Undertow (22 page)

“You?”
Could he really think that?
“Jim, you’re the only one who kept me from the ledge so long. It’s like you’re a sanity blanket or something.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

It hadn’t take him long to return to normal. Now, if she just could, too. “Aren’t you a little worried about having a crazy girlfriend?”

“Nah. Just so long as you’re crazy for
me.
I know I’m crazy for you.”

Forty minutes later, after he filled her in on the latest campus news, Marissa hung up, elated. How many years had it been since her world felt so right? Maybe her doctors were right, she thought. Maybe she
was
lucky.

“He seemed decent.” Her mother gestured with her wine glass, filled for the third time since dinner an hour earlier. Her other hand rested on the closed door. Jim had just left for Corvallis to make his Monday morning classes, but he waited as long as possible, delaying the unavoidable parting. “Maybe you can keep this one around for a while.”

Marissa fought the impulse to slap her mother and thought,
why bother?
It wasn’t like her mother could help herself. Then something inside her shifted, like gears clicking together, and she faced her mother.

“You are such a bitch when you drink, Mom. What did
I
do?”

Her mother sputtered and stepped away from the door. “I didn’t mean anything, Mari.” She took a big swallow from the glass and walked to the island to top it off from a half-empty bottle of Merlot. “I’m sure it’s not
your
fault they keep leaving.”

“
Keep leaving
? As in Drake?” Her shock turned to rage. “Are you serious, Mom?
One
guy left. Just one guy. And
he
was a cheating jerk. You think his behavior was
my
fault?”

“It takes two to tango, that’s all I’m saying.”

She squeezed her eyes shut to block the tears and the familiar shame, just as she’d done all those years ago each time her door cracked open and the dim light from the hall entered her room briefly before the door softly closed.

She counts the seconds it takes for him to traverse the distance to her bed again. Marissa forces her breath into the even rhythm of sleep as Gilbert’s hand strokes down the length of her back until it finds its way between her thighs again. She bites into her pillow to keep from screaming and stays still, still like a corpse and waits for him to finish.

One night her mother’s voice intrudes. “Marissa?”

Light floods the room. Gilbert leaps from the bed and darts past her mother, paralyzed in the doorway. He crashes into her father, who blocks his escape.

 “Gil?” her father said. He looked confused. “What the . . .?”

Gilbert swings back and points at Marissa. “Ask her.”

Her mother’s hand flies up to her mouth and her face is pale as she stares at Marissa. Her father grabs Gilbert’s thick forearm and lands a punch with his other fist. He drags his brother into the hall and Marissa’s mother follows, slamming the door behind her.

In the hallway, she hears the three adults shouting over each other.

“You bastard!”

“How could you?”

“Get out before I call the cops!”

“She’s just a little girl, for Christ’s sake!”

 Marissa rocks on the bed in a sea of harsh light, and drowns.

Marissa turned back to look into her mother’s eyes, rimmed red from too much wine. She dropped her voice into a deep hush and said, “No. No, mother. It does
not
take two to tango. Sometimes, it only takes one person to fuck things up. It wasn’t my fault. Stop blaming me!”

Her mother blinked at her. “I wasn’t blaming you, Mari. I just meant . . .”

“I know what you
meant
, Mom. I must have done something to bring it on myself, right? Like with Gilbert?”

She gasped. “Don’t . . . .”

“I was eleven years old, Mother.
Eleven
for God’s sake! He was what, thirty-four?”

Her mother was silent. Tears spilled down her cheeks and her mouth kept opening and closing like a fish pulled from its watery home. She pressed her lips tight. “We didn’t blame you, Mari.”

“Dad certainly did. Remember? Of course you do—you were standing right there! ‘She’s such a flirt these days, flaunting herself and acting like a teenager. You know Gil’s having such a tough time lately.’ Like it was my growing up that drove the fucking pervert to molest me. You didn’t contradict Dad, did you?”

“Stop it! Mari, just stop that. Now!” Her mother stumbled toward her. “It’s not how you remember it, sweetie.” She wiped her cheek, smearing blush and mascara across her face. She looked like a zombie.

“You blame
me
for everything. How you and dad split up because of me, because of Gilbert. How you had to work so hard after that. How you had to move us into this crappy condo. How it was my fault Bethany died. How you drank because of me.” Like a vicious cougar, Marissa circled her prey, relishing each wound her claws inflicted. “I ruined your life, didn’t I, Mom? And you hate me for it. Right?”

Reeling, her mother collapsed to the floor and sobbed. She peered up at Marissa, her eyes imploring. “No, Mari. You’re so wrong about that. I don’t blame you for all that. Nobody blames you for any of what happened.”

“Well, maybe
I
should blame
you.
You and Dad. What do you think about that?” Marissa spat. “Maybe I hate
you
for ruining
my
life. You two let Uncle Gil crash at the house, kept him in the beer and whiskey.
Dad’s
the one who left. He still hates me for his brother going to jail.” She stared down at her mother, curled on the floor like a child, covering her face as she wept, and fought a fresh wave of repulsion. “And
you
. You’re the one who wasn’t watching when Bethany drowned. Then you spent every night drowning yourself in a bottle. I lost
everything
, Mom.  My sister, my dad, my mom, my home. I lost my whole life. My whole self.
I’m
the victim, Mom.”

Spent, she hovered over her mother, fists raised. Tears erupted through her rage and she began trembling uncontrollably.

Her mother lifted her chin toward Marissa. The years of pain filled her eyes. “Yes, Mari. You
were
a victim. We all were.”

After all these years, all this terror she’d gone through, and that’s what her mother had to say?
Seriously?
Did her mother really believe that
she
was as much a victim as Marissa? If she truly was a victim, then it was her own doing, Marissa decided. Unlike herself, her mother was able to choose her own course back then. Could still choose.

And now so could she. She’d been trapped in hell for years. Now that she was grown, could she choose to set herself free?

Marissa’s wrath drained away into a pit of exhaustion. All she wanted to do was lie down and drown in an abyss where these horrible memories would cease stalking her forever. But she’d tried that before. Now, there was no merman to rescue her. She’d have to do it herself.

As she shuffled down the hall, she heard her mother’s weak voice call after her: “. . . I am so sorry, Mari.”

Thirty-one

“W
ill I go crazy again?”

The fear gripped her last night, after she finally found the courage to read the notebook she’d left behind that day. Inside, her scribbling told of mythical sea-beings and conspiracies to keep these hidden from the world—and of a merman who rescued her from the sea. Her memories of the encounter were fading but the notebook was proof positive she had been insane.

Dr. Leopold held the evidence in her hands. She examined its pages without giving any outward indication that she found it bizarre. After leafing through the notebook, she asked a single question: “Does this all seem strange to you now?”

“Uh—yeah!” Marissa spent the night tossing and turning; she probably hadn’t slept more than two hours. If this could happen once, if her mind could simply pack up one day and go away on holiday, what would prevent it from happening again?

The woman shrugged her elegant shoulders. “Much of it depends on you. If you stay healthy, take your medication, keep your stress at manageable levels, there is every reason to hope that you may avoid another psychotic episode.”

“But no guarantees, right?”

“No, I’m afraid not. But you shouldn’t give up hope, Marissa. Many people remain free of symptoms for years.”

“By staying stress-free?” She groaned. What an impossible task. Going back to school, dealing with her mother, trying to keep things going with Jim; if she had to avoid anything stressful, she was doomed. “How can anybody pull off a life like that? Sit and drink tea in their living room all day?”

The psychologist laughed. “You learn your limits. Like someone who has a bad knee. They learn when it’s time to back off and take it easy. They hike for shorter periods, for example, rest the knee when the pain flares up.” She smiled at her. “Marissa, you aren’t alone in this struggle. Millions of us share your condition. We work hard to stay balanced, and we lean on others when we feel overwhelmed.”

Marissa stared at her for a moment, thinking about what she meant.
Millions of us?
“You?”

“Yes, me.”

“How did you ever make it through grad school? That’s got to top the stress scale.”

She laughed. “One day at a time. I won’t say it was easy. I had to let other things go. Pace myself.”

Maybe her disease was less of a life sentence without parole than she thought. Something suddenly occurred to her. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Men? Is that part of what you let go?” Noticing Dr. Leopold’s bare ring finger, she said, “Marriage? Babies? Does this . . . condition . . . get passed on?”

The therapist sighed and looked down at her hands for a moment before answering. “
Disease
. Yes, this disease may be inherited by your children.
May
be
.
There’s about a twenty percent chance of that occurring. And you also have to consider the medications you are taking.”

Marissa squeezed her hands together to keep them from trembling.

“But that is a choice you will have to make for yourself, Marissa. I chose not to marry, and not to have children, but I did not make those choices because of this disease.” Dr. Leopold gazed at a photograph on her desk; in it, a handsome man stood beside her on the bridge at Multnomah Falls. The upper waterfall formed a liquid backdrop for the smiling couple. She turned back to face Marissa. “I decided to devote myself to my career and didn’t think I could do justice to a marriage, too,” she said. “You could say that I chose to put myself first. Other women decide differently.”

Marissa was only slightly satisfied with the psychologist’s answer. It seemed like she was handing her a flashlight and pointing toward a dark tunnel instead of just giving her a map.

“The key thing is for you to do whatever you can to keep your stress low. Put yourself first, Marissa; take care of your own needs, then you can help others. Sometimes we women try to carry the load for everybody.”