Patricia McCormick: Cut

“C’mon, S.T.,” Sydney whispers.

I pull at the hangnail. Words take shape in my brain, a few, then a flood; then they’re gone. I shake my head, a little at first, then harder, as I watch my hair swing from side to side.

“OK,” says Claire. “Debbie?”

Debbie’s arm brushes mine as she shifts in her chair.

There’s silence, then the sound of more talking next door, then more silence.

“Scared.”

I have to look out of the corner of my eye to make sure it’s Debbie talking.

“Debbie,” says Claire. “What is it you’re afraid of?”

Debbie wrings her shirt in her hands. I don’t move. “You’re all going to be mad at me.”

“Why do you think that?” says Claire.

Debbie shrugs. Her arm brushes mine again; it’s soft and pillowy. I relax my grip a little.

“Debbie,” Claire says in a gentle voice. “Can you look at me a minute?” We all look at her. “Why would we be angry with you?”

Debbie twists her shirt into a knot. “I should’ve tried to stop her.”

People shift in their seats. Someone across the room coughs. Then nothing.

Tara raises her hand finally. “You couldn’t have known what she was doing.”

“I should have.” Debbie looks around the group. “I know that’s what you all think. I know you all hate me. You hate me for not taking care of Becca. I know it.”

No one says anything.

Debbie plows her fists into her thighs. “It’s not fair I try to do what people want. At home, I do all the things no one else wants to do. I sort the recyclables, I clean the litter box, I do the wash…”

There’s a long silence.

“Why?” says Sydney. Her voice is soft, curious.

Debbie shrugs.

“Why do you do things people don’t even ask you to?”

Debbie shakes her head. “I don’t know.” She sounds exhausted. “I really don’t.” She sighs a long, tired sigh; when she’s finished the room is quiet again. She sinks back into her chair, her arm resting against mine. I don’t move away.

“It’s not your fault.”

The words come out of my mouth. I aim them at my lap. But they’re for Debbie. From me.

I can hear people squirming in their chairs. Then the room is quiet again. I peer out from under my hair and take in the circle of feet. Everyone is wearing sneakers, except Amanda, who has on combat boots.

Debbie turns to look at me. “What did you say?” she whispers.

“It’s not your fault,” I say. “About Becca.”

I keep my eyes on Amanda’s boots; her legs are crossed and she’s swinging her foot up and down.

“It’s mine.”

Amanda stops swinging her foot.

“I…” My voice gives out. I clear my throat. “I saw her…One time I saw her put her brownie in a napkin. And in the bathroom, I knew she was throwing up.”

I lean back in my chair, feeling trembly and very, very tired. The silence is long and loud with things people aren’t saying. I can’t stand to look up and see their faces. To see how angry they are.

Footsteps echo in the hallway. They get louder and louder, then faint, then fainter, then they trail away.

“Hey, S.T.,” Sydney says finally.

I don’t budge.

She nudges me with her elbow. “You want to know something?”

I still can’t look up. But I nod.

“It’s not your fault, either.” She says this like it’s no big deal. Like it’s nothing.

But it’s everything.

Group is over then and people are standing, gathering up their books, heading to their appointments. I keep my head down, grip the edge of my chair, and hold on like my life depends on it. I don’t know what just happened in here, but I can’t leave.

“S.T.?” It’s Sydney’s voice. “You coming?”

She’s standing in front of me. Debbie’s there, too. And Tara And Claire. A semicircle of feet.

A weird strangling sound starts in my chest, then comes out my mouth. I’m crying—sobbing, actually, and gulping for air. I wipe my eyes; the feet are still there. But the crying won’t stop. I’m shaking and trying not to shake, but it’s no good. I can’t stop. Claire says something about going to get help.

Finally, a pair of white shoes pushes through the semicircle. Ruby’s there, rubbing my back, saying, “There, there, baby. It’s all right. It’s going to be all right.”

Then you’re standing there, in your little fabric shoes, saying the same thing, that it’s all right now.

You shut your door; I notice that it’s getting dark outside and wonder if you’d be home walking your dog or making your dinner right now if I hadn’t freaked out.

“Can you tell me what upset you so much in Group?”

I shrug. “Debbie.” It’s all I can say.

“How did Debbie upset you?”

“No.” I blow my nose. “Debbie didn’t do anything. I…she…” I rip the tissue in two and start again. “She thought it was her fault. About Becca.”

I don’t dare to look at you.

“I thought it was my fault,” I whisper.

I glance at you, then away. You look worried.

“I think everything’s my fault.”

“What else is your fault?”

“I don’t know. Everything. Sam.”

“Sam?”

“It’s my fault he’s sick. Which means it’s my fault my mom’s not the same anymore and my fault my dad’s not around. It’s all my fault.”

“Callie.” Your voice is gentle. “How can all those things be your fault?”

“I don’t know. They just are.”

“How is it your fault that Sam is sick?”

“I made him cry? I got him upset?” I’ve always taken this for granted; as I say it out loud, though, it sounds stupid.

“Callie, I’m a doctor,” you say. “If I tell you that a person doesn’t get asthma from crying, from being upset, will you believe me?”

I shrug.

“Asthma is a kind of allergic reaction. People can develop it when they come in contact with certain substances, like pollen or dust. Sometimes a viral infection can trigger an attack. But you can’t give asthma to someone. The allergic response is already in their system.”

The fog is clouding my mind again. What you’re saying sounds like something from biology class; it doesn’t have anything to do with me or Sam or my mom being scared all the time and my dad being gone all the time. I look for the rabbit on the ceiling but can’t quite find him.

“Has anyone told you all these things are your fault?” you interrupt.

“No one has to. I just know.”

“Does anyone punish you for these things?”

I shake my head.

“No one?”

I look up at you. You still look concerned.

“What about you? Aren’t you punishing yourself? By hurting yourself?”

I don’t understand. “No.”

“Then why do you think you cut yourself?”

“I don’t know.” I tear the tissue to shreds. “It just happens. I can’t help it.”

You furrow your brow.

“I know it’s bad,” I say. “I guess I do it because I’m…bad.”

“How are you bad?”

“I don’t know. I just feel like I’m this bad person.”

“What have you done that’s so bad?”

“I don’t know.” As soon as I say it, I know it’s the truest thing I’ve ever said. “I really don’t know.”

You look pleased and say that’s enough for one day.

Right before dinner there’s always a crowd of people on the smoking porch. As I go past, Sydney taps on the glass door. I stop and watch as she gestures for me to come out. Before I can decide what to do, she grinds out her cigarette and comes in to get me.

“C’mon, S.T.,” she says, grabbing my arm. “Come outside with us.”

I pull my sleeve down over my thumb and follow, trying to match her big strides as her ponytail bobs up and down in front of me.