From Nicole’s journal:
Tuesday, 26 October-
Nye: “How do you feel about what Chrissie said?”
Me: “How would you feel if somebody accused you of burning yourself?”
Nye: “Have you ever wanted to hurt yourself?”
Me: “Have I ever wanted to hurt myself? No. Never. What possible motivation would I have? Do you really think I did this to myself?”
Nye sits there, reptilian in his stillness and as barren of warmth as the surface of the Moon, staring at me.
Nye: “You’re under a remarkable amount of pressure. You’re the go-to person for your peers. You’re deeply empathic. You assume a great deal of others’ pain and, by your own admission, internalize it. It would be understandable if you were feeling a need to let that pain bubble to the surface. Add to that your parents’ separation-”
Me: “Dr. Nye. I. Did not. Burn myself.”
Nye: “I believe you. My question was merely in regard to any inclination you might or might not have to injure yourself. If you ever do feel such an impulse-”
Me: “I don’t.”
He blinks. I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen him blink. I excuse myself to the bathroom to catch my breath.
Skype session w Dad weird. He keeps asking me about David. I can’t bring myself to tell him about David’s asking me to lie for him. Three times now, he has asked. Begged. I wanted to scream, “Nobody thinks you did it, Dave. You’re being paranoid. You have no motive. Relax.”
Lying on my bed, picking at a scab. I’m a drone, painkiller makes the blankets feel too heavy, except I’m not under the blankets. How many days of rain have we had? Everything is slowing down. Out the bay window the wind bends the trees down, down, the branches creaking without relief, a deepening growl in the air. The rain isn’t falling. It’s floating, but not in a benign way. I see individual drops. They’re bigger than I’d imagined, rounder, fine-milled buckshot.
All I used to think about was the future. It was bright, shiny. But after the burn, thinking about the future feels wrong in some way, an abstract sin. Is it bad to dream of myself as I was before? To dream I’m hanging with Jay and Emma and maybe Marisol and Sam, before I was The Girl Who Had Acid Thrown in Her Face; we’re all at the beach, playing volleyball, glittering waves, the faint taste of salt and smiling and no sunburn, no bandages, no being stuck for the rest of my life in my room, my bathroom, staring at It?
Staring at the donor site this past Saturday as the surgeon removes the stitches. Me: “Why are they purple?”
Doc shrugs as he tugs the stitches from my hip: “Why not?”
Mom glares at him.
Doc: “How’s the case going? Police any closer to finding out who did it to her?”
Mom slaps the examination table. “Could you not be so cavalier? You’re not rehashing the latest CSI episode at the watercooler. She’s right here in front of you. She’s right here. You will acknowledge my daughter’s presence, Doctor. Or else we’ll just have to get another surgeon. There are plenty of you out there, but there’s only one Nicole. And you will respect her. Are you clear on that?”
He takes a moment to let Mom’s words bleed into him. He studies me, then he really looks at me. “Nicole, I’m honored to be working on you. Your bravery inspires me. It truly does. I’m sorry, I meant I’m grateful to be working with you.”
Mom nods and wipes a tear from her cheek and tries to say thank you but the words are deep in her throat and come in a weak whisper.
The doctor doesn’t need to be grateful. How could one be grateful for having to deal with the Thing that lives on the left side of my face? All of the pretending. It’s dissolving me. Relying on her feels too easy but so good. Dead without her. Deadened without her smile. I’m so grateful. She winks at me. I try to wink back. She nods and mouths “I love you.”
Emma on the mend. Nothing else matters.