Under My Skin (23 page)

I flip through the series I was working on before the accident. They all suck. A different Darby painted these. She used too bright colors, overly blended, too happy.

I pile the canvases on a bare table, then search for the biggest pair of scissors I can find. Holding the handle in my fist, I swing my arm up and bring it down against the first painting, puncturing its center with a satisfying
thwump
. I yank the scissors out and open them to drag the blade through the woven fibers. The painted cotton resists my carving, but I don’t stop until it tears and frays. It screams and I cry in reply. I’m killing a part of myself. The old self. The part that was whole and then was fractured like the Mustang’s windshield when Daniel’s skull collided with it.

I don’t stop until all of them are in tatters. Their wounds are too deep to heal.

Like me.

I toss the scissors on the pile of carcasses and leave the building. Outside, I brush loose pieces of paint and fibers off my clothes.

“Darby Fox.”

I freeze.

Principal Shepherd. She’s wearing a navy blue suit, sensible heels, and a scowl that would make Mom proud. “Where do you think you’re going?”

I kick a pebble onto the grass. “For a walk.”

“Why didn’t you attend homeroom?”

“I’ve been here for less than an hour and you’re already tracking my every move?”

“I saw you on the video camera. Why’d you destroy your paintings?” Her scowl loosens into pity.

“They’re crap.”

“The art teacher says you have more talent in your pinky than all her other students combined.”

I roll my eyes. “Spare me the cliché.”

She tugs on the hem of her jacket to straighten it out. “Do I have to suspend you for skipping class on your first day back?”

“Do what you want.”

“I’ll have to talk to your parents.”

I sigh and stare at my nails. I still haven’t added new polish.

“Perhaps they should consider home schooling for you.”

“You want me to wait in your office while you figure it out?”

“Are you okay?”

Is she serious? I stuff my hands in my pockets. “Oh, I don’t know, my brother died, I broke my neck, and everybody’s pissed at me. Sorry I’m not all sunshine and giggles and skipping around with joy.”

She closes her eyes and hangs her head. “I’m sorry, Darby. I didn’t mean … ”

“Forget it. Nobody does.”

“Come inside while I decide what to do with you.”

Surrendering this round, I brush past her and head for the entrance. I’d rather be where it’s warm. It makes listening to yet another person tell me how messed up I am a teeny tiny bit easier.

Shepherd escorts me to her office. We take our usual seats, her at her desk and me in the chair across from her. Some things don’t change, like me spending time in the principal’s office. I suppose going AWOL is as a Bad Girl thing, but wrecking my own paintings shouldn’t count against me. They’re mine. I could argue it’s a new part of my creative process.

I sit quietly while Shepherd calls Mom at work, right there in front of me. She must want to be an open book like Shaw.

Shepherd gives Mom the run down super quick. The call lasts less than five minutes. “Your mom is on her way.”

“Is she pissed?”

She folds her hands on top of her desk. “I think she’s more at a loss as to what to do with you.”

“I’m hopeless.”

“I wish you wouldn’t make such disparaging comments about yourself.”

“It is what it is.”

“Through a tainted lens.”

“So I’m not seeing clearly.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Sounded that way to me.”

Shepherd exhales, then attacks her keyboard with her fingers. Probably writing a nice summary for my file. The corner of her mouth pulls into a smirk as she types. Yep, whatever she’s working on is definitely about me.

Darby Fox, human sandpaper. I slide deeper into the seat. The only person I don’t piss off is Adam.

He’s immune to me, like Daniel was. I wonder if it’s because he has Daniel’s heart, if something like that is even possible.

The question is: Can I be immune to myself?

Adam

I’m perfectly fine, but Mum makes me stay home the next day. I veg on the couch while she conferences with Dr. Jervis. By the end of all her fretting, Jervis has deemed me stable, although promises to call in a script of antibiotics just in case I swallowed some demon bacteria along with the pond scum. It’ll pair nicely with my cocktail of anti-virals and immunosuppressants. A trifecta of rejection and infection killing pills that blasts my stomach to bits each time I send a volley down my throat.

Mum rounds out her agenda by calling Dr. Shaw. I end up with an emergency session.

Anyone with half a brain wouldn’t have walked out on that ice and now I get to explain my stupidity to Shaw.

Although the sun shines bright and the late autumn air is uncharacteristically warm, I’m freezing in my layers of a long-sleeved t-shirt, hoodie, and vest. Seems the frigid pond water has infused every cell in my body.

Mum drives us to my appointment early. We sit in the car park for twenty minutes before starting the slow march to Shaw’s office. She hooks her arm through mine. To others, it must seem like we’re close, but I know the truth—she doesn’t want me running off. Perhaps she’s afraid I’ll find another pond and dive in face first.

Shaw is standing by her receptionist’s desk. She greets Mum openly. While Mum pays the fee, Shaw turns her steely gaze on me. Always assessing. Always keeping me on my toes.

I bet she won’t have a cup of coffee for me today.

“Lisa, why don’t you join us for a few minutes?” Shaw escorts us into her office. She drags her rolling desk chair to the pair of armchairs in front of her bookshelves and sits.

Mum crowds me toward the farther chair and takes a seat. “Thank you so much for squeezing Adam in. He scared the bejesus out of me yesterday.”

“It was an accident,” I say.

Shaw raises a hand to shush me. “Tell me what happened, Lisa.”

I can’t help but interject. “Didn’t you discuss it over the phone?”

“I think you need to hear your mother’s side here, in a therapeutic environment, so we can process it together,” Shaw says.

Surprise, surprise, she shot me down. Mentally, I fold in on myself like Origami paper. Larry from
The Razor’s Edge
faced opposition and he overcame it. I have to hold onto the fact that I can too.

I think.

Mum gives her version of what happened, which includes her panic about me not being in the house and then finding me soaking wet and gasping for air near the pond’s edge. She fills the middle of her tale with her all-night vigil and frantic call to Dr. Jervis this morning. She wraps up with my utter lack of concern about my own wellbeing. At every turn of her story, her voice goes up a notch and peaks to a stringy pitch by the end. Poor Mum. I’ve put her through the wringer.

“Your turn, Adam.” Shaw laces her fingers in her lap. She lifts her chin, scrutinizing me.

Bollocks. “It’s been so long since I’ve been able to do anything, I just wanted to
move
. Feel my legs swing, feel my feet pounding the earth—”

“Walk across thin ice?” Mum’s voice reaches a breaking point. She shifts in her seat.

“I didn’t think it’d break.” I answer in a soft voice.

“No, you didn’t think.”

Dr. Shaw hands Mum a box of tissues. “Lisa, tell Adam how you felt when you saw him on the ground.”

“I was terrified. I thought he tried to kill himself. After everything we’ve been through,
he’s
been through, he’s really giving up.” She snags a tissue from the box and dabs at her eyes. “Things were supposed to be better, not worse.”

Shaw slides her gaze to me. “Your mother doesn’t want you to die.”

I shoot to my feet. “I don’t want to die either!”

Shaw lifts her chin. “Your actions don’t support what you’re saying.”

I stalk to the window. “Then why’d I crawl back to shore?”

“The instinct to survive is powerful. People often panic during an attempt, but sometimes the will to live happens too late. You were lucky.”

“How many times do I have to say I’m not actively plotting my death?”

“There are other concerning behaviors.”

“Such as?”

“I see you haven’t brought your pillow and you’re not wearing a mask.”

“Bloody hell,” I murmur. My pillow is neatly packed in my rolling suitcase and I haven’t worn a mask since school yesterday. “I forgot.”

“I was going to tell him to wear it, but I thought you should see what he’s doing.” Mum oh so conveniently throws me under the bus. Fan-freaking-tastic.

“You’ve made up your minds, then, so what do you want me to do?” I ask.

Mum blows her nose. “He needs another medication. The anti-depressant isn’t working enough.”

“Perhaps you’re right, Lisa.” Shaw fetches a pill bottle from her mahogany cabinet. She hands it to Mum. “Methylphenidate Hydrochloride. It’s usually prescribed for ADHD, but it can also be used to augment anti-depressants, and it can work quickly. Considering yesterday’s scare, I’d say time is of utmost importance and it’s a good thing I have these samples. Lisa, give him three tablets every morning.”

“Yes, doctor.” Mum holds the bottle like it’s her salvation.

“What will it do to me?” I eye the thing, my new adversary.

“If you’re so worried about the pill’s effects, why don’t you take a dose here and I can observe you for an hour or two? You and your Mum can sit in the waiting room.”

I’d rather not.

“Good idea,” Mum says.

Shaw walks to the door. “Hang on a minute. I’ll get some water.”

She reappears a few minutes later. “Here you go.” She offers me a paper cup of water and a smile.

With both of them watching, I swallow a pill and chase it down with the entire cup of water and a prayer.

Mum tucks the bottle into her purse. “What happens if this doesn’t work?”

“We may have to consider psychiatric hospitalization.”

As the new medication dissolves into my system, so does my newfound freedom and new life, evaporated by Mum’s worries and Shaw’s dictates.

* * *

My heart pounds in my chest, thumping away as if it’s running for its life. No matter how much deep breathing exercises or how still I try to lie in bed, it keeps racing. These unsteady arrhythmias were supposed to be a thing of the past, something buried with my old heart.

It has to be the medicine. I’d Google it, but the last time I did that Shaw argued her way out of it and Mum didn’t believe me. Besides, refusing to take it will earn me a one-way ticket to the psych ward.

I launch out of bed, hyped on whatever the bloody hell is in this pill. I pace the floor, cringing at every creek and moan of the hardwoods. It’s half past two in the morning, so Mum and Dad are asleep, but I’m sure Mum’s got her ear trained on me. I could sneeze and she’d be at my door.

I spin around the four walls of my room. My new prison.

“It’s alright, Adam. Just calm down,” I say.

My heart pounds harder, laughing at me.
It’s not okay
, it says. Poor thing wants to escape too.

I dash to my dormer window and unlock it. The seal groans a bit when I lift it. Cool air streaks in. I take in giant lungfuls of it.

I dig around my closet for a torch—flashlight as Americans call them—and train the beam on the oak tree. The trunk bifurcates half way up. One long, thick arm leans toward my window. On windy nights, its smaller branches strike the pane. Little talons scratching for entry.

None are thick enough to hold my weight.

I track the torch beam along the roof edge. The pitch isn’t too steep. I can walk on it, no problem.

Charged on adrenaline, I yank on trainers and a pullover, and make like a tightrope walker. The torch is my spotlight and the night my audience. I make it to the top, then straddle the peak. Larry would be proud.

Ambient light from the nearby city washes the eastern sky in a peachy glow. It’s a false sunrise. I’d love to watch the real one. With Darby.

I click off the torch and scratch the back of my head with it. What would she think of me treading on the ice? She’d probably laugh or call me an idiot. It wouldn’t be a judgmental laugh though and I doubt she’d accuse me of attempting suicide.

The chimney is a short butt slide away, so I scoot over to it. I shiver against the cold brick, tucking my hands in my sleeves.

While my heart freaks out in its nest made of lungs and vessels, I tip my head back and search the cosmos for answers. How many sleepless nights did Larry spend huddled on frozen mountain peaks, desperately trying to discover the meaning of life? The stars inspired him. They led him on a journey around the planet. Would my parents and Shaw be placated if I told them I wanted to travel, wander ancient ruins, seek guidance from the wise, and photograph the natural wonders of the world?

A slight twinkle peeks through the inky black above. It’s a star, inviting me to chat.

I extend my hand up toward it. “What am I supposed to do?”

It twinkles again. A steady whisper. A hiccup of light.

A figment of my imagination.

I close my eyes and lower my chin. Stars are volatile, fusion-fueled fireballs of energy—equally involved in bestowing life as they are at destroying it. Stars don’t have consciences or motivation. They just are.

Darby is like a star in her own way. She is who she is and however someone reacts to her is of no concern to her. Maybe I can take a cue from her and the trillions of suns making up our universe and forget about writing a Live Life List. I can just be. I don’t have to do anything grandiose to prove myself to Mum, Dad, or Shaw.

I can be me.

Whoever that happens to be.

Darby

Day two of home schooling. I’m already daydreaming of playing hooky, but skipping out when I’m the only student is a bit problematic. Mom set up the dining room as a home office for Dad and a classroom for me so Dad can make sure I didn’t blow off studying. Every so often, he glances at me over the edge of his laptop.