The Hard Truth About Sunshine(9)

"Almost like you became the parent," Mags observed. Barb let out a slight yawn beside me, and I had no clue if she was bored or just drowsy from drugs, but I kept my gaze on Jillian.

She shrugged. "I guess."

Connor pulled his hand from Jillian's shoulder, but I saw him give her another squeeze before doing so. "I have to do that with my parents sometimes. You know …  put on the brave, happy face so they don't worry about me being scared."

Parents could be an interesting dynamic in any family.

It seemed Jillian's were mired in grief and couldn't see past it.

Connor's parents, who admittedly were trying hard to make his remaining months as normal as could be, were forcing their kid to hide his true feelings because he loved them so much.

And my parents?

They were pieces of shit.

They came to visit me in the hospital one time when I got transferred from Landstuhl to Walter Reed. They took one look at me, and I could see the naked fear on their faces. Fear of a son on the verge of death with whom they weren't overly close to begin with. Fear of him dying, and, just as pronounced, fear of him living. I was sure I looked terrifying with tubes coming out of me all over the place. My mangled leg had been wrapped in heavy gauze oozing with blood because none of the surgeries to try to piece it back together were done overseas. My hand had been operated on to close the wounds after losing my last two fingers, and my ma had just fixated her stare there. She couldn't look at my leg or my face, but she could look at my bandaged hand.

They never came back after that.

Not for the entire thirteen months I was in the hospital and the rehab facility.

They sent cards, but I had the nurses throw them away without opening them.

Hank, my brother, had visited me a few times over the course of my recovery. He'd always say that Ma and Pa missed me, laying out every excuse in the book why they couldn't make the trip. But I knew those were all lies. They'd already written me off.

"Barb," Mags said loudly. From the corner of my eye, I could see Barb sort of jerk in her seat at being called out. For the most part, the two of us were left alone, but occasionally, Mags would try to force us to participate. "What do you think of that role reversal?

"What?" she asked aggressively.

"When the child has to take care of the parents," Mags prompted her.

"I think most people are douches and shouldn't be allowed to procreate," she'd said with a sneer.

Now that was interesting. Pretty much what I thought about my parents, but I hadn't voiced that out loud. Seemed like Barb and I had something in common besides a love of grass.

"Is that your experience?" Mags asked her very quietly …  almost like she was tentatively reaching out to a wild animal.

Barb's eyes glittered with hostility as she replied through gritted teeth. "You know it is."

I supposed that was true. Mags had all our files and the reasons we were in group therapy. She knew each of our backgrounds and used her knowledge to gently poke at the important stuff. Apparently, she decided to poke a bear that day.

"Why don't you share with us?" Mags bluntly suggested, all pretense at geniality swept aside.

Barb gave a shrill laugh. "What? You think sharing's going to make me feel better or something?"         

     



 

"It might," Mags offered.

Barb gave a bark of a laugh this time, full of skepticism and ire, and I half expected her to storm out of the room. To my surprise, though, she leaned forward in her chair and pinned her eyes hard onto Mags. Her voice went so quiet I had to strain to hear it, but the malice I heard caused a shudder to run up my spine.

"Fine," she said in that eerie voice. "You want me to talk about how my uncle abused me from the time I was about eleven until I was sixteen? How he would sneak into my room at night and just help himself to a little bit of Barb? Or would you rather me focus on the parental unit, because that was what you wanted to know originally, right?"

It was almost as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. This was the most Barb had ever spoken, and I could tell with a brief glance that Jillian and Connor were terrified at the prospect of what she might reveal. I was ghoulishly intrigued to know what her issues were and why she was in group. Only Mags seemed calm, and she just gave Barb an encouraging nod of her head.

"Well, my parents failed miserably to protect me," Barb murmured, but with no less hatred in her voice for them. "They refused to believe that dear Uncle James would ever do such a thing. After all, he was such an upstanding member of the community. And when they refused to believe me, I gave up on caring about anything."

"You're very angry at your parents," Mags said, sounding supportive to show Barb it was okay to feel that way.

No shit, Dick Tracy.

"I wasn't angry at them then," Barb admitted, her voice now losing some of the heat. "I was sad, and letdown, and completely alone. The anger came later."

"Would you like to share that?" Mags asked, skirting around what I thought was going to be even more of a bombshell than what Barb just laid on us.

Barb shrugged and got that bored look on her face. I recognized it for what it was …  her walls were going back up. To my surprise though, she went ahead and shared in a detached, impersonal tone. "One day, I came into the kitchen. My mom was laughing with my dad as she cooked dinner. They were sipping wine and gave me bright smiles when I came in. My mom asked how my day was, and I told her point blank I wanted to kill myself. You know what she said to me?"

"What did she say to you?" Mags asked to push her forward.

"She told me to stop being so dramatic," Barb choked out, almost as if she couldn't believe her mom had said those words. "So you know what I did?"

Mags just inclined her head, never letting her gaze waver from Barb. This conversation was really between the two of them, but Mags was very much aware that there were three other people listening intently.

"I picked up the butcher knife from the counter. My mom had just cut some onions with it, and I placed it on my wrist. I had every intention of showing my parents just how dramatic I could be."

I could see it happening as Barb laid it out for us. I'd thought there weren't any parents out there worse than mine, but I'd been wrong. At least mine had just slipped away quietly. Barb's had actually mocked her pain.

Her voice gentled, went almost childlike. "My mom told me to stop being a drama queen and to put the knife down. And I remember asking her in total disbelief, ‘You don't think I'm serious, do you?'

Barb stared hard at Mags but she was talking to all of us. "My mom just rolled her eyes at me and said, ‘I think you're just looking for attention.'"

She gave a half laugh, not really like she found humor at what her mother said, but almost in disbelief that a parent could be that heartless to their child who held a knife to their wrist.

"What did you do then?" Mags asked in a firmer tone than what she'd been using. I knew she could sense Barb slipping away and wanted her to finish what she started.

"I cut my motherfucking veins open and bled all over her pretty, white-tiled kitchen," Barb said gleefully, and I know it was a moment of deep vindication for her.

Jillian gasped, visible tears in her eyes. Mags gave Barb an encouraging smile, but Barb was done. She'd shared more than she'd ever intended, bringing up all sorts of feelings I was sure she'd rather kept deeply buried. With a quick heave out of her chair, Barb stomped out of the therapy room, slamming the door behind her. She didn't come back for the rest of the session.

Mags, Jillian, and Connor talked about what they'd just heard discussing ways they could be sensitive to Barb's issues when she returned. I quickly tuned that out because Barb hadn't said a damn thing that would make me treat her any differently. She was still a bitch, and yeah …  rightfully so, but the reasons for it weren't my concern. As I'd said …  got my own fucking problems.         

     



 

But I was quite fascinated with her suicide attempt. I wanted to ask her more about it-try to understand the depth of darkness she had to have been in to make that decision.

Because I'd thought about it quite a bit. Granted, I thought about it most when I was in the hospital and then rehab, but since then, I'd continued to consider the option.

Except I wouldn't use a knife.

I'd use a gun.

Single bullet to the side of my head was how I'd do it.





Chapter 8





Present day …

Since it seems I can't say no to Jillian, we're headed to Tulsa. It will end up adding more than a day. I figured that out quick enough when I pulled out the map after breakfast as Barb and Connor washed dishes.

My original plan had been to head due west from Louisville, straight through to St. Louis and into Kansas City. From there, the interstate went straight to Denver, our next big stop. It was the most direct route to the West Coast, and I chose it as the fastest way to get to our destination.

But now because Barb wants to piss on someone's grave-still not sure if that's a metaphorical pissing or a literal one-we're heading southwest toward Tulsa. When I looked at the space between Tulsa and Denver, I'd cursed out loud to see there was no real direct route to cut back northwest once Barb emptied her bladder. We'd either have to travel a little further southwest before cutting up to Denver, or we'd have to backtrack into Kansas. Either way, it would be another twelve hours of driving time.