Until the Ribbon Breaks, page 1
Until the Ribbon Breaks
Copyright © 2023 E.K. Blair
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Editor: AW Editing
Cover Artist: Anna Havaska Sváb
Cover Designer: E.K. Blair
Interior Designer: Champagne Book Design
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Epilogue
Resources
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Acknowledgements
To my younger self
HARLOW
“Her worry comes in fractions; you know that.”
“Better in fractions than not at all, right?”
My eyes drift to the window to spare him having to see them roll. The mist collects on the glass in a similar way misery collects in my soul. It’s never-ending, much like the clouds that hardly spare us their presence. I miss the sun at times, among other things. I’d rather be at the Sound than stuck here in this banal office that has already claimed too much of my time.
When I turn back to Dr. Amberg, my psychiatrist, he’s staring at me with his legs crossed and his notepad resting in his lap. He’s an older man with peppered hair and wire-framed glasses with small round lenses. They look funny on him.
I scan the room, which is void of any kind of decoration. The hours I’ve spent in here have been countless, yet with each passing week, this office remains just as desolate as it was the first time I walked into it. “Why have you never decorated?” I ask. “How long has this been your office?”
He fiddles with his pencil as he thinks for a moment. “Around eight years, I suppose.”
“And you’ve never hung a single picture? Not even your college diplomas? Are you even a real doctor?”
“I never got around to framing them.”
“Are they not important?”
“Not as important as my patients. So, why don’t we get back to you?”
“There’s nothing to get back to because there’s nothing to talk about.”
“Your mother is worried.”
“What’s new?” I scoff.
“What would you say if I told you that I was worried?”
“I don’t want to hurt myself,” I defend on the veins of irritation.
“I wasn’t insinuating that you did.”
I don’t believe him. Everyone who knows about my incident uses it as a reason to treat me differently, as if I can’t be trusted, as if I’m malfunctioned, as if I’m a ticking time bomb. It makes it impossible to forget—not that I want to forget, I only want them to forget.
“Triggers have a way up popping up when we least expect them, and sometimes, if we aren’t paying attention, we can miss them,” he adds.
“I’m not triggered.”
“And what about when you hurt yourself?”
Nervously, I clasp my hands together. I think about that day often. There was nothing alluring about it—it wasn’t a fantasy about to be fulfilled—even though, in a way, it was. When the attempt happened, it was all a blur.
Maybe I should tell him that.
If it weren’t so hard to open up about it, maybe I would be able to be honest with him.
I want to feel better, there’s no doubt, but I’m scared and embarrassed.
Information creates power that I fear could be used against me. This is why I’m selective with what I share with Dr. Amberg in these weekly sessions.
He means well. I’ve actually come to like him since I first met him at Hopewell, but it isn’t enough for me to trust him entirely, and he knows it. It’s been seven months since I was admitted to his facility, and even now that I’m back home, I still find it extremely difficult to talk about that day.
After setting his pencil and notepad on the small table beside him, he folds his hands together on top of his legs. “What happened with you is never an easy thing to talk about.”
His eyes linger on me, and I know he’s trying to read me, trying to find the crack in my façade. I want so badly to be fixed, but that would require me to open up and be transparent, to expose the depths of my sadness buried inside.
“How have you been sleeping?”
My hands itch to move, to fidget, to pick the last pieces of polish off my nails. I take a slow blink, conjure a little courage, and make the conscience decision to answer his question truthfully. “Restless. I’ve been having nightmares.”
“What’s happening in those dreams?”
“I’m outside of my body, watching myself in the bathroom.” I pinch my eyes shut when the visions become too clear. Behind my lids, tears drip like acid, their presence burning the back of my tongue as they fall inside me.
“Can you tell me what you see?”
Turning my head, I look out the window again. “Disappointment.”
“With what you intended to happen or with what actually happened?”
“Neither.” He doesn’t press forward with another question, and when I shift my eyes back to him, I give him one more truth before our hour is up, saying, “Disappointment with who I am.”
After leaving therapy, I need to clear my head, so I drive to my favorite spot along the Sound.
Gray blankets the city as I walk across the damp parking lot. Soggy petals from cherry blossoms cover the pavement. It’s blooming season—March—and yet, so many of the pink flowers have already found death. They stick to the bottoms of my shoes. The lot ends, and I take the old wooden stairs down to the vacant beach. Patches of puddles have formed in the densely packed sand—I walk right through them before settling on a large piece of driftwood. I shrug my backpack off my shoulders and pull out my notebook. The ever-present Washington mist speckles the page I started working on yesterday, but not enough to ruin the paper.
A gust of wind whips through my long, auburn hair, and I flip the hood of my raincoat over my head to keep the unruly locks tamed. I then grab my pencil, inhale a lungful of salty air, and allow the sound of lead against fibrous paper to lull me.
This notebook started about six months ago when I needed something to keep my hands occupied. I often feel restless, as if there’s a constant hum in my body that rarely subsides.
It began in middle school, not long after my father announced that his job at Boeing was transferring him to the Renton office. I was so upset because I knew the promotion meant he would be traveling overseas most weeks out of the year, leaving me with my mom. I begged him not to take the job, but he accepted it anyway. His absence has increased over the past few years and so has the tension between my mother and me. But here, in the dank chill along the Puget Sound, I’m able to forget the stress at home and relax. My pencil skitters across the page and, without breaking my flow, I drag my pinky along the lines to smooth them out. I have pages filled with drawings, poetry, and sporadic journal entries.
Time is illusive as I become hyperfocused. It isn’t until the sheet is filled with my feelings that I tuck it back into my bag. This spiral notebook is my only outlet where I can be utterly honest. It’s my release.
I grab my cell phone and note the time. My dad’s plane should’ve landed an hour ago. I haven’t seen him in almost two weeks. I also haven’t talked to my mother since I left for school earlier this morning, but it isn’t surprising that she hasn’t called or texted to ask my whereabouts. Lately, she swings on the pendulum of being overbearing or completely disconnected. It drives me crazy not knowing which of the two I’m getting from one day to the next.
She swings whereas I stand still. I’m annoyed when she’s too busy to notice me, and I’m annoyed when she’s breathing down my neck. It would prob ably take a cataclysmic act for her to find a happy medium.
Slinging my backpack over my shoulders, I head to my car.
From the Sound, I drive along the winding road, which is flanked by tall lush trees that canopy overhead. I’ve always loved this drive. It’s peaceful and not littered with the city’s traffic—at least not this time of year. When summertime hits, these roads will be clogged with locals and tourists alike, anxious to soak up the sunshine before the rain returns.
When I make it home, my dad is already here. The exterior lights illuminate the two-story house that’s surrounded by towering pines, giving the illusion that we’re tucked far away from civilization. In reality, our neighbors are just around the corner.
“Harlow?” my mom calls from the kitchen when I walk through the front door. “Is that you?”
“Yeah.”
“Dinner will be ready in five minutes.”
The smell of garlic and basil fills the air, and after tossing my bag by the foot of the stairs, I make my way into the kitchen to find my parents.
My father is pouring my mom a glass of wine while she stirs the pot of spaghetti sauce. “Hey, sweetheart,” he says as we both walk toward each other. He gathers me into his arms, hugging me tightly. “I’ve missed you.”
“Missed you too, Dad.”
We have always had a special bond, one I’ve never felt with my mother. He and I don’t talk as much as we used to, but if I had it my way, I would choose for my mother to be gone so my father wouldn’t ever have to leave. It isn’t that I hate my mom or anything. I mean . . . she’s my mom. We just fight and butt heads a lot.
“Where have you been?” she questions as I grab a soda from the fridge.
I pop the tab. “At the Sound.”
Silently, the two of them move about until dinner has been plated, served, and we are all sitting at the dining table.
My dad passes me a piece of garlic bread. “So, how’s school been going?”
“The usual . . . boring.”
My mother shakes her head as she stabs her fork into her salad.
“And the newspaper?” he questions.
“I think I have all my stuff in order for the next edition, but I’ll be staying after school more until everything is ready to submit.” I take a bite of the warm bread. “People are already arguing over the layout design.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, dear.”
I drop my breadstick and turn back to Dad when he asks, “Did you get some good photos this year?”
“Uh-huh.”
My father bought me my first camera when I was a little girl. It was a cheap one we found at a souvenir shop when we were at Disney World. I took photos of anything and everything. It sparked my love for photography, and I’ve found comfort behind the lens ever since.
“Emily came into the flower shop this afternoon with her boyfriend to pick out a corsage and boutonniere for the spring formal,” my mother says. “He seems nice.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I mutter while I twirl my fork in the pile of spaghetti on my plate.
Emily and I used to be inseparable when we were younger, but once middle school ended and high school began, we sort of went our separate ways.
“Has anyone asked you to the dance yet?”
Noodles dangle off the prongs of my fork when I stop mid-bite. “Seriously?” I snide. “Those dances are lame.”
“How would you know? You’ve never been.”
“Mom. Stop.”
Her need for me to fit in and be okay—whatever okay is—is annoying. Her idea of how I should spend my high school years drastically contradicts mine, but she doesn’t get it.
“I just worry that you’re going to look back one day and regret not being more involved.”
“Let it go, Jamie,” my dad tells her gently.
“I’m serious. You should be enjoying yourself and going to dances.”
“I’m fine,” I exhaust. “I swear we have this same conversation every few days. Can we just drop it?”
She looks at my dad for backup, but he defends me instead. “I agree. Let’s drop it. If she says she’s fine, then that’s all that matters.”
But I know my mom, and after a minute of silence passes, she can’t help herself. “I’m just worried, Harlow.”
I drop my fork, and it clanks loudly against the plate as I shove my chair back and stand.
“Harlow, stop.”
“Why don’t you stop, Mom?”
“Harlow,” my father warns.
“She does this all the time, Dad. You’re always gone, so you don’t see it, but it’s literally all the time.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” she murmurs before taking a sip of her wine. “I just think it would be healthy for you if you got out more and made some friends. You’re always alone.”
Heat crawls up my neck, and I cross my arms defensively as I stare down at my uneaten plate of spaghetti.
“Why do you have to be so hard on her?”
“That’s easy for you to say, Jonathan. You’re never even here, and with the little time that you are, you act as if you’re the parental expert,” she snaps at my dad while I shut down. “I think I know our daughter a little better than you do.”
“That’s a low blow. I work my ass off to provide for our family.”
“I work too! I’ve built that flower shop from the ground up. You have no idea about the stress of owning your own business. I only wish I could fly all over the world like you get to.”
“You act like I’m on vacation.”
“You pretty much are while I’m stuck here. I never get a break, unlike you.”
They continue to sling their words back and forth, each jab fueling the next. They don’t even notice when I turn and stomp up the stairs.
Slamming my bedroom door behind me, I toss my backpack onto the floor and pull out my cell phone. I sit at my desk, lean back in my chair, and text my brother.
Me: Please tell me you’re coming home for spring break.
Tyler is four years older than I am and away at college on the east coast. Lucky him for getting out of here. When he told me he was going to college in North Carolina, I was upset. I had hoped he would go to school somewhere around here. The last thing I wanted was to be left here alone. Not that we are incredibly close or anything like that. To him, I’m probably just his annoying little sister. But to me, he’s someone who I can actually talk to—more like complain to.
Tyler: Sorry. I’m actually going down to Florida with a few friends.
Me: Dad just got home and the two of them are already fighting. I wish I could go to Florida with you.
Tyler: You only have one year left. Have you started thinking about what colleges you want to apply to?
Me: Yeah. Ones that are far away from Mom.
Tyler: Try to go easy on her. You know she just worries about you. We all do.
I hate when they say that. I hate that they all know what I did when they have the privilege of hiding their deepest secrets. It makes me feel weird—abnormal. As if I’m some poor, pitiful girl who can’t take care of herself.
Me: That’s so annoying. You guys act as if I’m broken, but I’m not.
It’s a lie.
The thing is that I often find myself trying to pinpoint the moment in my life that broke me, but I’m beginning to think that I was born broken. It would be so much easier if there were an event that caused the fracture. At least then I could have something tangible to work through, to mend the pieces and get better.
Unfortunately, that doesn’t exist for me.
HARLOW
The bell rings, and I groan, miffed that I’m being forced to eat lunch in the cafeteria today. I typically hide in the photo lab where the newspaper staff meets, but Mr. Duncan had to leave school early, and he locked the room.
Taking my time, I shove my laptop into my backpack while the other students flee the class. As I drag my feet through the halls, I consider spending my lunch in the library, but my stomach has been grumbling for the past hour. Apparently, the candy bar I got from the vending machine earlier wasn’t enough to fill me up.
I stop short of the entrance to the cafeteria and stare in. Loud voices fill the space. The jocks are at one table, the emos at another, and the stoners are in the corner. Each clique has their designated spot, leaving a few tables scattered about for the loners like me.
