TWENTY-FOUR

I take a shower before I go out. The hot water and soap feels good on my bare skin, lather and needly pinpricks slicing off the layers of dust and sweat that I’ve collected.

It’s been a long day.

Too long.

I try to forget about Cate and those creepy emails and whatever the hell’s wrong inside her head. The things she’d written to Angie were rambling and vaguely threatening and mostly incoherent. I didn’t understand any of it. I didn’t even understand the connection to “The Owl and the Pussycat” poem, which was something I’d looked up after finding the title of it written on the back of a photo our mother had taken. But it had all been nonsense.

Like Cate’s emails:

(you can’t pretend i don’t exist angie)

(jamie’s the one i want he was mine before he was yours and he’ll be mine again)

(the past is what matters angie you’ve been brainwashed if you think otherwise)

(you can’t hide him from himself not anymore)

(i’m coming for him)

(i’ll show you)

(i’ll show everyone)

(bitch)

Part of me is sad for my sister and part of me is angry. Angry that she’s been set free into the world without any help for her weaknesses, for her sick, sick mind. Angry that Angie hasn’t done more to reach out to her. Cate’s her daughter, after all, no matter how she’s disgraced herself and our family. A mother’s love should be stronger.

But I’m also angry that Cate wants something to do with me.

My stomach burns, nearly doubling me over.

Why didn’t anyone tell me about Cate getting out sooner?

Why didn’t someone warn me?

The voice inside my head returns.

You know why, it says.

Because you deserve this.

 

 

I feel sick. I stumble from the shower and grab for the jar of Rolaids I keep on the edge of my sink. My insides have a way of getting bad when I’m stressed, which is another one of my body’s depressing reminders of how constitutionally frail I am. It’s like my stomach gets filled with acid or I swallow too much spit. I chew a chalky handful of the antacids, then drink a glass of water. Then another.

When I can breathe again without pain, I stand up straight. I close the cabinet door and wipe away the condensation that’s gathered there. I’ve managed to grow a little stubble across my upper lip and along my neck so I’ll have to shave if I want to look halfway decent when I show up at the party tonight. I pick up my razor and look at myself in the mirror.

What the hell?

I peer closer. I run a hand across my own face. Most of me looks normal, like what I am or what I’ve become: your average suburban white kid, one with brown hair and blue eyes, and who is remarkably unremarkable. I’ve had people tell me my lips are my best features, which is meant to be flattering but always makes me cringe. Some guys can pull that off, having more feminine features, but suffice to say I am not one of them. But that’s not what I’m looking at right now. No, it’s my eyebrows.

Patches of hair are missing from my eyebrows.

A sliver of fear scrabbles up my spine.

I’ve been pulling at them again. That’s pretty obvious.

Only I can’t remember doing it.