Into the Velvet

The Excruciating Middle

Most people found my mother intimidating. Me included.

"Where's the nurse in charge?" was the first question out of her mouth as soon as she entered my room. Her face was set in its stern, worried lines. Mom had her hands poised on her hips like a superhero. That was what she was to me. I couldn't even delude myself into thinking she'd failed me. That she had done something wrong with me, or that my upbringing had somehow destined me to this place.

I could only shrug in response. I couldn't know where the nurse in charge was. Our worlds were removed.

My diary remained open in front of me — my practice had gained such traction that I was writing thousands of words a day. Soon I would need a new one. Whenever I lamented about this to Kathryn, she would do her quiet, secret smile.

She saw it as a hopeful sign.

Mom left my room like a lioness on the prowl. Dad hung around uncertainly by the doorway.

I spoke without looking at him. "You can come in if you'd like."

He cleared his throat and made his way inside. I felt a surprising ache at the sight of him — large and imposing as he always was, this solid presence in my life. Dad never talked much. He didn't emote or waste words when words weren't needed. He was the product of a generation that valued toughness and self-containment. Rejecting the over sharing of feelings.

But my father wasn't invincible anymore. His cropped ringlets were too grey against his dark skin, and he hunched much closer to the ground since he'd last visited. I watched him fold himself into the armchair that was too small, readjusting to get comfortable. Avoiding my stare.

"Hey, kid."

"Hi, Dad."

And then a long pause.

"Are they feeding you good in here?" he finally asked, breaking the pressing silence.

"Well, I'm eating," I replied. "Can't say it's good, though."

He made a quiet grunting noise. Affirmation. One of the many dad noises he used in substitute for human language.

I noticed how tired he looked. The hollows of his cheeks were once plump from home-cooked meals. Primed for toddler kisses. Now I couldn't even remember the last time I'd kissed him. Not since my admission.

My hands writhed and twisted in my lap. The only outward manifestation of my guilt. "Are you still getting hours at the warehouse?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I get as many as I need. No complaints. Work is work, Lula."

My old man, sounding so resigned to his fate. Faking his resolve. I bit my lip to keep from crying.

I'm sorry. I hate what I've done to you.

If he were Mom, she would've noticed my restless hands. She would've understood my unspoken distress and rolled her eyes at what she'd called my 'worry warts.'

"See? Right there — there's a worry wart on your chin. Now, stop that. Don't you waste time feeling guilty," she'd say. "Just get better! We're doing everything we can on our end so you can get the help you need. End of discussion."

But I couldn't help it. It constantly felt as though I had very real, very literal worry warts all over me. Running rampant along the outer layer of my skin — a perpetual itch that worsened when I scratched it.

Kathryn helped a little with the warts, but the meds helped even better. Though my medication only worked when I took them; and I was very good at undermining my health.