“Charlie, we’ve been through this numerous times. I’d like it if you’d refer to me as Laura. Mrs. McDaniel just seems a bit old, don’t you think?” Ha. I snort, silencing the room. I peek up to find my mother’s piercing eyes narrowed in on me. “Is there something you’d like to share, Jenna?”
Because I feel it’s my daughterly duty to be a total bitch when she is to me, I respond with an arrogant smile. “Well, Mother, last I remember you’re not getting any younger. In fact, a fiftieth birthday is slowly approaching, isn’t it?”
There it goes. My mother has a thin vein on her forehead that shoots across from the base of her left eyebrow and disappears into the right side of her hairline. When she’s upset, it pops out a bit more than usual. When she’s furious, it pulses. Right now it’s popping, not quite pulsing just yet. But I know I hit a nerve. Well done, Jenna. Well done. She knows how to push my buttons, and I know how to push hers. When we’re together, we’re lethal.
My smile falters as I watch the look in her eyes slowly change from ticked off to competitive, challenging even. Her stare still glued to me, she finishes her drink, places the cup down, and flashes a knowing smirk. “Dr. Rosario rang.” My heartbeat hammers rapidly at her statement. “You're going back. No question about it.”
The stool screeches along the tile floors as I stand abruptly. My heart feels like it’s struggling to break free of my chest. “I thought there was a confidentiality agreement between her and me.”
My mother's smile brightens. It’s a fake, mechanical, smile, like that of a Stepford wife. “Yes, anything spoken between the two of you is most definitely confidential. But when I'm paying for the weekly visits, it's her duty to notify me when and why she stops charging my account. It was an agreement we had.”
I can’t believe this. It’s just another way for her to control me. “I'm not going back,” I say sternly. I want to make her very clear of my intentions.
I’m. Not. Going. Back.
“Jenna, yes you are. These therapy sessions are good for you.”
Good for me? “You have no damn clue what's good for me!” My face heats in rage as I lean over the countertop. My fingers grip the edge to keep me from lunging at her. “You waltz around here, claiming to know everything, but you don't. You don't even know your own daughter. I question if you even knew Brooke at all.”
“Jenna, stop,” she demands.
Uncontrollable anger rushes through me. “Or maybe that’s it. You knew Brooke so much more than me. You paid so much attention to her that you failed to see that you had two daughters, not just one. You make it very clear, Mother, that I’m a lost cause, that I’m useless in your life, in this family, and in this home. You manage to make me feel everything ugly—not only on the outside, but also on the inside. You make me more broken than what I am.”
“Oh, honey,” she says softly, eyes filled with pity. “You need to stop blaming others for your failure.”
“Mrs. McDaniel…” I hear Charlie gasp in pure shock.
I’m furious. She does this. She knows how to hit every single nerve of mine. She knows how to make me ill and disgusted with a simple look in her eyes. She knows how to work me up. The question is why. Why does she continue to do this? Why does she feel the need to control my life? Does it make her feel powerful knowing the control she has over me? Is it because she’s so desperate to push me away she’ll do anything to manipulate my emotions?
“Jenna…” Charlie’s voice is distant. I barely make out what she’s saying. The voices in my head are overpowering everything—even my own thoughts. “Breathe,” I hear her say faintly. I can’t. It’s hard to breathe. My fingers grip the granite, my eyes are unfocused, and my body is trembling as I try to fight for air.
She doesn’t love you, She never has, She hates you, Why would she love you, You’re a pig, You’re disgusting, She wishes it were you that was dead, not Brooke, She would’ve rather buried your body six feet underground, You’re a waste of space, Why are you even here, Go kill yourself already and get it over with, She doesn’t care what happens to you, She’s never cared…
The evil voice continues to dominate my thoughts. Every time I try to fight through it, I falter. It roots itself down deep within. Running. Running usually works. I push away from the counter, turn around, and dash out of the kitchen, into the foyer, and out the front door.
You stupid fucking bitch, You’re a joke, No one cares about you, They all think you’re crazy, because you are, Just do it already, Kill yourself, Do it, Do it, Do it, Do it, Do it. DO IT!
I scream at myself to sprint through the voices. I need the voices to go away. I need them out of my head. They’re invading my mind. Houses, trees, parked cars all dash by in my peripheral vision. They all seem to be zooming by quickly, yet I feel stock-still, like I’m in a slow-motion movie. I’m not running fast enough. Forcing myself, I push hard, one foot in front of the other, faster and faster. Each long block fades in the distance with each one I pass.
It burns: my shins, my chest, my throat. Everything. My breathing is ragged. Choking in air, I continue to dart down the street, round a corner and down another street. The quicker I run, the more my skin feels the harsh breeze of this early summer morning. I push forward, daring the wind to take me away—away from my thoughts, from my fucked-up life, from my screwed-up mother. Each taunting word from the voices forces me to keep going.
Minutes. Hours. I’m not certain how long it’s been before I collapse by a corner. Queasy and drained, I bend over. Sweat coats my face, neck, and arms, and I have to grip my knees for support. The urge to vomit settles in. Breathing is difficult to do. Everything is blurry. I vomit, over and over again, hurling the little breakfast I managed to eat all over the green grass of the street corner. The same street corner where kids are now lining up to wait for the school bus.
“Gross,” one of the kids yells.
“Are you okay?” another asks.
“She’s not wearing shoes,” a little boy points out.
I barf again.
I hear the school bus pull up. All the kids hop on, and then it drives away. There’s no way any more bile can come out of me. Exhausted and weak, my body collapses to the ground. My heart is still hammering as I struggle to scoot over and lean my head against the pole of the street sign.