Psycho Bitch: A Love Story

  Taking a deep breath, I opened the album, paging through the first quarter of the book before I reached what I was looking for. Every single page before was filled with Helen. This is where my personal family record began. The day I was brought home from the hospital.

  I have no idea who took the photo because both my parents are in it. They are sitting on the couch; my sister Helen is in my mother's lap. I am in a bassinet, my face contorted with tears, the family cat lies by my side.

  I flipped through, fast forwarding through more images of Helen smiling with her presents, grinning in my father's lap, or playing with toys as she cavorts in the wonderland that was her playroom.

  I stopped at the next image of me. I am alone, maybe four or five years old. The ocean is behind me in the distance. I stand on a bench, red faced and crying.

  I snorted as I stroked my enraged face. This is what my memory lane is paved with. Images of unease and pain captured for posterity rather than comforted.

  There I am crying as I run from my sister who is chasing me, her own face is almost crazy with glee. I look terrified.

  There I am screaming, tears running down a face swollen and blistered with chicken pox, holding my arms outstretched toward the photographer.

  And so it continues, each and every image of me is full of pain or distress. They are sprinkled through the fairy tale of my sister's life like piles of dog shit hidden in grass.

  Eventually, I reached an image where I was not crying. It was the final image of me to appear in the album. The remaining pictures documented Helen's entré into adulthood.

  I considered the young woman in this photo dispassionately. She sits on one end of the living room sofa, dressed in pajamas. It's clearly Christmas as the bough of a decorated pine tree is showing in one corner of the photo and opened presents and wrapping paper are strewn around the floor. Well, Helen's are. The young woman has three neatly stacked, and fully wrapped presents sitting at her feet as she waits for permission to open them. She doesn't look into the camera so much as she looks through it.

  There is no pain on her face. No tears. No anger. She is blank.

  In the span of a heartbeat I was unable to breathe. My chest locked and I was gasping. My heart raced. I felt it pounding under my ribs as if I'd just sprinted an entire marathon. The room spun and I was going to pass out. I was hyperventilating, but I couldn't control my lungs. I couldn't draw in the necessary air. My skin felt hypersensitive and the trickle of sweat running down my side felt more like a full on torrent.

  I gasped and gasped. My vision grew dark and I felt wetness on my cheeks long before a foul stench captured my attention. The incongruity served as a focal point. A single pinpoint for my consciousness to lock onto.

  The darkness receded. Or rather, it focused and became the blue-gray face of my canine love, Hugo, as he licked my tears and nuzzled me. He gently butted me with his dewy nose.

  I threw my arms around his neck and breathed in his swamp breath and doggy scent. He needed a bath. I laughed then and buried my face in his ruff drawing a deep, deep breath of canine funk. This was real. Hugo smelling of grass and dirt from rolling in the park, giving me the unconditional love I had always needed and never knew it.

  The girl in those photos was—

  Well, she wasn't gone. She was under my skin waiting to tackle me with the rage she had sublimated years ago rather than continue to allow her parents to indulge their pleasure at her pain.

  Now, I understood why Dr. Scribens had given me the task he had set me.

  Setting the album aside, I went to get the implements I needed. It was time to do my homework.

  * * *

  The drive out of the city was a long one. Only eight miles separated College Park, Maryland from Washington, DC, but the traffic turned a trip that in normal conditions might take half an hour into something closer to two. I had prepared for that possibility. Rather, than use the car sharing service, I had pleaded with Louis to let me borrow his car.

  He drove a tough bargain. In return for use of his quite gorgeous, restored 1967 Mustang, I had to wash and vacuum it. He had almost refused to let me take Hugo with me. I'd had to cover the front seat with a blanket and strap Hugo in (which I would have done anyway, but I was doing it for safety, Louis was only thinking of dog hair). I'd agreed to every condition. For what I was about to do, I wanted Hugo with me.

  It was a beautiful day and I had the windows down, letting the late fall afternoon flow in the breeze. Louis' car was true to the original so that meant FM radio, but that was okay. I had Mix 107.3 cranking out pop hits and was singing along in my best effort not to think about what I had to do.

  I'd finished only half of Dr. Scribens’s assignment. This particular road trip was my own little twist. I didn't have to leave my apartment to do my assignment, but I felt that it was needed to ensure I left nothing undone.

  I'd just crossed into Maryland when I stopped at a Hallmark store in Langley Park. I needed just a few more items to make this trip complete. I left Hugo in the car with the window cracked. He left me a slobbery window to clean.

  Once back under way, I'd expected my nerves to set in, but they hadn't. After the night before, I'd expected more panic attacks, more flashbacks. But, despite being completely worn out from my journey into the past, I'd had a restful night and woke feeling refreshed.

  All morning, I had been waiting for some recurrence. Some PTSD-like episode akin to the night before. So far, nothing. I was still tense. I wasn't out of the woods yet. I still had Dr. Scribens’s last task to complete.

  I clicked on my blinker and turned off the idyllic two-lane highway into the George Washington Memorial Cemetery. A tide of memory swirled in my brain. Good or bad ones depending on your perspective. For me, they were good. I used to ride my bike or walk to this cemetery several times a week as a child. I would amble among the tombstones imagining the lives of the souls at rest.

  There was a pond in the middle of the cemetery where Canadian Geese would come during their migrations and I would feed and observe them. Some people found the dead creepy, I'd always felt most at home among them. The dead couldn't hurt you. It was the living you had to be wary of.

  I wended my way through to the back of the cemetery until I found what I was looking for. Parking the car off to the side so that I wasn't blocking the road, I gathered up the items I needed and leashed Hugo. Together we set off through the grass and flower strewn memorial of familial love.

  I walked past them twice before I finally noticed my parents’ graves. It was clear that no one had been here in quite a long time. My sister, in her infinite grace, had decided that my parents would want matching markers. To translate her Helen-speak, Mom hadn't wanted to spend a dime more than she needed to on my father's headstone when he died so she could spend his money on herself, and Helen didn't want to spend a dime more than she needed to because what money there was left belonged to her now.

  So, both of my parents had ended up with basic markers in the grass with nothing more than their names and dates. Personally, I found that quite apropos. I'd expected some theatrical extravagance on Helen's part. She was nothing if not inclined to put on appearances. But, I'd underestimated her selfishness.

  It was one of the few times she wasn't a hypocrite in her entire life. It also appeared that her lack of hypocrisy extended to caring for the grave, as well. The grass was overgrown and covering the markers. Weeds dotted the lawn, as well. At best, their graves got mowed along with the rest, but they received no special care like some did.

  Having found them, I made my preparations. I tied the two helium balloons I'd purchased at the Hallmark store to Hugo's collar so they wouldn't fly away until I was ready for them too. I directed Hugo into a down-stay, something he'd become quite adept at in our obedience classes with Gloria. He settled himself down, put his huge head on his paws, and watched me with canine curiosity.

  I placed the large, cast iron skillet my grandmother
bequeathed me on the ground between the two graves. Grams taught me to make cornbread with that skillet, and even though I rarely used it, I'd always kept it seasoned and ready to use. I'd brought it with me today because it was the only thing I owned that I felt certain could withstand what I was about to do.

  Next, I pulled out my homework and placed it beside me. Then, I took out the stack of photographs that I'd extracted from the album. The album itself I boxed and mailed to Helen before I left the city. Those were her memories. My keeping the physical record of them wouldn't change that and, frankly, I didn't want them any longer.

  Sitting cross-legged in the grass next to Hugo, I took out the few remaining items I needed, laying each one within easy reach. I sat still for several moments, letting the autumn breeze ruffle my hair while listening to the sounds around me; the traffic from the road, the birds, squirrels, and insects.

  People spoke of cemeteries as silent places. I had always found them to be alive in their own way. I took comfort in that now as I mentally prepared myself for one more trip down this particular path of memory.

  When I was as ready as I was going to be, I took up the pages I'd written the night before and began to read aloud. My voice was clear and calm—strong even—as I read. I continued without stopping until I reached the last word.

  I shed no tears. All my weeping had occurred in the composition. There were no emotional surprises for me today. I was quite proud of my composure.

  As my voice faded into the wind. I set the pages in the skillet, reached for the lighter, and lit them. They smoked and crackled, a tiny orange-blue flame eating my words. I fed the photographs to the flames one-by-one; beginning with the day I came home from the hospital and continuing until I reached that sad, destroyed woman with no soul in her eyes.

  I watched them scorch and melt and felt no sense of vengeance. No "fuck you" satisfaction. And no relief either. They simply ceased to exist. That was enough.

  What I felt was calm certainty that my life was finally my own. Those bits of pain no longer existed. The people who'd inflicted that pain were either dead or long gone from my life. The physical record of those years needed to join them. That it lived in my brain was more than enough.

  When the fire was out, I scraped the ashes into a plastic zip bag and stuffed that into the envelope I'd brought along for the occasion. I strung the ribbons from the balloons through a hole I punched in one corner.

  With no hesitation, I released the balloons with their gaudy designs and stenciled messages of "For Mom" and "For Dad" into the air. As tempted as I was to watch until they faded from sight, I didn't. I'd given enough time to the past. Gathering up my grandmother's skillet, I took up Hugo's leash, strapped him back into the passenger seat, and headed home.

  Just as I approached the exit, I saw her in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were hazel like mine though her family had tried to convince her they were brown. Her face that she'd always believed was horsey because that's what her mother had always said even though, Helen, her twin in every way except for the brown eyes, had always been told she was beautiful.

  Throwing the car into park, I met her eyes in the mirror thinking I'm sorry that took so long for me to do. Her blank stare never wavered as she melted and dissolved until all I saw was me.

  A soft woof from Hugo, snapped me back to my surroundings, and, grinning, I put the car in gear, pushed hard on the accelerator and whooped as I let the fading sun guide me home. Hugo barked his pleasure right along with me.

  * * *

  Mother,

  Were it not for the fact that my psychologist had directed me to write this letter, I would not spare you the time it takes to compose this. You made my life a living hell. You were the single most toxic person I have ever had the misfortune to come into contact with.

  Tell me how a woman can give birth to twins and yet treat one like a stranger while cherishing the other? Tell me how you can tell one of those twins how ugly they were while extolling the beauty of the other twin? We looked exactly the same except for our eyes! People could only tell us apart because of that, so how was I ugly?

  How could you know you were having twins and yet not have two names prepared? You left me unnamed for ten days. The doctor named me, not you, not Father. Had the law not required a name for me, I think you would have been content to leave me Baby W.

  My hands are shaking as I write this, but I'll have you know, Mother, it is not because of pain. It is fury and rage. I want you to feel the hatred and pain you inflicted. I want you to know how you made me suffer. How you made me question my value. How you made me wish I had never been born.

  Your death should have been a relief, but I see now that I repressed all this. Thanks again, to you, Mother. We weren't allowed to show the world our true face. I was required to act the part of the dutiful daughter. You were all too happy to take credit for my accomplishments while giving me nothing in the way of support, encouragement, or love.

  Know this, Mother. After this letter, I will leave you exactly where you are … rotting. I will not spare you a single thought. I will do the thing I have failed to do for the entirety of my life … I will live.

  No longer yours,

  Charlotte

  * * *

  Father,

  I've had to ask myself why my anger for you is substantially less than for Mother. While my rage and pain over her behavior has been a dormant volcano waiting to explode, my anger at you has been more like a pot boiling, able to do damage, but contained.

  You were no less toxic than Mother, but you were more passive about it. You simply ignored me and let her do as she wished. In many ways, I was glad you ignored me because when you finally turned your attention my way, it was only to humiliate me.

  I see now, that your indifference was as damaging as Mother's hatred in its own way. The single greatest betrayal you ever committed was the day I asked you for help and your answer to me was, "Why should I put myself out for you?" I asked you for $100 to buy a suit for my first job interview. I made it plain I would pay you back, because we all know you give nothing for free. I still remember the single dollar you bitched and whined about until I gave it back to you. Why should you have put yourself out for me? Because I was your fucking daughter! That should have been enough. You should have loved me enough.

  But, like Mother, you never loved me at all. I was a vessel for all your hate and your indifference while Helen was treated like a cherished treasure. I'll never know why you felt the way you did. Your suicide and Mother's death have robbed me of my answers.

  But, like Mother, I intend to make this the last time I spare you a thought. I see no reason why I should put myself out for you any longer.

  No longer yours,

  Charlotte

  8. Rejection Hurts

  I STARED AT MY LAPTOP as if my sheer willpower could change what I saw. It was now a full week since I had sent Henry my invitation and I had not received a response. It was taking everything I possessed not to fall apart at the seams.

  I shouldn't have been surprised. This was the story of my life. Whenever I opened myself up, whenever I reached out to someone and showed them my true self, they rejected me. Henry doing nothing more than what I expected, so this hurt was unnecessary.

  It was nothing more than affirmation of why I didn't give in to hope. This is what hoping gets you … slammed right back down in a heap on the floor sniveling like a fool.

  So what if he was the same as everyone else? So what if he disappointed me? I was stupid for thinking he could be different.

  Stop, Charlotte. Honestly, I couldn't muster my usual indignation and self-righteousness. Henry didn't owe me anything. It wasn't his fault that I had made poor decisions. It wasn't his fault I had treated myself like trash rather than proving to myself, if no one else, that I had value.

  He was well within his rights to choose not to associate with me in light of my past. It hurt, but it was his prerogative.

  At that
moment, it hit me. I wasn't going to hear from him again. No more coffees. No more lunches. No more rainbow mail.

  The last was more than my small store of dignity could handle. I cracked, sinking back into the loveseat, my head lolling on my neck as I wept. Was this what grief felt like? This utter desolation at losing something you treasured?

  Why was my heart tearing in half over someone whom I had never even been more than friends with? I felt like my entire body was ripping wide open and each cell vibrated with anguish.

  I cried ugly tears, but couldn't seem to bring it under control. He didn't want me. That much was plain. What hadn't been plain was how much I wanted him. Until this moment, I had not realized that Henry had become embedded in my heart.

  I had been taking it slow with him because his power to hurt me was that much greater than G or Rosa. I trusted him and I had wanted to know if he could be trusted with the thing I had never given another person in my life … my heart.

  Only Hugo had my love. I cared for G and Rosa and even Louis. It was love in a sense. I saw how I protected them from the uglier parts of myself because it was important to treat them with respect. I wanted them to be happy. I wanted to be worth the regard they gave me, too. But, it was more sisterly.

  With Henry, it was deeper. Or, at least, it had the potential to be. But, no more.

  I let the tears flow, doing nothing to stop them. In true canine fashion, Hugo climbed up next to me and began licking my tears away. I think dogs are genetically programmed to comfort their human. Why else would it be such a universal trait among them? If so, I had to give God props for that.

  But, for once, I didn't want to feel better. I wanted to feel every moment of grief for a relationship that could have been special. I always packed my feelings away. Locked the hurt and pain in tight little boxes, never to acknowledge it again.

  If Dr. Scribens’s homework had taught me anything, it was that I needed to stop doing that. I needed to acknowledge when I hurt and let myself feel it. No one had told me it would feel like dying, though.