Little Lies

I turn the knob and Lavender tumbles out, knocking me down. We land on the floor with a thud and an oof.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” I repeat, sitting up and rearranging her stiff, shaking form. She curls into a tiny ball, her entire body convulsing with silent sobs.

Her hands are fists, and I can’t see her face. Her auburn hair is a wild, tangled mess. I try to smooth it with my palm, like I’ve seen my mom do with my baby sister when she’s upset. I register the wetness in my lap, the smell of urine and something metallic. I wrap my arms around her and rock her, telling her she’s safe—reassuring myself as much as her.

Lavender is nine.

I’ve known her my entire life.

She is my secret best friend.

We’re the same but different.

We’re connected by invisible threads. I always seem to know when she’s sad or scared. But no one really understands, so we don’t try to explain. I feel sick with guilt that she was stuck in that closet with the monsters in her head.

Her panic is so big, it fills the room and seeps into me too. I rock with her, trying to make it better with my words, but that’s not fixing it.

I shift so I can tip her head up and ask her to look at me, like my mom does when I have a hard time settling my bad thoughts. Her eyes are wild, distant, and filled with fear. Tearstains streak down her cheeks, her lids puffy and red from crying. But that’s not the part that scares me the most. It’s the streaks of blood on her cheeks and across her forehead. It’s the teeth marks that have cut through the skin in her bottom lip and the fresh blood seeping from the wound, trickling slowly down her chin.

Dread wells inside me. I’m terrified they won’t let us all hang out together anymore because of this, scared they’re going to take her away from me, scared she’s locked inside her head forever and I’m never going to get my friend back—that she’ll be here, but totally gone now.

But I lock all the panic and the fears down in the box in my mind, like my therapist tells me to, because right now, Lavender needs me to be stronger than my fear. I take her blood- and tear-streaked face between my palms, wishing I knew if the cut on her lip was the only place she’s hurt.

“Lavender, look at me. I’m right here,” I whisper. “You’re safe now.” I repeat it until her gaze slowly meets mine.

Her whole body shakes every time she drags in a shallow breath.

“I’m right here,” I reassure her.

“I-I-I,” she stammers.

Lavender’s words sometimes get stuck, like a beat skipping. It used to happen to me, but I outgrew it.

“It’s okay,” I reassure her. “I know you were scared. I’m sorry we didn’t find you sooner. I can help, though.” When I was really little and the worry got too big, my mom would always make it better. She said it was a distraction from the monster living in my head, and that when I didn’t give the monster attention, it got smaller, and then it wasn’t as scary anymore. So I do the same thing for Lavender, hoping I can make her monster small again. She’s too upset to talk, though, and I can’t do it the way my mom would, so I improvise.

I take her small hand in my clammy one. “Can you open for me?” My voice shakes with nerves.

She uncurls her fist. She’s dug her nails into her skin so hard, there are weeping, crescent-shaped cuts spanning her palm.

Before she can see it, I press her hand against my chest and keep my own on top. The blood soaks through my cotton shirt. It’s black, though, so it will disappear.

“Do you feel it?” I whisper, not needing to explain. She understands what I’m asking: Does she feel how fast my heart is beating? How scared I am too?

She gives me one jerky nod.

“Your fear is my fear,” I say, just like my mom does when my heart is beating out of control and the panic takes over. “I feel what you feel.”

Lavender blinks at me, eyes watery. She starts to bite her lip but flinches.

“It’s okay. It’s a little split. It’ll be fine.” It might be a lie, but I don’t want to feed her monster. “We just breathe it out, okay? We just breathe.” And that’s exactly what we do; we breathe until my heart isn’t racing anymore and she’s not shaking like she’s inside her own personal earthquake.

I want to clean up all the blood on her hands and her face, but if she sees the damage, it’s probably going to make the panic come back. So we sit and breathe. With every inhale, I draw a figure eight on her back, and then repeat it on the exhale. It helps distract me from the panic, so I hope it helps Lavender too.