One Last Thing ✅

forty-four things

My appointment with Mrs. Feldmann is at 10:45, right after third period. Her door is closed, so I sit in the chair outside and watch the kids in the hall. There are only a few minutes before fourth period begins, but a group of girls clusters near the drinking fountain, exchanging frantic gossip in hushed tones. I watch a guy sneak up another and belch loudly in his ear, causing the offended dude to spin and tackle the first to the ground. They wrestle on the floor, grunting and laughing.

We're all just a bunch of animals, aren't we?

A bunch of beasts.

The door to Mrs. Feldmann's office opens, and a girl with red hair and an even brighter red nose comes out. It's clear that she was crying. I wonder what she's upset about. Problems with a boy? At home? Did she fail a math test? Is her world falling apart? For the first time, I don't find myself comparing my pain to hers, trying to one up her by focusing on my own tragedy. I'm just curious. I give her a little smile as she walks past, and the corners of her mouth turn up shakily in return.

Mrs. Feldmann appears in the door and looks expectantly my way. She's wearing a long, flowy skirt with sandals, even though it's almost October. I can see a faded tattoo on the plane of her foot... a flower of some sort, intricate, with purples and oranges and pinks. I wonder when she got it, if she was a teenager like me. Does she regret it? Or does she celebrate it because it's a piece of her past, a moment in time, one small part of all the things that add up to make her who she is?

"Hey, Lil, come on in."

I follow her into her office and sit down.

The last time I was here, I was so upset that I didn't really have time to consider my surroundings. But this time I sit back in my chair and take a moment to look around. Although Mrs. Feldmann's office is very small, it's comfortable. Cozy, I guess. There are bookshelves all across the back wall, packed with binders and books of every color and size.

Sitting on her desk are a couple of pictures of two small boys, probably not even in elementary school yet. They're adorable in that little kid way, with tiny toothy grins and ridiculously huge eyes.

What really gets my attention, though, is the monster pad of drawing paper and cups of crayons and pastels and colored pencils on the corner of her desk nearest me. I'm about to ask what they're for when Mrs. Feldmann, who has relaxed into her own chair, speaks.

"I understand we're to meet three times a week from now on," she says, folding her hands neatly on the desk. Her nails are painted a delicate lavender. I focus on them, hoping she won't explicitly state the reason I need to talk to her three times a week. I wish I had a magic eraser that could wipe everyone's memories clean of my selfish, terrible mistake.

"Yes," I say.

"I just want to make sure," she continues, twisting those purple-tipped fingers together, "that you've got plans to see a doctor. I am more than happy to help you, but I think it's very important that you try some medication. Talk therapy is great, but it's only a piece of the puzzle."

I talk to her manicure. "Yeah, Grams made an appointment with my pediatrician for after school." So weird, I think. I'm going to my arraignment next week, and I'm still seeing a kid's doctor.

I see Mrs. Feldmann nod somewhere above the purple nails.

"Good. That's what I was hoping to hear." She takes a deep breath. "So I think the best place to start would be for you to tell me what landed in the hospital the other night."

I give her a horrified look.

Really? She's going to make me say it?

"Isn't it obvious?"

She colors slightly. "I'm not talking about the method. I'm talking about the feelings that led up to your actions. What happened that triggered your destructive behavior?"

"Triggered?"

"A trigger is something that happens that causes you to feel something unpleasant... sadness, fear, anxiety, whatever. Usually when people harm themselves, it's to escape those emotions. It's a coping mechanism, but a very unhealthy one. What I'm interested in is what you experienced that made you feel so upset."

Thinking about that day makes me feel physically sick. I can see the test that Mrs. Edwards checked so clearly, her swirly, girly handwriting. I remember how it looked on the floor after I dropped it, and my heart starts beating faster. It becomes hard for me to breathe.

"I'm sorry," I gasp. "I don't think I can do this."

Mrs. Feldmann rises, comes to my side of the desk. She crouches down next to me, takes my hand. "Breathe, Lil. It's okay. Just breathe through it."

I force myself to take steady, long breaths, inhaling and exhaling slowly. When I've got my basic bodily functions under control, Mrs. Feldmann pats my back and returns to her side of the desk.

"I know this is hard, Lil, but you've got to find the strength to face these feelings. Otherwise they're going to take over your whole life. You don't want that, do you?"
I shake my head.

"Okay, then. Let's try again. Tell me about that day. We met earlier that day, and you seemed relatively okay. Did something happen after that?"

I lick my lips. "I went to English. There was a discussion. Mr. White had me stay after class."

"What did he want?" Mrs. Feldmann asks gently.

"He..." My voice cracks. "He had a paper for me. My Hamlet exam. Mrs. Edwards had already graded it." I lean forward and start crying, so hard, and it sucks because I realize just how much this fucking hurts and what an asshole I feel like because Mrs. Edwards she gave me a second chance and I fucked it up I fucked everything up she was such a nice lady and I fucked it all up—

Again, Mrs. Feldmann is beside me, this time holding my hand. "It's okay, Lil. Let it out. That's it. Let it all out."

It feels like an ocean coming out of me, a black tidal wave of misery. And now that I've given into it, it just won't stop.

"After that, I skipped school. I went on a walk, and I ended up at Mrs. Edwards's house. I don't even know how. Maybe it was a subconscious thing. But her daughter was in the yard, and she talked to me. She was so nice. Such a nice girl. She didn't know who I was. But then Mr. Edwards came out, and he definitely knew who I was. He told me to stay away. Just the way he said it... like I was the devil or something..."

I am babbling.

Mrs. Feldmann is stroking my hand gently. "It's okay. It's okay."

I take a deep breath. "So I went home, and that was it. I just wanted to be done. It was like I knew I screwed up so badly that there was no coming back."

Mrs. Feldmann's eyes are fixed on me. "Had you ever felt that way before?"

An image pops into my head.

A shoebox full of blue envelopes, tons of them, all unopened.

"Yes," I whisper.

"When?"

"Whenever I get a letter from my mother."