Page 105 of Not Until Her
I blink away my surprise, and grab a handful of potato chips while I think. If I only get one answer out of her, what is it that I’d want?
It comes to me quickly.
“You never… explained about the scars.”
Her head hangs low at that, but still no wall. It’s a miraculous and curious thing, and I’m on the edge of my seat to know what drove her to that. To know if there’s someone responsible.
“My depression was a lot worse when I was a teenager. My home life, mixed with puberty, and a school full of assholes was a recipe for disaster.” She gives me a look that seems to ask if it’s necessary to continue, and I give her an encouraging nod. I have a feeling it’s the first time she’s talking about any of this with someone besides her therapist, and I want her to feel the relief that comes with confiding in someone she can trust. “My parentswere together, but weren’t. We had two houses, and they weren’t often in the same one at the same time. My mom was busy with a lot of work here, so my dad was out of town a lot. I couldn’t go with him, but I tried all the time. I’d sneak into his truck with a backpack, but he always found me and told me to go back inside. I don’t think he would’ve if he’d known back then how bad she was,” she says, thoughtfully. “She had such bad anger problems. She’s always been angry ateverything, especially at me. She only ever lost it far enough to hit me once, but it’s a day I’ll never forget. The rest of the time she was throwing things, or hitting things, or slamming doors.”
“That’s horrible,” I whisper. I didn’t want to interrupt her, but it slipped out in my shock.
“She shattered a mirror one time, and I remember waiting and waiting for her bad luck to kick in. I was so sad when it never did, I wanted her to have some sort of consequence for the way she treated me. I told the school counselor when I was thirteen, and they sent a social worker to our house. My mom was so nice and smiley to that woman, I don’t blame her for buying the act. She made her believesilly little Kara just needed some attention.I didn’t have bruises, I wasn’t being neglected as far as they could see. That’s when I first got thrown into therapy, but it couldn’t help me as long as I was living with her.” Her voice cracks on the last word, not from emotion, but overuse. She cracks open one of the cans of Pepsi I brought us, and takes a few sips. “She wanted me to know I was a burden, a waste of space, a waste offood. That was a big one. I was either a pig for finishing my meals, or an ungrateful shit for not finishing them. I still struggle with eating sometimes, hearing her voice in the back of my mind.”
“I hate her,” I blurt out. “I hate that she got away with doing that to you.”
Kara nods like she’s heard the words before, but it is what it is.
It shouldn’t be the way it is.
I should invent time travel to protect the younger version of this woman in front of me. Of course she’s complicated, and cold, and confrontational. I’m not surprised at all that the Kara I first met was the way she was. I’d be mad at the world, and hate everyone if I’d been cursed with a mother like hers.
“She’d have me do the most random chores, clean the most random things. It was all veryCinderellawith the wicked step-mother, except I wished I wasn’t actually related to her.” I reach out to hold her hand, and she clutches mine back tightly. “I only dealt with that by shutting down. If I was quiet, and stayed out of her way, I wouldn’t have to face her as often. But I took that to school with me. It was easier if I didn’t talk, didn’t try. I had bullies didn’t like that very much. What good was someone who wouldn’t react? They took it pretty far in their attempt to get me to dosomething.”
She wipes under her eyes, and I feel like kissing her for sharing this vulnerable piece with me. I can’t imagine how hard it is to think about, let alone speak about.
“The music,” she adds. “That was her fault, too. That I got used to it. She’d have men over, and things would get… noisy. I had to drown it out somehow.”
“Of course you did,” I say softly. “You could have just told me right away. I would’ve understood, and been more eager to come up with a compromise.”
Her cheeks turn a darker shade, and I watch her nervously.
“About that…” she says. “I was going to. I actually–-I spoke with everyone else that first week to explain. Followed up with gift cards a little later to thank them for understanding. ”
My jaw drops.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I feel residual anger rise up in me, and try to tamp it down quickly. It was such a hard time for me, and it’s even harder to hear that it all could’ve been avoided. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”
“You weren’t home.”
I wave my hand, insisting she explain more.
“And then you left that note, and I was feeling petty. It had been a particularly bad night, and I wasn’t in a good headspace. I wanted the world to revolve around me,” she says, her tone apologetic. Ashamed.
“But you got four gift cards,” I realized.
Her eyes widen.
“How the hell do you know how many gift cards I bought?”
“I saw you. At the ice cream shop.” The image of it comes rushing back to me, along with how appalled I was at her attitude. “You really need to be nicer to customer service workers.”
She grimaces.
“Yeah, I do,” she admits plainly. “I’m working on it. Not taking my emotions out on others has been a recurring topic in therapy.”
I swear I love her a little more every single time she mentions therapy.
“Moving on now,” she says with a nervous laugh. “I want to know how you met Autumn and… him.”