Author's note: I have to take a moment to say thank you. This may be the most important story I will ever have the privilege to write and it means so much to me. It started with a flash of a scene that came to me years ago, while I was writing Whole. It was important to me back then and I knew I was going to have to explore it one day. That single scene became this story. I recognize this is not an "easy" story to read. It was not an "easy" story to write. It is not cutesy, sexy, or fun, but it's real and I felt it was important to tell. Kathleen is my girl and "Swing" is my episode. That particular hour of television has played a huge part in my life and I thought Kathleen deserved a chance to tell her story. As someone who has dealt both personally and professionally with anxiety, OCD, PTSD, and depression, Novus has been healing for me.
May is Mental Health Awareness month and (while it is pure coincidence) it is very appropriate that I finish this baby today.
There are so many of you who have written such beautiful and personal notes about how this story has impacted you and I am forever grateful for your kindness, your openness, and your willingness to share.
As Olivia said, "We should be more honest about our stories because we never know who's listening."
Thank you for listening.
She sits alone in the waiting room, humming along to the soft sound of the radio issuing from the overhead speakers. Carly Simon is crooning about how loving you is the right thing to do.
The office is familiar now.
She has spent so much time here that she is no longer afraid to sit by herself.
Over the last few months, she has revealed more to her therapist, Elizabeth, than she could ever imagine telling anyone. The first few sessions had been rocky and she had been reeling. She felt shaky and nauseous and unsure.
She'd bitten her own tongue more times than she could count, unsure of what she was supposed to say, before she realized there wasn't supposed to do anything.
She thinks back to January, back to the start...
It's late. Too late.
Her head is pounding and she knows she should take something, but the pain is a distraction from her thoughts.
It's cold. Too cold.
She is freezing and she knows she should get a hot shower, but the cold is numbing.
She is tired. Too tired.
She knows she should just go to bed, but she can't stop herself from shaking long enough to lay down so she stands.
She paces.
The day has been long and the night even longer. She threw up this morning and her stomach is still in knots, hours and hours later. She had therapy this afternoon and she is paying her therapist to help her because she can't help herself.
She needs help.
Her sessions are slow going. She doesn't know what she expected, but this isn't it. This unstable, murky wading through the mire of the last few years of her life is taxing. She has felt like a broken record, rehashing the same things over and over. Her diagnosis, her family history, her embarrassment, her guilt, her exasperation with her own mind.
She has spoken emphatically about the girl she wants to be, the girl she is meant to be. The good girl with the gentle personality, the quiet voice, the ease of existence. The dutiful daughter who does well in school, who stays out of trouble, who reads books, and has friends, and keeps up with relationships.
The girl who isn't constantly suffocating, choked by her own anxieties.
She wants to be that girl more than anything.
When her therapist asked what she thought was stopping her from becoming that girl, Kathleen fell silent while her mind whirled.
She has a million different ideas about what is holding her back, but none of them sound reasonable anymore.
When Elizabeth suggested ever so gently that maybe she has the capacity to be that kind of girl inside of her, Kathleen felt herself shut down.
She has never allowed herself to consider it before, the reality is too jarring. She has fought with herself for the longest time, wholeheartedly convinced of her own inadequacy, her own defect to the point that it has become her identity, her reality.
The diagnosis is simultaneously a weighty burden she tries to rid herself of and a crutch she clutches with all her might.
So much of what she has claimed about the monster in her mind exists of her own making.
She is restless.
She snapped at Lizzie and at their mother more than once this evening until they left her alone to sulk on her own.
She wants to apologize. She wants to crawl out of her skin. She wants to go for a walk, to get some air so she can try to remember how to breathe. She can't leave the house. She can't go outside.
It's raining.
She can see her reflection in the blackness outside the wet kitchen window. She thinks she looks like a ghost.
Pale, haunted, and hurting.
The rain picks up, the sound is loud against the glass pane.
She feels frenzied, frantic in ways that scare her and it's late, too late to be feeling this way because there is nothing she can do, nowhere she can go to splinter, to scream the way she wants to.
She jumps at the sound of her father's keys rattling against the countertop behind her.
In her distress, she has missed his arrival home.
She stops mid-pacing stride and forces herself to stand still. She doesn't know how long he has been standing there, how long he has been watching, but all at once she is afraid.
For him.
She can't look at him, can't meet his gaze because she knows if she does she will lose the last fraying strands of control that she has and she can't hurt him. She can't scare him. She can't take her fury, her terror out on him.
"Baby."
One word. His weary call to her into the quiet surrounding midnight.
The sound, a catalyst for the rumbles of thunder outside to start and those inside of her to grow louder.
"Kathleen…"
She needs to talk to him, to give him something. She needs to -
The lightning flashes outside. She whirls around and the rain pounds the roof. She meets her father's anxious gaze across the kitchen and the water begins to rise uncontrollably.
A flash flood.
Suddenly, she can't breathe.
She wants to run.
Toward him and away. A push and a pull.
She shakes her head and her whole body tremors as if the motion gives her permission to start trembling again.
Her father reaches for the handle of the door he has just come through and opens it. She recognizes the action for what it is.
He is giving her an out.
She knows she only has moments before the storm takes over, the winds howl, and the waves crash. She doesn't expect her father to follow her out into the garage. She doesn't expect him to stand silent and steady while she crumbles before him like a rock into the sea. Her feet are bare against the cold concrete of the garage floor, but she doesn't even feel the chill.
"I can't do this, Dad. I can't do this," she says, holding her hands out in front of her as if trying to ward off his presence, to get him to leave her alone. She is sinking and she can't bring him down with her. She is raging like the storm, screaming now as the rain pounds hard against the garage door, the roof, the windows.
As if its sole purpose is to show her that even nature shares in her breaking.
The thunder roars around her and she loses the battle.
She screams about how tired she is, how much she wishes she could turn off her whirling mind and become someone, anyone else. How the disorder has ruined her, stolen everything from her. How she can't see a future for herself, how she can't see anything past this...
Past the fact that therapy is taking from her rather than giving and she doesn't have a lot left to give in the first place. Therapy is taking her identity from her because without the chaos, without the label, the diagnosis, she doesn't have a fucking clue who she is. The prospect of finding out who she is, who she could be beneath the tumult, terrifies her almost as much as her own unpredictable mind.
"I hate myself, Dad! I hate that I'm like this."
She falls hard to her knees and the cold concrete bites at her skin through the fabric of her pajama pants. She starts to sob harder than she ever remembers crying in her entire life. She cries and cries until she can't anymore.
Her father doesn't interrupt.
He hasn't spoken. He hasn't moved. He has stayed and let her break. He has never been able to stand the sight of her tears, but somehow in this moment, he seems to realize what she needs most from him is simply for him to stay.
He hasn't run away or left her to fend for herself. He hasn't tried to quiet her terrible crying, to assuage her. She fleetingly wonders how desperately he has been silently pleading with Olivia for guidance, for her abiding patience to intercede for them both. He is letting her cry and cry and cry until her arms nearly give out and he catches her before she hits the concrete. He reaches for her, holds onto her, and slowly helps her to her feet.
To stand.
Through her stinging eyes, Kathleen catches a single glimpse of her father's expression, the violent worry in his own ocean eyes before he pulls her close and holds her, holds her though her dying gale. His breathing is jagged as if he, too, has been caught up in her tumultuous downpour and trying to keep them both above the water.
She should speak to him, soothe him, tell him how sorry she is, but she can't find the strength to open her mouth. Her energy is fading and she has to tell him she loves him. She has to tell him what it means to have him hold onto her when she feels so utterly lost.
Her father cradles her silently against himself as the storm outside rages on. He rocks her ever so slightly as if the motion of the sea could lull them both to sleep.
The pale morning light is filling her bedroom, filtering into her room.
She knows her window is open ever so slightly because the birds are chirping and the late winter breeze is fluttering her curtains. Her eyes feel swollen, her cheeks are puffy against the softness of her pillow from the way that she has cried. She shifts in her bed, moving onto her back. She keeps her eyes closed, willing herself to fall back to sleep, to sink back into unconsciousness when she hears it. A soft rustling sound near the foot of her bed.
Her eyes well before she can even open them because she knows…
Her father is here.
She tilts her head on her pillow and peeks through her wet eyelashes.
Her father sits in her desk chair beside her bed. His wrinkled white dress shirt, the same from last night. He hasn't changed. He hasn't moved. His elbows are pressed hard against his thighs, his hands folded in front of him as though he has spent all night in vigil at her bedside.
Praying.
She hears his heavy swallow before he tilts his head to look at her. Kathleen feels her heart break when she meets his gaze. Her father's blue eyes are rimmed with red, from fatigue or tears, she can't be sure. Before she can open her mouth to speak, to apologize -
"I love you, Leen," he whispers. His voice is low and serious.
"Why?" She chokes before she can stop herself. The ever-present question falls into the silence around them. How could he possibly love her after all she is, after all she has done?
"How long you got?" He mutters mildly, rubbing his palm over his jaw, rough with morning stubble. Kathleen lifts her heavy head from her pillow to stare, to let him know she hasn't understood.
Her father watches her closely.
"I got twenty years worth of reasons, but not one of 'em is gonna make any difference if you don't believe me, if you don't know who you are."
Kathleen shakes her head, her hair slipping against the satin of her pillowcase.
"Who am I?" She asks meekly, wrinkling her nose at the tingling wave of emotion that threatens to engulf her.
"You're my daughter," he tells her simply, as if he is trying to remind her of something she has never fully understood in the first place. He stands and then bends close, brushing her messy hair away from her forehead before he kisses her there.
"It's gonna be okay," her father assures her. She simultaneously believes him and wonders where his certainty comes from. She closes her eyes for a moment and when she opens them again, he is gone.
She isn't sure how long she stays in bed, breathing in the early morning air. She is exhausted, all cried out. She can't even find the strength to worry anymore.
A thought occurs to her, a line from a story she hasn't read since childhood. When C.S. Lewis took her through the wardrobe to Narnia…"If you've been up all night and cried till you have no more tears left in you - you will know that there comes in the end a sort of quietness. You feel as if nothing was ever going to happen ever again."
That's how she feels now.
She has a session in a few hours and after last night she thinks it is going to be a turning point. She is going to make sure it's a turning point.
She tells Elizabeth everything, no holds barred. No broken record, all honest and new.
Her therapist sits across from her and listens until she seemingly can't keep herself silent anymore.
"Kathleen," she addresses her gently before sliding the tissue box across the table toward her as if she knew she was about to need it.
"Let me tell you something. Everything you feel is normal considering what you've been through, but there comes a time when you have to decide if you're going to let what's happened dictate the rest of your life. All these emotions you describe are normal, but they are also burdens. They're heavy and unhealthy and they are pulling you down. You're chained to a sinking ship, Kathleen."
Elizabeth waits until Kathleen stops crying to continue.
"The good news is that you have the key to unlock the shackles."
Kathleen looks up too quickly and spends the next few minutes rubbing her sore neck as she listens intently.
"You have bi-polar disorder, Kathleen. You're not sick, or insane, or a burden as you keep saying. Your brain works differently and you know that. It's not a mystery and you're not a monster."
Kathleen's eyes well at the pardon. She doesn't allow herself time to wonder if Elizabeth is right. She wants to believe her, so she does.
She isn't crazy. She isn't lost. She just hasn't found herself yet.
"There are things you can do to help yourself. Things you're doing right now...talking here with me, taking your medication, taking care of yourself. It's all cliché, Kathleen," Elizabeth explains with a wry smile. "But it's a journey, not a destination. Nothing is static. You will grow and change and learn and you're not going to feel like this forever."
She knows Elizabeth is right.
There is a freedom she feels now, a lightness which she is sure connects back to that night with her father. She feels as though she has let something go, exorcised some demon right there on the cold concrete of the garage floor and it has left her for good.
She remembers going home afterward that particular session and sitting alone on the steps of the back porch for the longest time.
The winter sun is starting to set when she hears the back door open behind her. She feels the softness of one of Eli's baby blankets being draped over her shoulders before her father settles onto the step beside her.
He is quiet and Kathleen wonders how long it's been since he slept. He gave up his rest for her last night and she wants to reach for him, to lean against him, to hug him. She wants to look after him the way he has looked after her.
She watches the sky change color, light to dark, before her father speaks.
"Wanna show you something," he says softly, reaching over her shoulder to grasp an object in his hand.
He pulls forward a book, its cover clad in that unmistakable hue of blue. She had forgotten about it, how she found it in the back of the sedan and wanted to inquire…
"Remember when I asked you 'bout Vincent Van Gogh?"
Kathleen nods in answer as her father sets the hardback book into the cradle of her lap.
"Liv found this book. It belonged to her mom."
Kathleen looks up quickly at the mention of Olivia's mother. The book is beautiful, in pristine condition despite its age.
"Van Gogh: The Man and His Art," she reads as she runs her fingertips along the smooth cover.
"Liv took me to the Museum of Modern Art. Wanted to show me his paintings."
Kathleen feels the corner of her mouth lift at the thought of Olivia dragging her father to the MOMA to show him something she wanted him to see. She wonders what could possibly be so important that they go? What secret hides in the paintings of a revered dead man who lives on in whimsical brushstrokes and kaleidoscopes of color?
She listens to her father's heavy exhale before he speaks again. He reaches for the book in her lap and holds it gingerly in his hands as though it was something special, something to be treasured.
"People who know 'bout art think he might've been bipolar," he explains quietly, pointing to Van Gogh's name on the cover. Kathleen inhales sharply at the revelation and swallows her own questions to listen intently as he elaborates. Glimpses into her father's world are so few and far between that she never fails to regard them as precious.
Her father is reaching out to her, connecting her disorder with the mind of one of the most remarkable creators of all time.
"They said it was the only way he could have made all these paintings. He saw the world in a different way than most people do and look at what he did…"
Her father shifts the book back into her lap and opens it up so he can skim through the pages. Kathleen tries to read the titles corresponding to each painting...Café Terrace at Night, Starry Night on the Rhone, Wheatfield with Cypresses
She lifts her gaze from the perfect red of Vase with Poppies to look up at her father.
"It kills me to see you hurt," he rasps, shaking his head. "I always thought if I could take it away from you, I would. So you wouldn't have to carry it…"
It. Her diagnosis, her burden…
"But Liv," he elaborates quietly, reverently. "She showed me all these paintings and I think you see the world the way Van Gogh did," he says, gesturing to the complete portfolio in her lap, the life's work of one brilliant artist.…
"It's unique and beautiful and different. And I wouldn't wanna take that from you for anything 'cause it's you, Leen."
She startles at the sound of her name being called into the empty waiting room.
She picks up her book and her bag and makes her way into Elizabeth's sunny office to settle on the overstuffed lounge. She tucks one leg beneath herself to sit comfortably and clutches Van Gogh to her chest. It has been weeks since her father presented the book to her and she has yet to leave the house without it.
Elizabeth smiles at her and the sight makes Kathleen want to smile, too. She is sure she must look like a little girl with her teddy bear, Linus with his blanket, but she can't help it. She has taken to bringing the book with her to every session. She carries it around like a talisman, a good luck charm, an artists' version of the miraculous medal.
It keeps her honest, makes her brave. She has something important to discuss today and she needs all the help she can get.
She thinks back to last night...
Her brother is giggling uncontrollably. Her palms and knees are going to have brush burns from the carpet, but they are worth listening to the sound of Eli's joy as she chases after his fast little legs. She catches him over and over, scooping him up and showering kisses down onto his chubby face. He cries out in delight each time, as if it were the first.
"Een! Een!" Eli shouts his approximation of her name as he plops down into her lap, residual giggles shaking his little body. She holds her brother close, brushing his messy curls away from his face. Eli's eyes grow round at the sound of their father's footsteps entering the kitchen. He might be home from work, but Kathleen can tell he is on the phone and her brother's excited shrieks of his name are not conducive to his conversation.
"Dad! Daddy! Hi! Hi Daddy!"
She tickles her brother into distraction. "Here comes the giggle monster!"
Eli squeals with delight, running around the couch so that Kathleen has to chase to catch him.
"No, I want you to talk to her. Yeah, she's right here..." their father says, stepping into the living room and grinning at Eli as he passes Kathleen the phone in exchange for the wiggling and giggling toddler in her arms. She looks up at him before she answers and he nods in silent assurance of something she doesn't yet understand.
"Leen."
Olivia says her name and by the tone of her voice, Kathleen can tell this is not a social call. She knows Olivia has been in court because her father just arrived home and he is wearing a particular restless expression, as if he has spent all day is missing something important.
"Are you all right, Liv?" She asks. She can feel her father's gaze on her face as he takes her place on the floor with Eli.
"Kathleen, I need to ask you for something." She nods before she realizes Olivia can't see her.
"Of course, Liv."
"Your Dad and I are working a case right now. Our victim is a teenage girl. She's a little younger than you and she's being abused."
Kathleen lowers herself onto the armrest of the couch so she can listen.
"The thing is, she won't tell anybody who's hurting her. Today, a judge gave her a chance to name her abuser or she would be held in contempt of court."
Kathleen listens breathlessly. She is sure she knows where this story is headed. "She wouldn't tell, would she?"
She can almost picture Olivia shaking her head before she answers. "No, she's being held overnight or until she changes her mind."
She is fairly certain she knows what "contempt of court" entails. "This girl...she's in jail?" Kathleen asks, gripping the phone tighter in her hand.
"She is."
"They put her in jail? She hasn't done anything wrong..." Kathleen muses uncomfortably. Olivia stays quiet and lets her find her way through the information.
"Leen, the thing is...this girl won't listen to me," Olivia elaborates. Her voice sounds tired. "She won't listen to her lawyer or her parents. She's the only one who can help herself, but she won't. I think she needs to talk to someone who has walked in her shoes."
Realization comes quickly. "Me?" Kathleen asks incredulously. She hears Olivia's answer in the deep breath she takes before answering.
"You."
Her father is in the midst of zooming a delighted Eli around the living room in his arms like an airplane, but he seems to notice the way she falls silent. He meets her gaze and holds onto her while she loses herself in the past.
Suddenly she is back there, in prison. She remembers the chill of the holding cell, how claustrophobic she felt in the dim lighting and the stale air...
"Honey listen, I don't want you to feel any pressure to -"
"I'll help, Liv," she asserts before she can stop herself, before she can talk herself out of it. "You helped me. I'll help her."
She owes this to Olivia...this and so much more.
Long moments pass before Olivia speaks again and when she does, Kathleen wonders why her voice sounds heavy.
"Leen, you have no idea how much you're going to help..."
She marvels at how she could send that sentiment right back to Olivia and it would mean the exact same thing...
Her therapist listens closely as she explains...
"This young lady sounds afraid," Elizabeth notes thoughtfully.
"So am I," Kathleen asserts, cradling Van Gogh to her chest. "Olivia thinks I might be the only one who can help her."
She shakes her head at the unfathomable. It's incomprehensible to her that Olivia would be asking her for help, when Kathleen considers her to be the most capable woman she knows.
The idea that there is something only she can fix is all at once intriguing and terrifying.
"What do you think you're afraid of?" Elizabeth asks.
"I might be able to help her," Kathleen says slowly. "But I might not. I might mess up. I might…"
"This doesn't sound like the kind of thing you can mess up, Kathleen. Do you remember how lost you felt during our first meetings? How confused you were? How you told me anything would be better than feeling that way? You have a chance to reach out and give someone hope. Olivia thinks you're the right woman for the job."
Kathleen nods because ever so slowly, she is starting to believe it too.
She sits behind her father's desk.
His chair has wheels and she has to resist the urge to push herself across the smooth tile the way she would have as a child. Her Van Gogh book rests in her lap, open to Farmhouse in Provence. She has brought it for silent moral support, but she will leave in Olivia's car when they go to work.
The squad room is busy this morning.
It smells like bagels and coffee and bustles with chatter. A pair of officers make their way out of the room as her father and his partner make their way back in.
Kathleen watches them together in this place where they reign.
Her father is animatedly telling Olivia a story, briefing her on something. Kathleen has missed the details, but Olivia has caught them and when she and her father speak again, they provide each other with identical answers.
They have the same hunch. They're on the same team. They are always so in-sync.
They eye each other like goofy kids at recess and Kathleen briefly wonders if they've forgotten she is here.
She can't wipe the knowing smirk from her face quickly enough when they catch her watching them. Olivia shakes her head and rolls her eyes affectionately as if silently telling her that her father drives her nuts, but she'll keep him around anyway.
Olivia moves around to check something on her computer and her father comes to lean against his own desk. He crosses his arms and surveys her with a grin.
"You look good in my chair," he tells her and Kathleen can't help the way she smiles.
She feels good in his chair.
She feels good here in this building where they do important work. She feels like she belongs, like she has a purpose, a reason for being here. It's a far cry from the imposter she felt herself to be months ago when she came here searching for answers and found them in Olivia.
She can't shake the feeling that he is proud of her. She is proud of herself, or she will be, by the end of today.
She has a job to do first. She is going with Olivia to try and talk to a girl she has never met, Kim Garnet. To try and help her see reason, help her see anything past her own whirling turmoil.
She wonders if she can do this or if she is overestimating herself, if she has bitten off more than she can chew. She wonders how she will feel when she steps into the holding cell, a place she never wanted to be ever again.
Her father is occupied looking through a file spread across their desks. Her gaze falls on a faded heart-shaped sticky note taped to a picture frame containing a photo of her father and Eli in the snow. She recognizes the scribbles as her own childhood handwriting and she has to lean closer to see what it says...
Happy Birthday, Dad! I love you! I'm eight and I think you're great!
She wants to laugh because her eight year old self clearly believed she was a poet laureate in the making. She also wants to cry because her father has kept her little message safe for the last decade. He has held onto it through everything, considered it important enough to post it on his desk.
She inches his desk drawer open to search for another sticky note, to write an addendum eleven years in the making.
When she looks up, Olivia is gathering her coat and her bag. She doesn't announce it, but Kathleen knows it's time to go.
"Leen, I want you to meet someone."
Olivia guides her toward a bench at the end of a long hallway. A blonde woman sits there going through a file of paperwork from her bag. She looks up at their approach. Kathleen is sure she already knows who this is. This woman is appointed to try to help keep Kim out of prison, if she will help herself.
Olivia has briefed her about every detail on the drive over.
Who they will meet, where they will go, what they will do so she can prepare herself
She is trying to take each moment as it comes without looking forward or back, but this place is familiar in the worst possible way. Olivia has promised to be beside her every step of the way and if it becomes too much, they'll leave. Kathleen prays it doesn't come to that because she has to give Kim a chance, the same one Olivia gave to her.
"Kathleen, this is Kim's Defense Attorney, Miranda Pond."
Kathleen tries to smile and extends her hand toward the woman with far more confidence than she feels while Olivia continues to speak.
"Miranda, this is my partner's daughter, Kathleen. She has a story to tell."
Kathleen glances over her shoulder to meet Olivia's gaze while Miranda Pond packs her bag.
"I hope it's a good story," Miranda replies in a charming British accent. "God knows we could use a happy ending."
The cell looks the same.
It is dim and stark and cold.
She pulls her plaid coat tighter around herself before she steps closer so she can see. A slight blonde girl is huddled in the corner and Kathleen wonders if she looked as small and scared when she was behind these bars. Kim looks up and Kathleen nearly gasps aloud at the bruises on her face. Her fair skin around her eyes is blackened and one of her arms is clearly broken, wrapped up in a cast and a sling.
Someone has done a number on her, but Kathleen knows the damage is nothing compared to the mental beating Kim is giving herself. She realizes the importance of her role. This is an intervention and Kim's last chance. She steps forward as Kim speaks.
"Who are you?"
Good question.
In another life, she wouldn't have known how to answer, but now she has a name, a role, and a place to stand beside her father's partner.
"I'm Kathleen," she says quietly. "I'm a friend of Olivia's." She throws a glance over her shoulder to remind herself Olivia is still here.
"I was sitting in here a couple of months ago."
6 months, 22 days she remembers
"She put you in jail, too?" Kim asks, her tone at once is incredulous and scathing.
"Yeah, and my Dad's Detective Stabler," Kathleen elaborates at the sheer irony of all that has taken place.
Kim bristles, turning her glare on Olivia. "How could you do that to your partner's kid?"
Kathleen doesn't hear Olivia's intake of breath because she is already speaking in her defense.
"I'm glad she did," she asserts adamantly. She is so grateful. "It helped me stop hating myself."
"What makes you think I hate myself?" Kim tosses back carelessly, but Kathleen sees her tactic for what it is.
A diversion she knows by heart.
"Because I was a lot like you," Kathleen confesses. "I let boys use me. Have sex with me. Even hit me. Kim, I was too scared and too ashamed to say anything. Things got so bad I went to jail, but I finally let someone help me. The same person is trying to help you."
Her father's partner is trying to save her, too.
"I don't know what to do. I love him. How can I betray him?" Kim's voice shudders into a sob.
Kathleen shakes her head. She has to make Kim see it's not love, it's anything but.
"He's betraying you every time he hits you. Afterwards, he says he's sorry and he'll never do it again." She rattles off because she has seen this film play out before too many times, but with a different leading actress.
"So, you forgive him, but he hits you again. He makes you feel like you're nothing. Like he's the only one who will ever love you and then he hits you some more and he says you deserve it. Doesn't he?"
She feels like she is looking in the mirror.
"The first time we were at a party. I spilled punch on him and he slapped me in the face for messing up his new shirt. Then after it was school for talking to another boy…" Kathleen flinches at Kim's words. She remembers the sting of a nameless, faceless boy's hand across her cheek. The imprint burned into her porcelain flesh for long minutes afterward.
"Kim, if someone really loves you, they'd never hurt you."
This she knows. Now. For certain. She knows not to confuse attention, lust, boredom, or control with the gentleness of love.
"They would treat you with respect. Please," she begs. She isn't sure whose welfare she is pleading for now. Kim's or her own, but somehow they are connected.
"Let them help you."
The dam breaks.
Something inside of Kim must open up because suddenly she is spilling, pouring, confessing everything. Kathleen closes her eyes and listens to Kim's truth. She could cry.
She has done something right.
"Ethan's always doing nice things for me. We text each other all the time. I sent him those pictures by mistake and he got his hopes up. They were supposed to be private. This is all my fault. If I wouldn't have taken those pictures…"
Kim is blaming herself and it's not her fault. Kathleen knows it's going to take time for her to realize...
She jumps at the sound of Olivia's voice behind her. She has forgotten anyone else was around.
"Kim, tell us what happened."
She sips her root beer slowly as they walk from the food cart to the parking garage.
The late April sun is starting to filter through the cloud cover and the day is warming. She follows Olivia and Miranda Pond closely, trying to keep up with their conversation. She doesn't understand all of the nuances and the legal jargon, but she wants to. She doesn't know enough about the legal system and since she has become the poster child for how it works, she will have to ask Olivia to explain it to her. For the first time in a long time, she is interested in something. Something important. Something that matters.
Olivia's cell phone rings from the pocket of her jacket. She pauses briefly to glance at it before she turns and wordlessly presses it into Kathleen's hand.
El, she reads before she answers. "Hi Dad!"
"Leen," he says her name. He doesn't sound surprised by the sound of her voice answering Olivia's cell, but she can hear the relief in his tone. "You okay?"
She brushes her hair behind her ear and nods. "Yes, I'm fine. Liv and Ms. Pond are talking now and then we'll be coming back."
She hears her father give a deep exhale as if he has been holding his breath for the last two hours since she and Olivia left his side.
"You wanna talk to Liv?" She asks, listening with one ear for her father's reply and the other to his partner.
Before he can answer, Miranda stops walking and addresses them both.
"You were right about this girl, Olivia," she says, reaching out and touching Kathleen's arm. "She is special."
"Hang on, Dad..."
She wants to give Ms. Pond her undivided attention. She shakes the defense attorney's hand with a smile. "Thank you," she says and Miranda continues.
"Kathleen, it was a pleasure to meet you and I hope you realize what you've just done," she elaborates appreciatively. Kathleen feels her cheeks flush with embarrassment. She doesn't want to be praised.
"I didn't do anything," she says quietly, but Miranda shakes her head and presses on.
"You did something nobody else could. You got through to Kimberly. I think you've just helped save her life."
She feels Olivia's arm wrap around her shoulders to hold her close and keep her steady as if she knows Kathleen's world has just stopped twirling on its axis.
Her father must catch every word because all at once his voice is low in her ear.
"I'm so proud of you, Leen."
And her world begins again.
Her sister is playing the piano. It's early and Kathleen is rushing, but it's for a good reason.
Vincent's book lies open on her bed with the colors of A Lane Near Arles spilling onto her comforter. She runs her fingers over the French blue of the open before she closes it delicately. She tucks it safely into her bag before she packs the brand new folder of information regarding summer classes. She might get a chance to skim over it while she waits...
Yesterday, she asked Olivia more than once to explain the legal proceedings to her. She remarked offhandedly about how she wanted to learn more, about how she might be interested enough to take a class this summer, but she wasn't sure where to start. They had only been minutes from campus and so Olivia had offered to drive her to Hudson, to come with her to the Registrar, to get information about registering for summer classes...
Patrick McGuire grinned up at her from behind the desk in the Registrar's office.
"Told ya that student ID would come in handy," he joked mildly. Kathleen felt herself blush. Months had passed since she stepped foot on into this office, so she couldn't imagine why this boy would remember her, even though she hasn't forgotten him. His kindness, his help, and God, how nice he looks in green...She nearly missed the details he provided, but she caught Olivia's expression over his shoulder.
"He's adorable!" She mouthed and Kathleen couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled from inside of her.
Last night, she practically dashed into the house; excited, exhausted, and eager to tell anyone who would listen about her day. Her mother and her sister bustled around the kitchen table putting the finishing touches on dinner while Eli shouted baby brother babble from his place at the table.
"Een! Daddy! Hiya! Daddy hi!"
She sat beside Eli and told them about her day; about what took place, where she went, who she met, and what happened. Her mother's expression turned from interest to concern when she reached the part about visiting Kim in the holding cell, but Kathleen pressed her hand to her mother's and shook her head. As apprehensive as she had been about going, she now believes she needed to walk that particular path again for herself just as much as for Kim. She needed to go back to the place where it all started as a different girl, as someone new.
Her mother and her sister listened attentively, the former throwing glances at her husband every now and then to silently confirm Kathleen's words, her story.
Her father stood still and silent, leaning heavily on the back of Kathleen's chair. She couldn't see his face, but she felt him stay. He must have been nodding because her mother accepted everything without question. Her father had her back the same way he always has Olivia's. Lizzie had smiled uncontrollably and even Eli had stopped banging his wooden spoon on his highchair to listen as if he also realized the importance of the moment.
She finishes up in the bathroom, running one last brush through her blonde hair until she is satisfied with how she looks in the mirror. She looks, really looks at herself and really sees herself for the first time in longer than she can remember. She is no longer scared of what she finds in her reflection. Gone is the haunt she has become so accustomed to seeing in her own blue eyes. It's been replaced with a cautious calm just like the ocean. She has shallows and depths just like the Atlantic, but now she knows how to navigate, how to adjust her sails to keep herself afloat.
Lizzie begins to play again. Kathleen smiles because her sister knows this one is her favorite from Jekyll and Hyde. She hums along to the melody as she grabs her coat from the back of her door and picks up her bag from her bed...
"A new start, that's the thing I need to give me new heart," she loves this song. "Half a chance in life to find a new part, just a simple role that I can play. A new hope, something to convince me to renew hope. A new day, bright enough to help me find my way..."
Her sister stops playing abruptly and then she hears two sets of footsteps rushing toward her room. When she looks up, both her mother and her sister stand in the doorway. Eli is clinging to her mother for dear life and Liz is wearing a wildly excited expression Kathleen doesn't understand...
"What's wrong?" She asks quickly as she watches her sister's eyes fill inexplicably.
"You're singing!" Lizzie cries gratefully, throwing her arms around Kathleen and tackling her in a hug.
She hadn't even realized...
"We've missed you singing!"
She looks over her sister's shoulder to meet her mother's gentle nod. "We've missed your voice," she adds quietly and Eli concurs with a soft and amazed, "Een singin'!
He hasn't heard her before and now that he has she knows he isn't going to let her fall silent again.
Lizzie is talking to their mother in the front seat while their brother babbles at her in the back.
Kathleen clings to Eli's little proffered little and listens to him telling her in very animated language about his plans for the day. She can only make out four words "Mommy," "car," "choo-choo" for train, and her own name, but she is sure he is very busy.
She is, too.
She is going to meet her father and Olivia for Kim's hearing with the Chief Judge. Lizzie leans into the back seat to kiss Eli's cheek before she hops out of the car outside of her school. Her sister grasps Kathleen's hand and squeezes once, twice, three times. I. love. you. and she squeezes right back.
Without Lizzie's presence, the car is quiet save for Eli's proclamations of "doggie" and "truck" whenever he sees either on the street. Kathleen catches her mother's gaze in the rearview mirror and she smiles ever so slightly.
These last few months she has tried hard to reach out to her mother instead of closing herself off. She has tried hard not to wonder, not to compare, not to worry. She has tried to accept that there are things she may never understand about her parents' relationship and her mother's feelings about her father's partner.
Kathleen has lunch weekly with Olivia and she careful about what she says when she comes home because while her mother's dark doubts may never die, Olivia is full of hope. She is unceasingly positive despite the drain of her job, of her history, of difficult days. She has more patience than anyone Kathleen has ever known. Olivia is funny too, she is unintentionally witty and forever kind and Kathleen doesn't think she could love her more if she tried. Her father's partner is her teacher, her advisor, and her friend. She is grateful her father has allowed her to share his best friend in the whole world.
"Kathleen."
Her mother says her name as she pulls up to a stop in front of the courthouse. She always calls her by her full name, never her nickname and Kathleen has a sneaking suspicion that her mother knows from whom it came.
She looks up from Van Gogh's Landscape with Snow and follows her mother's gaze toward the stairs of the courthouse. She sees her father, his back faces them, but his stance is unmistakable even from this distance.
When her mother turns toward her again, Kathleen thinks her expression looks hesitant, almost shy as though she feels like this is a place she doesn't belong.
"You're braver than I could ever be," she says so quietly that Kathleen isn't sure she heard her correctly.
"Mom?" She starts before her mother reaches for her and pulls her close. "You're nineteen and you have more grace to handle hard things than I could ever dream of. Sometimes I wonder where you came from."
Her mother pulls back at the same moment Eli tugs on the long strands of Kathleen's hair to get her attention. "Een sing!"
She settles back into her seat and gently attempts to pry her brother's tiny fist open to free herself. Her mother tickles Eli until he lets go, the sound of his giggles fills the space around them.
"You're half of both of us, your Dad and I, but I wish I saw more of you in me. You are your father's daughter, Leen."
Her cell phone chimes before she can respond. "It's Dad," she explains, glancing at the phone in her hand. Her mother nods knowingly. "Go."
Kathleen kisses Eli quickly, packs Van Gogh safely inside her bag, and waves to her mother as she steps out into the morning. The stairs glisten in the sunlight from the morning dew as she dashes up toward her father. He hasn't seen her yet and it gives her a moment to take him in.
He isn't alone. He stands beside a boy she assumes is a friend of Kim's, there for moral support. There is a gift bag, with colorful tissue paper peeking out of the top of it, sitting up against a pillar by their feet. She is sure it's a gift for Kim.
"Dad!" She cries his name as she approaches and he turns at the sound of her voice.
"Hey Leen," he greets her quietly, pulling her in close and pressing a kiss to her temple. "Want you to meet someone," he says, letting her go to stand on her own. "This is Kim's friend, Ethan."
"It's nice to meet you," she says, shaking his hand.
"Ethan!"
She turns to see Kim, Olivia, and Miranda Pond making their way toward them. Kim runs to Ethan and he wraps her in a hug. Kathleen steps closer to her father. She doesn't want to be in the way.
"How'd it go?" He asks. She looks up and watches him watch his partner.
Olivia smiles. "The Chief Judge vacated the verdict and the sentence."
"Her record is expunged. It's as if nothing ever happened," Miranda explains. Kathleen feels Ethan tap her shoulder and she moves off to the side to talk to him one-on-one. Kim follows closely.
"I heard about what you did," he says, shaking his head in amazement. He puts an arm around Kim before her continues. "Kim means a lot to me and you saved her, but you don't even know her. Why'd you do all this?"
Kathleen freezes for a moment, the question catching her off-guard. Both of their expressions are curious, confused, but grateful. This boy is genuinely asking her, sincerely seeking an answer.
She glances over her shoulder back toward where her father and Olivia stand together conferring with Miranda. There lies her answer, her why.
"I know what it's like to need help and not know how to reach out," she says simply. "Someone reached for me and I had to reach back."
The moral of her story.
Ethan must understand because he nods. "Thank you."
Kim envelops her in a quick hug. "Thank you," she repeats. Kathleen shrugs it off uncomfortably. "I didn't do anything," she says lightly.
Kim smiles. "That's the same thing Detective Benson told me when I thanked her."
Kathleen flushes with pride. Not for the first time, she wonders about Olivia and her father. They are part of each other. She is part her mother, and part her father, and she wonders if she is part Olivia, too.
Kathleen waves as Ethan and Kim make their way down the stairs and she is left alone beside her father and his partner.
She can feel their collective gaze on her face and she smiles when she turns to look at them.
There is something different about the two of them.
She can't pinpoint it, but she wonders if somehow all that's happened has brought them closer. She wonders if her father had listened to her frustrated raving that night in the car and spoken to his partner about the unspeakable, about her assault and the ghosts that haunt them both. She knows that together the monsters don't stand a chance against them. She watches the way they stand so comfortably close to each other. There is something about the ease with which her father loves Olivia in the way only he can that calms Kathleen and reminds her to breathe. It reminds her of fate and miracles and magic and this moment right now.
Olivia reaches for her first, hugging her close and pressing a kiss to her temple.
"I can't tell you how proud I am of you," she says.
"Think you stole my line," her father teases mildly and Kathleen almost wants to laugh because they sound like an old married couple squabbling for the chance to tell her first. He intercepts her the moment Olivia lets her go, pulling her into his chest, and kissing the top of her head.
"I love you more than anything, you know that?" Her chin bumps against his shoulder when she nods, but her father holds her long enough she can only assume he is waiting for her to start to heed it in her bones.
When he lets her go, she catches Olivia's quick nod toward the gift bag at her father's feet. She steps back and watches them both curiously. Her father reaches down to pick it up and delicately places it into Kathleen's hands.
She surveys the colors, the blues, the oranges, the yellows of the tissue paper peeking at her from the top of the bag. "What's this?"
They glance at each other again.
"Got you something," her father explains and Kathleen laughs lightly. "I can see that, but why?"
"Because we love you," Olivia says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world and Kathleen feels her eyes fill. She will never take it for granted.
This is from them, from both of them. From her father and his best friend in the world, his partner. She adjusts her own bag on her shoulder before she sets the silvery gift bag down onto a nearby bench. She can feel them watching her closely and she feels the urge to laugh again. It's like she is a little girl at her birthday party and her parents are eager to see her reaction to her present.
She unwraps the package slowly, delicately, removing one piece of tissue paper at a time. When she finally shifts enough of the paper to see what's inside she gasps and reaches in to hold it in her hands. She closes her eyes for a moment letting the familiar prickle of emotion play across her nose, her cheeks, her eyelids. She feels her father's hand on her back and Olivia reaches for the gift bag to hold it steady while Kathleen lifts their gift up so she can see.
The frame is black and heavy in her hands and it contrasts sharply with all the colors of Van Gogh.
"Vase with Twelve Sunflowers" she whispers, she has memorized it. She has memorized them all. The blues, the yellows, the brown, the orange. The brushstrokes of a mad genius, a brilliant believer, an artist, a creator, and a man.
"You like it?" Her father asks tentatively. She can't speak just yet, so she nods. She cradles it to her chest and turns to see them beaming at her.
"Liv took me to get it," he explains.
"Your Dad picked it out," Olivia interjects.
"When we went to the MOMA..."
"It was all your Dad's idea."
"It was between this one and that blue one with all the branches..."
"Almond Blossoms," Kathleen informs him and Olivia nods.
She looks down at the painting she holds in her hands. The man like her, Van Gogh, had wanted his sunflowers to symbolize gratitude, happiness, and presence. He'd worked tirelessly, painting multiple versions until he was momentarily satisfied with his work. Kathleen prays for more than a momentary satisfaction and in it's place a contented creative presence.
She realizes at once what she has done. Helping Kim the way that she has is something only she could do. Her story has helped someone keep writing theirs. What Olivia did to save her life was something only she could do. What Vincent did with a paintbrush was something only he could do. He could create the most remarkable masterpieces for ten years and pray that someone would one day reach out a hand and hold them close.
"Thank you," she whispers. "I love it. I love you."
She slips the frame back into the cushion of the tissue paper filled gift bag and lets her father carry it for her. She walks in the middle of the two of them, with her father on her right and Olivia on her left. She smiles up at them both. She can't stop smiling. She is proud of herself. She has done something good and she feels like it's the start of something new.
She is going to be okay. She is a dichotomy of delicate and strong and storm and calm and she is going to try to love it all.
Her good days and her bad. The unique way she alone sees the world, the sunflowers and the starry night. She won't fight herself anymore.
She remembers Vincent's words from one of his prolific letters...I am seeking, I am striving, I am in it with all my heart.
So is she.
She glances back and forth between her father and Olivia like she is watching a tennis tournament. They instinctively keep the same pace and she has the hilarious childish urge to grasp their hands and swing on their arms the way she did when she was a child. She is a little older and a little too big for that, so she links her arms through theirs. Joy bubbles up inside of her when she hears Olivia's laughter and catches her father's grin. She pulls them together and holds them close just as they have held her.
Author's Final Note: There is a beautiful spoken word piece by the brilliant Clementine Von Radics called "Patron Saint of Manic-Depressives" that I listened to countless times while writing. I adore the piece and I think Leen would, too. Thank you for everything.