My father’s vicious stares go right through me. He sees it; the pain, the confusion.
“Good morning, dad.” I say, trying to avoid the words waiting on his tongue.
“Cut the crap, Emily.” He rolls his eyes. “What’s that?”
I follow his gaze, as it reaches further up my arm. I hide it behind my back.
“Look at me.” He snarls.
“It’s nothing serious. I… um, fell.” The white lies spill from my mouth.
“I don’t think falling would cause marks like that.”
“Well, maybe it did…” I reply slowly. “Seriously, it’s fine.”
His palm smashes against the kitchen table. I wince at the sound.
“EMILY. Look at me, and tell me the damn truth!” he grits his teeth.
I roll my eyes, feeling like I’m trapped in a six year-olds body.
“That’s it, young lady.” The dragon spits.
“What’re you going to do? Call my therapist?” I taunt lightly.
“Just watch me.”
I tiptoe into the living room, where I can still see him storming towards the telephone. He crushes the buttons so hard that I’m afraid it’ll break.
“Hello, Ms. Carlson? It’s Jerry Harrison. I’m calling to arrange an emergency appointment for Emily. She’s cutting herself to shreds and I’m afraid for her safety.”
He listens, and nods occasionally.
“Thank you. Tomorrow’s fine.” He clicks the END button and hangs up the receiver.
“You wouldn’t dare.” I hiss.
He glares back. “I just did, Emily.”
-------------------------------------------------------
“Thank you for agreeing to this meeting, Ms. Carlson.” Dad leans across the desk to shake the woman’s hand.
“Oh, it’s no problem.” Ms. Carlson replies, adjusting her glasses.
“I’ve really been considering putting Emily into some kind of home or something, until she’s better,” Dad says. “Her mother’s depression is clearly hereditary, and I’m also worried that her death has been triggering Emily.”
“Well, Mr. Harrison…” she begins. “She can easily be diagnosed with depression. And it is quite common for it to be passed along from an earlier generation.”
“Christine was never diagnosed… so I would appreciate it if you could run some testing on Emily,” He sniffles, “so she doesn’t end up like Christine.”
“Very well then, we can schedule testing before she’s admitted. Just to see if she meets the requirements of the institution.”
Her words open a fiord in my heart. Institution… tests… depression… hereditary.
“I… but…” My mouth is dry as a desert.
“Don’t worry, Emily.” The psychologist-doctor smiles warmly.
My father thanks her and guides my jelly-legs out of the room.
