“Right Directions,” Collaboration with Corinah Sharpova, Part 5/8
(See Corinah Sharpova, Image 1)
Setting: Thea steps out of the principal’s office, starts heading back to class, and then stops. She turns around, staring at the front door. Then she removes her phone and calls Knox.
Foley has my file. He didn’t open it, he just rested his hands on top of it, twirling his thumbs clockwise, toward me, smiling.
He said, It hasn’t been easy for you, since you moved here, has it Theadora? I didn’t say anything. I just stared at the table, in front of his hands, trying not to blink. I don’t know why, really, but for some reason, blinking felt weak, like showing him weakness. It was best just to stare, just to, like, pick a point, and stare as hard as I could, without blinking, but not so hard he could see the effort. Pretend he’s not there, right. That’s what I was trying to do, and it’s not easy, believe me, but I figured a way to do it. You know how? By pretending he wasn’t alive, or at least he wasn’t human.
We sat there for I don’t know how long, two, three minutes, and then, finally, he said: It must be difficult for your mother, he said.
What do you want? I said, but not looking up. Staring at the half-moons of his thumbnails.
Just to talk, Theadora. I want to talk to you.
It’s none of your business, I said, and right away, like as soon as the words came out, I knew that was the wrong thing to say. Because he moved, showing me the file he’d been covering with his hands. There was a file on the table, right in front of him, and he smoothed it out, like it was a sheet or a tablecloth, you know. He didn’t say it, didn’t have to, because I knew what was in the file. I could see my name, typed on a sticker they’d attached to the folder. He had my medical records.
My dad had a cousin who attempted suicide once. I remember Nanna, my dad’s mom saying he’d been spoiled, he’d been given everything, his whole life, that he’d had everything advantage, the best education money could buy, and that’s how he behaved. He threw it back in their faces, the family. She said, Some people just can’t be pleased. She’d been drinking, I know, but she said he was pathetic, my dad’s cousin was pathetic, she said, because he cut in the wrong direction. If he were serious, I could respect him, she said.
When I got home, a few days later, when my dad and I flew back to Poughkeepsie, I asked my mom what the right direction was. Because I didn’t know there was a wrong and right, you know, and then she said the right direction was for me not to listen to anything Nanna said. She said it was pathetic of Nanna to . . . and then she stopped, nodding her head no, telling herself not to say it.
I couldn’t figure it out. Like I remember not understanding why sometimes it’s like you’re supposed to speak your mind and adults tell you that’s the right thing, and then sometimes you’re not supposed to say what you think at all. So how do you know what to do? It’s like, what direction do you cut, what do you say, when it the truth the wrong thing to say? It was all so confusing to me. The only thing I knew was that everyone was afraid of Nanna, and I don’t know why, even though I was afraid of her, too. But I think it’s because she always cut in the right direction. But not with a knife, with words.
Foley was staring at me, waiting. He was always staring at me, but there was a point where I just couldn’t take it anymore.
I have nothing to say, I said.
Another time, then, he said, folding his hands again, but I didn’t answer.
May I go now?
Of course, he said, and I got up and left.
I was shaking, you know. So soon as I got out the door, I called Knox. At first, I was afraid I’d get his voicemail, that he wouldn’t answer, and then I was afraid he would answer, and I’d have to tell him. And then he did, too. He answered on the second ring, and all I said was, We need to talk. Didn’t say hello, nothing.
Thea, are you all right? he asked.
What’s all right? I said, but I didn’t wait. I need to talk to you, I said.
When?
Now. I need to talk to you now, in person.
What’s going on?
I saw Foley, I said, just now. He knows, Knox—he knows everything, and I want you to know everything, too.
What does he know?
When can you pick me up? I asked, and he sighed, and I swear, it sounded like he was looking at the clock on the wall or something, trying to figure out a plan.
Well, he said, how’s now work for you?
That works, I said. Will you call Cheswick and tell them you need to talk to me?
Are you trying to get out of class again?
Always, but this is important, okay? I’m not screwing around—.
Okay, okay, he said. Give me ten minutes, I’ll pick you up out front.
Don’t forget to call the office, okay? I said, heading for my locker to get my books. Because there was no way I was heading back to fifth period.
Ten minutes, he said, and he hung up.
One thing I liked about Knox is he was always on time. My dad, forget it. My dad was never ever on time, and as a kid, I always thought all dads were late. Like I thought dad was synonymous with late, you know. Guess not. I got in the car, and I told him right away, putting on my seat belt, before he even had a chance to ask.
Foley has copies of my medical charts. He has my whole file, I said.
What’s in the file?
Everything, I said. Can we go? I can’t tell you if you’re looking at me, I said, and he pulled out, heading to the stop light. I waited for the light to change, and then I told him: I was committed for three months the year after my dad left us, and Foley has all the pictures, I’m sure. It’s a big file, I said.
Pictures of what?
My scars. I was committed because I couldn’t stop cutting myself, I said, not looking at him. I mean, I knew Knox wouldn’t bat an eye, but still.
I didn’t know, he said.
Why would you?
I’m sorry, he said. I just nodded my head no, it wasn’t necessary. I looked out my window, as we turned, heading down the street. So what happened? he said.
I fainted, I said.
Sorry?
See, the problem was—I mean, the reason I got caught is because I faint at the sight of blood. I can’t stand the sight of blood, I said.
Wait a minute, back up. So you’re a cutter—.
Recovering.
But, okay, sorry. You’d cut yourself, but you can’t—you can’t stand the sight of your own blood?
No, I said, nodding in agreement, and he furrowed his brow, like he didn’t get it. Knox, why is that so strange?
Well, I mean, I guess it’s no stranger than—any of the rest of this. I just never thought about, you know. I thought that was part of the appeal.
No, not for me, at least. Blood has no appeal, it’s feeling. I wanted to feel.
And, so . . . every time, you’d pass out?
If there was blood, I did. And that’s how I got caught. Because this one time, I cut deeper than I meant to, and it was a mess, and I tried not to look, and I always kept lots of towels around, old towels I hid in my room. But this one time, I looked, and then I passed out in the bathroom. My mom found me, because I hit my head, gave myself a concussion, and she came home before I came to. She started flipping out, called an ambulance, and then, you know, my secret was out, I said. I didn’t look at Knox, and he didn’t look at me. I guess he was taking it in as much as I was, telling him. Can I ask you something? I said, turning to face him, and he nodded, shoot.
Why are you telling me this now?
Because I thought you’d understand.
Why did you think I’d understand cutting?
Not cutting, I said. I thought you’d understand shame.
And why’s that?
Because you were in the army, I said.
You think it’s shameful I was in the army?
Not because of the army, I said, because of the war. You were in the war, weren’t you?
How did you know that? he asked, pulling over.
Mel told me, I said, and he knocked his chin in the air, knowing it was true.
It was a long time ago, he said.
Iraq one, I said.
Yes, he said, nodding, inhaling. What else did Melody tell you?
She said . . . I said, not sure I should tell him or not, but I did. She said it’s not because of the exposure, if you were exposed to anything over there, chemicals or whatever—that’s not why she has palsy.
We don’t know that for sure, he said.
No, we don’t, but she does. And even if that was the reason why, it won’t change anything now, will it?
How, he said. How does she know?
How does any child know the truth without needing to be told? I asked, and he looked out his window, trying to figure out what to do. You wanna . . .? he said, then he stopped.
Do I want to what? I said.
No, no, bad idea, he said. I was just going to ask if you were hungry, he said, and then I thought about it.
Ugh, famished, I said.
Note: This week, I’m enlisting the help of eight guest artists/DJs/collaborators in editing eight separate sketches, written since the start of this project. This is an edit of a paragraph from the original project outline, available on the Saccades website.