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“On depressed teens? Not really. ”
Tully got to her feet and crossed the room to stand in front of Marah. She reached up slowly, placed her palm against Marah’s cheek. “I have a lot of really great personality traits. I have a few flaws, I’ll admit—gaping holes in the fabric—but mostly I am an amazing person. I don’t judge people on anything except their actions, even when they do bad things; I know how hard it is to be human. The point is, I love you, and I’m not your mom or dad. It’s not my job to see that you grow up to be a smart, successful, well-adjusted adult. My job is to tell you stories about your mom when you’re ready and to love you no matter what. I’m supposed to say what your mother would say—when I can figure out what that would be. Usually I’m in the mud on that, but this time it’s easy. ” She smiled tenderly. “You’re hiding, baby girl. Behind dirty hair and baggy clothes. But I see you, and it’s time for you to come back to us. ”
Tully didn’t give Marah time to answer. Instead, she took Marah by the hand and led her down the hallway and through the master bedroom and into Tully’s huge walk-in closet (it used to be a bedroom—that was how big it was). There, Tully chose a white crinkly fitted blouse with a deep V-neck and lace around the collar. “You’re wearing this. ”
“Who cares?”
Tully ignored the comment and took the blouse off the hanger. “The sad thing is that I thought I was fat when I wore this blouse. Now I couldn’t button it. Here. ”
Marah yanked the blouse from Tully and went into the bathroom. She didn’t want Tully to see her scars; it was one thing to hear that Marah was a cutter. It was something else to see the web of white scars on her skin. The patterned white fabric was deceptive; it seemed to show skin, but there was a flesh-colored liner beneath. When she walked over to the mirror, Marah barely recognized herself. Her thinness was accentuated by the fitted blouse; it made her look fragile and feminine. The jeans hugged her slim hips. She felt strangely nervous as she walked back into the bedroom. Tully was right: Marah had been hiding, although she hadn’t known it. Now she felt exposed.
Tully pulled the elastic band from Marah’s long black hair, let it fall free. “You are gorgeous. Every boy in the meeting will be driven crazy by you. Trust me. ”
“Thanks. ”
“Not that we care what therapy boys think. I’m just saying. ”
“I’m a therapy girl,” she said quietly. “Crazy. ”
“You’re sad, not crazy. Sad makes sense. Come on, it’s time to go. ”
Marah followed Tully out of the condo and down to the lobby. Together they walked down First Street to the oldest part of the city. Pioneer Square. Tully came to a stop in front of a squat, blank-faced brick building that dated from before the Great Seattle Fire. “Do you want me to walk you inside?”
“Oh, my God. No. That guy with the eyeliner already thinks I’m Miss Suburbia. All I need is a chaperone. ”
“The guy from the waiting room? Edward Scissorhands? And I care what he thinks why?”
“I’m just saying it would be embarrassing. I’m eighteen years old. ”
“I get it. Okay. Maybe he’s Johnny Depp under all that makeup. ” Tully turned to her. “So, you know how to get back to my place? It’s eight blocks up First. The doorman’s name is Stanley. ”
Marah nodded. Her mother would never have let her be alone in this part of town after dark.
Slinging her fringed leather purse strap over her shoulder, Marah walked away. The building in front of her was like many of the early brick structures in Pioneer Square; the interior was dark and the hallway was narrow and windowless. A single lightbulb hung overhead, casting a meager light below. In the foyer, a huge board was cluttered with scraps of paper and notices for AA meetings, lost dogs, cars for sale, and the like.
Marah followed the stairs down into a vaguely musty-smelling basement.
At the closed door, upon which had been tacked a notice for TEEN GRIEF GROUP, she paused and almost turned around. Who the hell wanted to be a part of this group?
She opened the door and went inside.
It was a big room, fluorescently well lit, with a long table at one end that held a coffeemaker, cups, and what looked like a high school bake sale array of treats. Several metal chairs formed a large circle in the center of the room. A box of Kleenex was positioned on the floor by each chair.
Great.
There were already four kids here, seated in the chairs. Marah looked at the other … patients? participants? nutcases?… through the black hair falling in front of her eyes. There was a very large girl with pimply skin and greasy hair who was chewing so hard on her thumbnail she looked like an otter trying to open an oyster. Beside her was a girl so thin that if she turned sideways, she’d vanish. She had a bald spot on the side of her head. Next to her sat a girl dressed all in black, with magenta-colored hair and enough facial piercings to play tic-tac-toe. She slouched away from a plump boy in horn-rimmed glasses beside her who was playing with his phone.
Dr. Bloom sat in the circle, too, wearing fitted navy pants and a gray turtleneck. As neutral as Switzerland. Marah wasn’t fooled: there was nothing casual about the eagle-eyed way Dr. Bloom looked at her.
“We’re glad you could join us, Marah. Aren’t we, group?” Dr. Bloom said.
A few of the kids shrugged. Most didn’t bother to even look up.
Marah took a seat by the heavy girl. She had barely taken her place when the door creaked open and Paxton walked in. As before, he was dressed like a goth, in black jeans and unlaced boots and a poorly fitted black T-shirt. A tattoo of words snaked over the ridge of his collarbone and curled up his throat. Marah looked away quickly.
He sat down across from Marah, next to the girl with the magenta hair.
Marah waited to the count of fifty to look at him again.
