broom to its closet, it was too late for second-guessing, but it was not too late for self-recrimination, even though she knew that her job as a responsible adult was to focus on the future and on healing the damage done to her family.
That was what Dr. Lowe had advised. That was what her husband counseled, and that was what the self-help books she had been devouring in the past weeks recommended. “Try to have some compassion for yourself,” Mike had said. He was a good man and generally gave very smart and thoughtful advice, but in this case, Jane found herself unable to really hear and accept it.
The one person who might have been able to help her heal, the one person to whom she might have listened, was the one person to whom she absolutely could not go. And that was Meg’s mother, Frannie Giroux.
Jane sank into a chair at the round kitchen table. She felt tired and unhappy and her back was aching. She wondered if she should be taking an antidepressant. So far, Rosie was doing well without any medication. Her therapist had advised they hold off on a drug unless it was absolutely necessary.
Maybe I should make an appointment with Dr. Lowe,
Jane thought. Or, if Jacqueline Lowe didn’t think it was a good idea for mother and daughter to see the same therapist, with someone she could recommend. Jane had met alone with Dr. Lowe only once; it was common for her to have individual conversations with the parents of a new, underage patient. Jane wasn’t sure what Dr. Lowe had learned from their session. Jane had cried a lot and was pretty sure she’d been generally inarticulate. What Jane did remember clearly was that Dr. Lowe hadn’t judged or condemned her failure to detect Rosie’s troubles earlier. Well, if she had judged or condemned her, she had kept her thoughts and opinions to herself as a professional was trained to do.
Jane thought. Or, if Jacqueline Lowe didn’t think it was a good idea for mother and daughter to see the same therapist, with someone she could recommend. Jane had met alone with Dr. Lowe only once; it was common for her to have individual conversations with the parents of a new, underage patient. Jane wasn’t sure what Dr. Lowe had learned from their session. Jane had cried a lot and was pretty sure she’d been generally inarticulate. What Jane did remember clearly was that Dr. Lowe hadn’t judged or condemned her failure to detect Rosie’s troubles earlier. Well, if she had judged or condemned her, she had kept her thoughts and opinions to herself as a professional was trained to do.
In fact, Dr. Lowe had been the one to suggest the books Jane could turn to for information about bullying, as well as about forgiveness and recovery. What Dr. Lowe couldn’t have known was that Jane would read so obsessively, desperate in her desire to better understand Rosie’s experiences through the previous winter and spring. And after absorbing a mind-boggling amount of information, some of it puzzling, some of it contradictory, Jane had come to the unhappy conclusion that she had sheltered her daughter too closely. She had raised a child unprepared to face the craziness of the world without falling apart. She was entirely to blame for Rosie’s present situation. Not Mike. It always came down to the mother, no matter what anyone said to the contrary.
Jane wiped an invisible crumb from the table. The mother-daughter relationship, she had come to realize, was wonderful, but it was also a relationship famously fraught with jealousy and resentment and frustration. Why had she thought that her relationship with her own daughter would be exempt from trouble? Why had she thought they were so privileged or lucky, or, as Frannie with her belief in God would say, blessed?
Jane glanced over her shoulder. Through the window over the sink she could easily see the Giroux house. Her head began to tingle and she felt the blood rush to her face. It was a surge of anger that frightened her in its intensity. She turned away from the window and put her hands on her burning face. Would this awful rage ever go away? It came upon her several times a day, sometimes sneaking up on her full-blown, sometimes making its presence known with a tiny spark that, no matter how vigorously she tried to douse, eventually roared into a flame.
It seemed like a cruel joke that the two families should live next door to one another, that a symbol of what once had been a close, almost symbiotic relationship should now exist to mock her. She didn’t want to remember all the good times the Pattersons had shared at the Giroux home, and all the good times Frannie and her children had shared at Jane and Mike’s house—the family game nights, the holiday meals, the rainy Saturday afternoons when Mike would make popcorn and they would watch a funny movie. But the memories, like the scars on Rosie’s arm, were there and not likely to fade away into oblivion anytime soon.
Jane rubbed her tired eyes. In some moments she found it hard to believe that she and Frannie had ever been friends. She wondered how she could have been so badly duped. She wondered how she could have allowed her daughter to be so badly deceived. She was as angry with herself as she was with Frannie and her daughter. And she was determined never, ever to forgive the Giroux family.
Jane got up from the table, went to the fridge, opened it, and stared inside. It was time to start thinking about dinner. She had lost weight since Rosie’s breakdown (God, she hated that word, but what other word would do?), and it wasn’t flattering. There were lines on her face that hadn’t been there only weeks before, and her neck looked downright scrawny. Rosie’s appetite, usually hearty, had also suffered. The last thing Rosie needed was for her depression to lead to anorexia.
With a sigh, Jane closed the fridge. She wished she were only being dramatic, thinking such a thing. But Dr. Lowe had told them that often kids who took to cutting were prone to developing eating disorders. Almost as proof, there was Rosie’s disturbing weight loss, something Jane had been only marginally aware of over the past few months. And that was another crime. She couldn’t help but wonder now if she had been willfully ignorant of that, too, simply unwilling to believe or to admit that her own child could be less than perfect.
If I turn my head, the problem will go away. If I pretend nothing is wrong, then nothing will be wrong.
There was a bitter irony to it all, Jane thought now. If anyone should have noticed ill-fitting clothing, it should have been her. She could spot poorly fitting pants on a stranger at the mall, but she hadn’t noticed sagging jeans on her own daughter.
There was a bitter irony to it all, Jane thought now. If anyone should have noticed ill-fitting clothing, it should have been her. She could spot poorly fitting pants on a stranger at the mall, but she hadn’t noticed sagging jeans on her own daughter.
Jane suddenly became aware that her head was throbbing and went to the kitchen drawer where the first aid kit was stored. She was taking ibuprofen at least twice a day lately, which was probably too often. But the headaches just kept coming, maybe because nothing in her world seemed solid or certain anymore. Everything had been put to question, every assumption and every comfort.
Thankfully, Mike would be home from work soon. He would spend some time alone with Rosie before dinner, encouraging her to work on a jigsaw puzzle with him or to play a quick, intense game of Scrabble. At times, Jane felt a tiny bit jealous of their relationship; she wanted to be the one doing puzzles and playing Scrabble with her daughter. But whenever that tiny feeling of jealousy emerged, Jane carefully squashed it. She knew that Rosie loved her, and anyway, it was so much healthier for a girl to have a good relationship with her father than to be virtually ignored by him, like Meg was virtually ignored by her father. Look at what Peter Giroux’s neglect had wrought!
Jane picked up the vase of fresh-cut pink peonies that sat on the kitchen table and for the second time that day refreshed the water. Peonies were one of Rosie’s favorite flowers, but so far, she hadn’t commented on this bouquet. Her interest in so many once-loved things hadn’t yet returned. Jane hoped that it did, and quickly.
The flowers rearranged, Jane again slumped into a chair at the table. Thus far in her life as a parent she had always felt as if she could handle whatever challenges cropped up, maybe with some help from Mike or even a dose of sheer good luck. But now, from the moment she got out of bed each morning until the moment she got back into it at night, she felt horrible, crippling doubt about her ability to shepherd her daughter through the remaining years of childhood and then safely into adulthood. And maybe she deserved to suffer from that doubt.
Jane heard the sound of a car coming up the drive toward the garage. Mike. She sighed in genuine relief. She always felt stronger and braver when Mike was around. She got up, almost knocking over her chair in the process, and hurried to the front door to greet him.
3
October 11, 2011
Dear Diary,
Today was pretty good. It’s actually kind of fun being a freshman. I was sort of afraid at first that the upperclassmen were going to give us a hard time, but there’s actually a kind of mentoring or big sister/big brother program where every ninth grader gets assigned a twelfth grader who’s supposed to look out for them. My big sister is this girl named Carly. She seems okay, though she doesn’t seem all that interested in being a mentor or a big sister. She forgot my name the other day and called me Rita. I didn’t correct her, but Meg did. But so far everything’s been fine, so it’s no big deal. I have her class schedule so I know where she is if I need her for advice or something.
This is kind of interesting. Carly has a tattoo on the back of her neck. I think it’s a flower, but I didn’t want to stare (not that she would see me behind her!) or to ask her, so I don’t really know for sure. I didn’t even know you were allowed to have a tattoo in school. I mean, that you were allowed to show a tattoo. I’ll never get one. I think they’re kind of gross and it’s supposed to hurt a lot when you get them. Why would I want to have someone stick a sharp needle or whatever it is they use into me? Meg says she’s going to get one as soon as her mother lets her. She thinks maybe a small rose on her ankle or maybe a cross, if her mother won’t freak out about the cross. Mrs. Giroux is pretty religious. She doesn’t think you should wear a cross just as jewelry, which in some ways, I guess, is what a tattoo is. She says it’s sacrilegious. Mrs. Giroux wears a cross but that’s because she believes in Jesus.
Anyway, Meg’s big sister is really into checking in with Meg and making sure she’s doing okay. Her name is Tiffany and she says she’s going to college in Florida because she hates the winters in Maine. I don’t think she’s been accepted into college yet—I’m not really sure how the whole admission process works yet—but the way she talks she’s determined to throw away her parka and boots for good! I can kind of understand what she feels about hating the long winters, but I could never move so far away from my mom and dad, not even if I could come home for holidays. I’d miss them way too much.
Yesterday was my fourteenth birthday and Meg gave me a piece of polished rose quartz in the shape of a heart. (She said she got it in this fantastic store up in Portland called Stones and Stuff. She said this really nice woman named Heather owns it. I wonder when she got her mom to drive her to Portland without me knowing! That was pretty sneaky!) It’s got a silver piece on top, kind of a loop, so I can wear it on a chain. I love it! Mom and Dad got me a new copy of the last Harry Potter book (somehow my old copy got lost, maybe when we stayed overnight in that hotel when we went down to Massachusetts for Dad’s brother’s wedding; anyway, now my collection is complete again, which is a big relief) and then Meg and her mother and Petey came over for dinner. We had my favorite, this chicken casserole with apples in it that Mom makes, and Mrs. Giroux baked a cake. It was chocolate inside with white icing. I had the best time. Everybody sang “Happy Birthday” (even Dad, whose voice is really terrible) and Petey gave me a crayon drawing he made of Meg and me holding hands. Sometimes I wish I had a little brother or sister, though when Meg is in a bad mood she says that being a big sister is a pain.
Meg is fun, though, even when she’s in a bad mood, which she never takes out on me. I just know she’ll be my best friend forever. Everyone in school says that about every friend they have—everyone is everyone’s BFF—but Meg and I are different. I can’t imagine us ever not being friends. It’s, like, totally unimaginable. Mom says I shouldn’t say “like” all the time. Imagine what she would say if she knew I just wrote it! But my mom would never, ever read my diary, so she won’t ever know. That’s one really good thing about my life. A lot of kids I know complain that their parents never give them any privacy. But my parents totally respect my privacy. They trust I’m not going to do something wrong or stupid, so they don’t need to be poking around my room, looking for clues that I’m running wild or something.
Okay, I have to go and eat dinner now. Mom’s making pork chops and this cabbage dish made with red currant jelly. The whole house smells really good. I should learn how to cook so I can help Mom out sometimes. Bye!
Your friend, Rosie
October 30, 2011
Dear Diary,
Meg and I went to an early Halloween party last night in the gym at school. I went as a medieval princess, complete with one of those tall, pointy hats with a veil attached, and Meg went as a bat. She complained the whole time that her costume wasn’t good enough because she didn’t have the money to put together a better one. I told her she should have asked my mother for help. Mom could have made her something fantastic. But Meg got all red in the face and told me that her mom had forbidden her to “go begging” to my mom for help. She told Meg they didn’t need charity. That seemed really weird and I was sorry I said anything. Since when is helping out a friend charity? Maybe Mrs. Giroux was just in a bad mood when she said that stuff. She knows that Mom really enjoys doing sewing projects for Meg. Why would it suddenly be charity?
Anyway, another interesting thing was that Mackenzie Egan and her friends were at the party, too, and they said hello to us. We’ve kind of known them since we were in first grade and they were in second, but they’ve never really noticed us before. They were dressed as Madonna wannabes from the eighties. I don’t know where they found all of that tacky stuff to wear, these awful neon-colored hair ties and black lace pantyhose and big plastic jewelry! Jill had her hair teased about a foot off her head! I thought it was nice of them to come over and say hi and say they liked my costume, but Meg thought it was weird. Sometimes she’s so suspicious!
By the way, Mackenzie Egan is really pretty. I don’t think I ever noticed that before. She’s kind of medium height but she has really long legs and really dark hair and bright blue eyes. In fact, she kind of looks exotic. I bet boys really like her.
The party was fun overall, though Halloween isn’t my favorite holiday. (It’s Christmas!) There was way too much candy and not enough other stuff to eat, like chips (not that Meg minded because she has a major sweet tooth!) and some spooky music (which wasn’t really spooky; it was kind of goofy sounding) and some haunted-house-type stuff like a bowl filled with wet spaghetti that you stuck your hand into. You were supposed to think it was brains or guts or something. It all seemed pretty lame to me, especially the marshmallows made to look like blood-streaked eyeballs. Now, if a REAL ghost had shown up, that would have been awesome. I totally believe in a spirit world and would love to encounter a real ghost someday. When I can, which is not often because of homework and piano lessons and practice, I watch some of those TV shows about people’s real-life experiences with spirits. Mom and Dad think the shows are all lies, but they don’t forbid me to watch them. I think my favorite is PARANORMAL STATE and then maybe PSYCHIC KIDS. A lot of the kids on that show are made fun of by other kids in their school. If I knew a real psychic kid I wouldn’t make fun of him at all. I’d have a lot of respect for him.
Anyway, I think the person with the best costume at the party was a boy who came as Captain Jack Sparrow. Meg thought the best costume was someone who came as one of the characters from the Transformers movies. She said it was totally accurate. I’ve never seen any of those movies—I don’t get what’s so interesting about machines and guns—so the costume didn’t really impress me.
Dad picked us up at ten o’clock, which is the latest I’ve ever been out, and Meg spent the night at my house. There were some old, classic black-and-white movies on TV and we watched DRACULA with this Eastern European actor named Bela Lugosi. (Dad told me about the Eastern European part. I think he said Bela Lugosi was from Hungary, but I might be wrong.) I loved it—it was very atmospheric—but Meg thought it was silly and boring. She doesn’t like old stuff like I do. Now I have to find a copy of the book in the library. Dad told me it’s really scary. Also, I have to get a copy of FRANKENSTEIN, which I just found out was written by a woman (cool—and she was really young, too) and which supposedly isn’t like the old black-and-white movie at all. I feel so bad for the monster in the movie. No one understands him and he’s so alone. Dad says I’ll feel even worse for him once I read the book because in some ways, the important ones, he isn’t a monster at all. It’s Dr. Frankenstein who’s the monster.
Oh, and you should have seen Meg’s little brother, Petey! He went to school dressed as Snoopy from PEANUTS. He’s such a cute little boy. Sometimes I feel as if he’s my own brother. I wonder what he’ll be like when he grows up. I wonder if he’ll still be nice or if he’ll turn into one of those boys who pretend to be so tough and who make fun of everything like nothing matters. It’s like the only two things those boys can say are “Big deal” and “Who cares?” No. I think Petey will always be nice, even though his father isn’t very nice. I probably shouldn’t say that about a grown-up. I’ve always been taught to respect parents, even other people’s parents, and other adults, especially teachers and police and all those other authority figures. But it’s hard not to say or even think bad things about Mr. Giroux when his own ex-wife and his own daughter say them.
I just remembered something. Wow. I’d totally forgotten this, but when Meg and I were maybe in second or third grade Mr. Giroux took us on a hike in the woods. I can’t remember exactly where but I do remember we brought lunch with us, peanut butter sandwiches and apple slices, and we ate sitting on a log by the bank of a pond. When we got back to Meg’s house, Mr. Giroux surprised us by making s’mores. It was the first time I’d ever had a s’more. I didn’t really like them—I hate marshmallows—but it was nice of him to do all that for us, so I ate two of them. It always pays to be polite. That’s what Mom always says. Anyway, I wonder if Meg remembers that day. Maybe I should ask her. Or maybe it would only upset her and make her miss her dad more. She says she doesn’t really miss him but I don’t believe her. It’s the way she says it, like she’s trying to convince herself.
Okay, I should go now. I’ve got one more paragraph to write for English class and then I’m done with homework for the night.
Your friend, Rosie
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