Page 56 of Save the Last Dance
Gram pursed her lips but didn’t look surprised. “They need some air. Were you supposed to wear the bandages for this long?” She glanced up at Ally, her pale blue eyes keen despite cataract surgery.
And glasses.
For that matter, Gram could have her eyes closed and see right through people.
“They didn’t specify.” It was the truth. Sort of.
“WellI’mspecifying. Wounds need to breathe once they’ve closed up.”
Ally peeled the rest of the bandages off and chucked them in the trash along with the discarded cotton balls from the pedicures.
“The bandages helped hide them,” she admitted.
“Our scars make us who we are.” Gram flashed her calf. “See that one? I got it when I shaved my legs even though my father said I couldn’t. I was so mad—and inexperienced with a razor—that I raked it up my leg and took off half the skin.”
Ally smiled. “That’s a funny story, though.” Her smile faded. “But it’s not the same. I shredded my wrists on purpose because I was upset.”
“My story is funny because of the way I tell it.” Gram crossed her ankles. “But it was not a pleasant day in my house, you can be sure. One day, you’ll figure out the right story to tell about your scars, too. You’ll be able to face the truth of a painful moment and not let it scar you all over again.”
“I thought maybe a tattoo would be better. That way, Icould cover them up permanently.” She was only half joking. When she left town after Harvest Fest, she planned to stop at tattoo parlor and cover up the ugliness on her arms with something pretty.
With any luck, she wouldn’t see her dad again until she was eighteen and then what could he say? Her stomach tightened. She hadn’t expected her time to leave would come so soon.
“A tattoo, eh?” Gram closed her eyes. “How about a picture of my scary face so the next time you looked at your wrist, you’d be afraid to scratch it.” She lifted her head and scowled at Ally, her sneer so ridiculous, Ally shrieked with laughter.
“Oh, my God, Gram, where’s my phone so I can take a picture?” Ally raced into the kitchen. “You have to do that again.”
“Never. Not until you’re in that tattoo shop.” Gram grabbed her popcorn bowl and picked through the kernels. She liked to crunch on the salty ones even though it was bad for her dentures. “Honey, you’re a smart girl, same as me. But you’ve got better medical options today than I did when I was your age. I want you to be smart enough to use them.”
Ally snapped a pic of Gram’s toes and the daisy stickers.
“What do you mean?” She brushed her hair out of her eyes and hoped she was a fraction as smart as her grandmother who had learned Latin in grade school and swore she read more books by the time she’d finished high school than any of her kids had by the time they graduated college.
“I mean. And just hear me out on this.” Gram set the bowl aside again. “The doctors have much better medicines today than they did when I was a girl. More choices, too. And as much as I make fun of all that talk therapy, the truthis, treatment works better if you combine the meds with counseling. Some people need the help short-term. Others—like me—need ongoing help. My point is, if your hard days start getting harder and you can’t hold yourself back from the scratching, I want you to remember there are ways to deal with that pain other than hurting yourself.”
Ally didn’t realize she’d started trembling until she set her phone aside and it rattled a little on the glass top of the end table.
“I don’t understand.” Even though she did. Gram thought Ally was crazy and should be medicated.
Her stomach lurched uneasily around the popcorn she’d eaten and she checked to be sure the trash bin was still close by. Her arms itched, the skin newly revealed and available for her nails to find comfort.
“Oh, honey, don’t misunderstand me.” Gram leaned forward, lowering her legs so she could lay a hand on Ally’s arm. “You’ve got your mama’s genes in you, too, and I pray you won’t have to walk the walk I’ve had to. But if—and that’s a mighty big if—you have problems like mine, I want you to grab hold of every ounce of help available so you can continue to blossom into the bright, wonderful young woman I know you can be.”
Ally’s chin quivered as her grandmother voiced the deep fears that had been rumbling inside, yet giving her hope when exposing them to the light. She squeezed Gram’s hands, encouraging her to continue. Needing her because Gram understood about the fears of being labeled and laughed at in a way her mom never could.
“Ally, dear, if science had givenmehalf the options your generation has now and if I’d allowed myself to take them rather than worrying so much about what small-mindedgossips thought of me, I wouldn’t be such a proper mess.” She patted Ally’s arm again and leaned back. “My issues went untreated for a long time, and the longer you let it go, the harder it is to find level ground again.”
“You’re not a mess, Gram.” Ally loved her grandmother fiercely. And for the first time, she wondered how leaving town would affect her. Would Gram be angry with her? Disappointed in her? Would it upset her?
Maybe she could call Gram after she left, to reassure her.
“That’s because I’d never showed you my scary side before today.” Gram made the face again—the sneering, scary one—and Ally made a fast grab for her phone. “Nuh-uh. You’re not putting me on Insta-Matic.”
“It’s Instagram. And it even hasgramin the name. It’s perfect for you.” Ally put the phone back in her lap and was quiet for a long moment. “So…about the other thing. You think I should take medicine for the scratching…and talk to somebody, a professional somebody?”
Her voice wobbled as she said it, because no matter how Gram explained it, Ally worried the whole Finley family saw her as a carbon copy of her grandmother. And although Gram definitely wasn’t a mess, she had hurt family and friends with outbursts that Ally had never witnessed. Plus, she was moody and didn’t want to see people sometimes, which maybe had hurt Ally now that she thought about it. But it’s not as if she could control that.
“That’s not my call to make. I think you should talk to your doctor and tell her why you scratch, and she’ll help you figure out a better way to deal with your feelings. But if a day comes—long after I’m gone—when a doctor says medicine and therapy could help you cope with those feelings, Iwant you to remember what I told you. I don’t want you to be stubborn like me.”
