Out of My Mind (7 page)

I sigh and fantasize about being Mrs. Dr. Greg Hoffman, not that he’s ever mentioned being a doctor but I’m sure he could be. I close my eyes and clutch the notes to my chest. We’re at a hospital fundraiser and they’re honoring my wonderful husband for his good work. Everyone applauds. He smiles and kisses my cheek as I stand beside him beaming with pride. My hair is long, blond and perfect. My make-up is perfect; everything is perfect…

Suddenly I’m the doe, frozen in the middle of the street. It’s winter. I can see my breath. Moonlight reflects off a glint of steel as a shadow hunts me from the forest. The roar of a car engine grows louder from below. My heart pounds with fear. I have to move, do something before—

I gasp and sit up. It’s pitch black and for a second I don’t know where I am, or even who I am. Wait, it’s coming. I’m Catherine, the miracle girl who survived a skull-crushing collision with the pavement.

Whipping my head around, I struggle to see something familiar. My heart beats frantically against my chest. I am terrified in my own house, in my own bed.
Get a grip, Catherine
.
You’re just disoriented
.

My clock radio reads six thirty. I must have fallen asleep. Dinner will be ready soon. Or is it six-thirty in the morning and it’s time to get up for school?

I switch on my bedside lamp. Papers are scattered across my purple comforter. Homework, right, I was looking over Greg’s notes and must have fallen asleep.

I pick them up. Can’t make sense of them. I grow frustrated. Words can be challenging for me on a good day. Words written in illegible handwriting is hopeless.

I pull J.D.’s bag out of my backpack. I lay his notes on the bed, pull out the beanie and rub it against my cheek. Then I slip the beanie onto my head and feel instantly better. I don’t know why.

I climb off the bed and study myself in the full-length mirror. I wonder what the kids would think of this version of the perfect Catherine Westfield. Then I wonder, did I even like being perfect?

I admire the girl staring back at me. She seems confident and determined, and not afraid to say what’s on her mind. She doesn’t take crap from anyone, not her friends, not her parents. This girl would walk into the school office and demand a new note-taker, someone who could write past the fourth grade level, someone who could organize the critical points of the lessons.

Does J.D. even write in complete sentences? I flop back onto my bed and glance at his notes.

His handwriting is surprisingly neat and he’s drawn pictures in the margins, a timeline of sorts. There’s a drawing of a person sewing a dress with a circle around it and a line slashed diagonally across the circle. Beside it is a drawing of a machine spitting out the same dress. Next on the continuum are ships and trains and the words, “steam power fueled by coal” followed by a drawing of a man shoveling coal into a train’s boiler.

So…the power of steam makes the trains move and the coal makes the steam power. The fog lifts. I’m getting it.

Thanks to J.D.

I jump off the bed and pace around my room. Sure, I want to excel in my classes and prove to everyone I’m worthy of AP track. But not with J.D.’s help. I don’t want to depend on him or be grateful to him.

For anything.

Then I have an idea. I’ll accept notes from both J.D. and Greg and pretend to use Greg’s. No one has to know the truth: without J.D.’s help I’ll likely fail all my classes.

“Damn him.” I race out of my room, aiming for the kitchen and a chocolate chip cookie. Halfway down the stairs I stop short at the sound of Mom and Dad fighting. Their angry voices echo down the hall from the kitchen. I sit on the stairs and listen.

“How could you let that happen?” Dad accuses.

“I didn’t. It was a misunderstanding.”

“Hasn’t she suffered enough? Haven’t we suffered?”

“Adam, keep your voice down.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” he shouts.

I grip the wooden spindles of our banister with white-knuckled fingers. I don’t remember Dad ever sounding like this, so angry, so desperate.

“Sweetheart, it’s not my fault. It’s not your fault,” Mom soothes.

“Stop saying that. It’s
his
fault. That kid should be locked up. It’s bad enough he lives across the street, but now he’s her note taker?”

“I’ll call the school first thing tomorrow,” Mom offers.

A door creaks open, then slams shut.

“Please put that away,” Mom says, her voice trembling.

A snapping sound makes my shoulders jerk. I’ve heard that sound before. Prickly shivers crawl down my spine.

“I’m going to put an end to this,” Dad says in a deep, threatening voice.

Footsteps pound down the hall and I can see Dad as he approaches the door…

Gripping a shotgun in his left hand.

“Adam, stop acting crazy,” Mom says. “Shooting that boy isn’t going to change anything.”

Dad spins around and glares at her. “I’m not going to shoot him. I’m going to scare him the crap out of him. I’m going to tell him to stay the hell away from my girl.”

Mom shoulders her way to the door, blocking him from leaving. “You’ll be arrested and thrown in jail.”

“Get out of my way.”

“Honey, think about this.”

“I have. I’m protecting my family for once. Now, move!”

This is my fault. They’re fighting because of me. Dad will threaten J.D., the cops will arrest him, and he’ll go to jail.

Because of me.

“Daddy?” I stand, my fingernails digging into the wood railing.

Dad freezes, his hand on the doorknob. It’s scary quiet and I think he might ignore me. Instead, he slowly turns.

An angry, feral sheen sparks in his eyes. They look like J.D.’s dad’s eyes in the HULU. But my dad is not abusive or mean. He’s the guy who taught me to ride a bike and made me feel better when Boomer my guinea pig died when I was ten. He’s a gentle, caring man. I remember this, deep down.

Yet he stands at our front door ready to shoot J.D. Pratt. I have to stop him.

“Can you help me with History?” I ask.

No one moves. Ticking from the hallway clock echoes off the wood floor. I hold my breath and swallow back my panic, hoping the voice of his fragile daughter will cut through the rage blinding my father.

I shift my gaze to the wall beside his face, fearing a dad HULU. I can’t handle that right now.

“I…” he whispers. “I was pretty good at History.”

“That makes one of us.” I smile.

Mom slips the gun from his fingers. “Dinner’s ready.”

I come down the stairs and with each step Dad edges toward me. He’s been distant since the accident. I used to think he was uncomfortable being around his brain-damaged daughter.

Now I think it might be something else: guilt.

“What’s for dinner?” I ask.

“Tater Tot casserole,” Mom says, locking dad’s gun in the hall closet.

Dad motions me to follow Mom into the kitchen. He doesn’t make eye contact. I sense he’s ashamed, embarrassed.

He shouldn’t be. None of this is his fault.

We politely take our seats at the kitchen table, pretending Dad didn’t just storm through the house wielding a loaded shotgun.

“It’s so nice to have everyone home for dinner.” Mom’s voice is still tight as she puts the casserole on the table. “Usually you’re studying with friends and Dad has meetings.”

Dad glances at me and forces a strained smile. Understandable. I just witnessed his meltdown. Maybe I should have one of my own so he doesn’t feel so alone.

“Well, what did I forget?” Hands on her hips, Mom eyes the table.

“Looks good to me,” I offer.

Tipping her head slightly, Mom snatches the beanie off my head. I’d forgotten I had it on. I self-consciously finger my blond butch hair.

“No hats at the table.” She places it on the counter.

I fight the urge to get up and grab it.

My silly beanie. My security blanket.

Mom joins us and interlaces her fingers. She never used to pray before meals, and only went to church on Christmas and Easter. Now she goes every Sunday.

Dad bows his head. Mom whispers a few prayers and says, “Thank you for the blessing of our lovely daughter, healthy and happy. Amen.”

As she scoops Tater Tot casserole onto our plates, she makes small talk about her craft group making sweaters for orphans, and the new pet store going into our local shopping center.

I glance at Dad, who listens intently. It’s good to have him home for dinner but I wish he’d talk more and not look so depressed all the time.

He misses the old me. I can tell. Suddenly I feel like I’ve failed him somehow. I struggle against self-recrimination and make myself a promise: I’ll make him proud again.

I reach for the water pitcher and notice that my glass is full. I forgot I’d refilled it. Mom smiles, that sad,
my poor baby
smile.

I wish I didn’t feel like a jigsaw puzzle with a few missing pieces. I wish I could remember doing things five minutes after I did them.

“Let me get your meds.” Mom goes to the counter and grabs my pill dispenser.

I’m down to three types of medication twice a day. Not bad. Someday I hope to be drug-free. Ironic considering what many of my peers are into these days.

We briefly discuss my note-taker issue. Mom claims it was a miscommunication and promises to fix it. I can tell Dad is getting worked up just thinking about J.D. being anywhere near me, so I change the subject.

My cell vibrates with a Taylor text. She and Andrea are doing the mall again. I text her that I can’t go tonight because I’ve got a family thing.

In reality I need to stay home. I need quiet time.

“Who’s that?” Mom asks, nodding at my phone.

I shove it into my pocket. “Taylor, asking if I want to go to the mall.”

“What mall?” Dad freezes, a forkful of tot casserole halfway to his mouth.

I shrug. “Probably Bell Square, I don’t know.”

He drops his fork to his plate. “No. Absolutely not.”

“But—”

“I said you’re not going!”

I break eye contact and stare at my food.

“Did you hear me?” he says.

I don’t answer. I don’t remember him yelling at me before. I’m not sure what he wants me to say.

“Catherine!” he shouts.

I snap my attention to him. “It’s not my ears that are broken, Dad.”

“Catherine,” Mom hushes. “Don’t talk to your father that way.”

“Why is he yelling at me? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You’re not going to the mall. End of conversation.” Dad makes a slashing motion with his hand.

Something explodes in my chest. “What’s the big deal? I’m seventeen and my friends want to hang out. Stop smothering me!” I push back from the table and race out of the kitchen.

Here we go again.
  Run, run, run, girl
. I need to get away from the frustration that’s burying me like a truck dumping dirt onto a grave. I can’t breathe. Need air.

“Catherine!” Mom calls, her shoes tapping against the hardwood floor behind me.

“I need to walk.” I whip open the front door.

“Wait a second, okay?”

I step onto our porch and she’s right behind me. I hesitate, tears stinging my eyes. I hate crying. It makes me feel weak and utterly broken.

Mom shuts the door and joins me on the porch.

“He loves you and he’s worried,” she says.

I fist my hand to control my temper. “It’s just the mall.”

Mom glances across the street, her eyes pausing on J.D.’s house. She sighs and refocuses on a cedar tree in our front yard.

“Remember when you planted that tree with Daddy?”

“Yeah.” I was a little girl and we called it my magic tree. We measured it every month for a while.

“He’ll always think of you as his little girl.”

“I know, but—”

“Honey, he’s upset because another girl was assaulted at the mall last night,” Mom interrupts. “They haven’t caught the mugger and your dad feels helpless in so many ways. Just, humor him, okay? Stay away from Bell Square at night until they find the guy?”

I nod, the meaning of her words tearing at my conscience. It’s not what I think, right?

“Who was the girl?” I ask with a trembling voice.

“A clerk at one of the stores.”

“Is she my age?”

“No, I think a few years older. She works at that store with the funny name.”

“Zumiez?”

“Yes, that’s it. ”

The Tater Tot casserole churns in my stomach. “I need to walk.”

“What about dinner?”

“I’m full.”

“Okay, but don’t be long.” She kisses the top of my head and goes into the house, shutting the door with a click.

I practically sprint off the porch. As I motor down the sidewalk I wrap my arms around my stomach to ease the burn.

Was it Goth girl? Was she mugged just like in my HULU? If it
was
her, that means…

No, my brain was replaying things I’d heard, or read about, or seen on the news. It was just a coincidence.

Keep telling yourself that, Catherine
.

I’m more determined than ever to stop the spells. I don’t want to “see” things, like J.D. Pratt being beaten by his father or my mom committing me.

I walk faster, pushing back the anxiety coiling in my chest. Yesterday I had a HULU of Mom completely losing it because she and Dad had to sign something at the hospital. Was I imagining the past, the day I was rushed to the hospital after the accident?

Or was I seeing the future? Were they admitting me to a psych ward?

Suddenly I feel ashamed. I’m so worried about myself I forget about Goth girl. I had a vision of her being stalked in the garage and last night it sounds like she was attacked.

Maybe if I’d said something…

No, it’s an illusion, my wacky brain making stuff up. There’s a movie like that, about a guy with a brain tumor being able to do remarkable things.

But I’m not remarkable. I’m broken and confused and want to be better, back to normal. Instead, I’m mindlessly wandering my neighborhood. Tears blur my vision. Here I am again.

So damned scared.

I cross the street and glance up.

Into the glare of blinding headlights.