Girls of Forlorn Summer

00 : Anatomy of Guilt

CHAPTER ZERO

ANATOMY OF GUILT

𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪

       I AM SMOKING IN MY bathtub at ten in the morning. I should be somewhere on campus, armed with formidable black coffee and turning in my Anatomy of Guilt essay—but I think my professor is a bit of a sadist.

       Why would anyone want to read nearly fifty essays about guilt in its sickest, saddest, most stifling form? Why would anyone think he could put himself through that?

       My guess is: he must not know what guilt is.

       He must not know the dangerous, ugly thing it is; how it ravishes a person slowly, steadily. He must not know that it leaves you choking, gasping, and regretting. Like you are someplace outside your life and you forced to replay the source of your guilt again and again. He must not know that sometimes, you have to rely on cigarette smoke to anchor you back to the ground, even if it smells bad.

       “Professor Radley, I’m afraid you know nothing.”

       In my imagination, my words sail all the way to him in an infinite bubble of smoke. In real life, they barely touch my bathroom ceiling.

       I’ll probably just soak in here all day—leave my skin to wrinkle and finish this cigarette packet.

       My phone buzzes, denting my plans.

       Dad.

       We spoke last yesterday morning. He’s been calling me a lot more often than before since Juliette died. Sometimes everyday. Sometimes two times a day. A part of me understands that it’s supposed to help us both—he’s only trying to salvage what’s left of August’s disaster, and make up for the fact that Mom can’t exactly call me anymore. But when he speaks to me, all I can think of is his eyes at the funeral. Liquid and blue and so desperately sad. And I don’t know if I’ll ever heal this way.

       “Hello, Dad,” I whisper.

       “Josephine.” The soft, tingling chirp of bluejays I hear in the background tells me he’s out on the patio. Still at home. No more week-long business trips for him. He has to take care of Mom. “How are you doing, honey?”

       I screw my eyes shut so I don’t have to see him again at the funeral, but I should have known that would only make it worse. I see him watch Juliette’s coffin lowered. Mom’s there, too. He’s holding her with a firm hand around her wrist, like he’s trying to anchor himself, or like he’s afraid she’ll leap into the ground with Juliette’s pale body. His eyes. His eyes.

       “Fine,” I croak.

       Taking a long, misguided drag of my cigarette, I don’t release the smoke fast enough and three solid coughs wreck my throat. My chest burns from it and Dad calls my name in alarm.

       “Jo, are you alright?”

       I wheeze, putting out the cigarette.

       “Yeah, just—there was something in the air.”

       Water sloshes loudly and spills over the edge of the bathtub as I stumble my way out. I’m lucky I don’t slip and crack my head open on something.

        “Josephine,” Dad draws out, and I can feel the grave weight of his concern from all the way here. Josephine, what is going on? Josephine, why aren’t you being careful? Josephine, when will you stop destroying yourself? For heaven’s sake, Josephine.

       “I’m alright, Dad. I promise.”

       The non-committal sound he makes tells me he’s in no way convinced. But he’s never been a pushy person, so he lets it end there.

       I wrap my bathrobe around myself and sit on the edge of the bathtub, cradling the phone against my ear. I’m thinking about Mom, and each time I ask him about her, I say: how is Mom doing? But it’s overdue that I said something different.

       “Is—” The words pinch to a halt as I struggle to phrase the question.

       “Yes, Josephine,” Dad urges.

       Just let it out anyhow.

       “Has Mom said anything to you yet?”

       I imagine him doing that reflexive thing he does where he tugs on his ear before he speaks. “No, not yet,” he tells me. “But she’s getting better. She took the dogs out for a walk yesterday evening.”

       The Golden Retrievers: Willow and Deanie. We’ve had them since I was thirteen, and Mom maybe loves them more than she loves me, and just a little less than she loved Juliette. It’s good news that she’s paying attention to them again.

       “That’s great, Dad.”

       “It is,” he agrees. He pauses for a moment and I know what he’s about to say. “Listen, Jo. It would be wonderful if you could come home this weekend. It’s Thanksgiving.”

       I haven’t been home since the funeral. I have been in this dainty apartment in all my maroon tears and chain-smoking glory, with the bulletbroof alibi of college.

       “I know you have school and work and your friends, but it would mean a lot to me,” he continues, hoping to convince me, “and to your mother.”

       I scoff. “Mom hates me.”

       He’s quick to defend the biggest piece of his heart. “Josephine, you know that’s not true.”

       Yes, I think. Hate isn’t the right word. When you hate a person, you’re furious or hurt or devasted. They’ve done something to you and you can’t forgive them. But what Mom has felt for me since what happened in August is—nothing. It literally is just that. A cold, languid lack of emotion where I am concerned. I’m dead to her, and I’m not the one who is even dead.

       “I’ll think about it, Dad—coming home.”

       It’s easier to say this than to explain that the last place Mom wants me is home.

       “Thank you, honey.”

       His gratitude twists something inside of me and if someday I write my Anatomy of Guilt essay, this moment will be a part of it.

       “I love you,” he says.

       This moment, too.

       I swallow the ball of tears welling up in my throat and hope he doesn’t notice brittleness in my voice. “Love you too, Dad.”