Page 10 of The Black Table
I look over the letter at the sink—textbook purchases, where to find the syllabi, et cetera—and am just about to spit out a glob of spearmint foam when I see what’s at the end of it.
Physical fitness test to be conducted at Field House at 8:00 a.m. Monday 9/18.
My stomach plunges.
But what I read next has me actually choke.
Student is required to present promptly with proper bathing attire; failure to appear will be grounds for immediate academic probation.
I barely even notice my hand shaking, the clatter of my toothbrush falling to the shell-fluted sink. A ringing sound hums and zings in my ears, the floor going skewed under my feet. I try to stay cognizant, not to let the panic grip me, but then the towel slackens from my grip.
No.
I clutch at my covering, scramble clumsily for the soggyterrycloth as it crumples to my feet, but I’m too late. My security blanket peels away from me and leavesitexposed.
Instantly, my hands clench onto the counter for balance. I thrust my gaze up, not wanting to see myself, any inch of myself, arms or legs or the pale center of me, but it’s too late. I’m too weak. The mirror pulls me to it like a magnet, anditis there.
All of it.
The mottled pink shine of taut burn scars spidering up to my elbows.
And the silvery-white lines—cut,carved, now healed—above my heart: one across, one down.
Fuck, I think.Fuck.
Proper bathing attire.
Grounds for immediate academic probation.
This will never work.
I want to scream.
I want to smash the mirror until my palms are ragged and bloody.
I want to hide.
NO, GWENNA.
No. I won’t do any of that. Idon’tdo any of that.
I don’t do any of Dr. Riggs’s breathing exercises or cognitive reframing techniques either.
Instead, shaking, I step back, stumble to the floor and sit, legs folded, fully naked, and give in to the voice in my head.
All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.
All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.
All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.
It’s not a prayer, not exactly—technically, it’s from the writings of an obscure medieval female mystic called Julian of Norwich.
But it does make me feel better.
I exhale.
Monday. A lifetime away, practically. One thing at a time.
