We Are Us

Chapter 18 Worthington University

Spring Semester, Freshman Year

My mother’s words are still fresh in my mind when I return to Worthington. What did you expect, Poppy?

If I had any doubts about who to blame for that night, my mother cleared them up.

Me. I’m to blame. My own mother thinks so.

And so I take it. I carry the blame. In front of the Worthington University Judicial Administration board, I admit that I drank too much. I say I’m sorry, and that I’m grateful Tucker was with me to get help. That he saved my life. He’s a hero, really.

These are the half-lies and distorted truths that have become my made-up memory.

I drank too much. I’m sorry. I’m grateful Tucker was there to get help. He saved my life.

I wonder how long it will be until I forget they’re not actual memories. That I’m just selling the story everyone wants to hear.

Even me.

The WUJA review process was a streamlined, official affair. They didn’t ask whether a condom was found on my body. Or about the doctor who sat down at my bedside, a pained expression on his face as he spoke to me like I was his daughter, putting a name to what had happened. Asking—no, suggesting—that I consent to a rape kit.

But I wasn’t his daughter. I’m my mother’s daughter.

Whitmans don’t face difficult truths head-on. And we don’t make a fuss.

We make allowances and excuses. We go along to get along.

Even when, inside, we’re falling apart.

Even when every lie, every allowance, and every excuse that leaves our tongues sends another drop of poison sliding down our throats.

A few days later, at my required student counseling session, I am escorted into a small office with barely enough room for a desk and two chairs. “My name is Joha

I take a seat, concerned that in this tiny space, I won’t have the luxury of hiding behind my made-up answers. That this will be a more intimate exploration of my actions. That Joha

After she gives me the broad strokes of her biography and responsibilities at WU’s student counseling service, she flashes an overly bright smile that I’m guessing she thinks is reassuring. It’s not. “So, now that you know a little about me, let’s talk about you, Poppy.”

“There’s not much to tell. I’m a freshman, I made bad choices and wound up in the hospital.” I don’t want this intimacy. I resent this forced vulnerability, this unwanted intrusion. And I want her to know it. So I add, “I’m here today because I have to be.”

Her only reaction is to make a note on the yellow legal pad balanced over her crossed legs. “Have you ever been in therapy?”

“Not therapy, exactly. But I have met with counselors and psychologists before.”

“Oh? Tell me about that.”

I outline my family history as if I’m reading from a résumé. Dates and places with one or two bullet points. She fills up the first page and flips to another. Then another. “And would you say your life stabilized with the move to Sackett at thirteen?”

“Yes. I guess so.”

“Does your mother still engage in any of the activities that made her incapable of caring for you and your sister prior to your move?”

“She drinks wine occasionally, but that’s all.”

“Occasionally,” she repeats. “Can you be more specific?”

“Well, after work. Or weekends. Afternoons.”

“Every afternoon?”

“No. Not every afternoon.” I can’t remember a day without the tap of her bottle on the edge of her coffee mug, but I’m sure there must have been a few.

“Once or twice a week… Every other afternoon… More, less?”

The vent behind me is blowing dry, heated air that smells vaguely of burned toast. I shift in my chair, trying and failing to find a comfortable position. “Maybe every other.”

“And are we talking about a glass, two glasses, the bottle, more than that?”

I bite off a ragged cuticle, suck out the blood that wells up in the gauge beside my nail bed. “I really don’t keep track of my mother’s drinking.”

“Okay. Well, on those afternoons, what did you do?”

“What did I do?”

“Yes. Did you sit with her, talk to her, take some wine for yourself, hide in your room… ?”

“What does it matter?”

She tilts her head to the side. “Humor me.”

I sigh. “I went to my room, I guess. Did my homework. If the weather was nice, I’d go outside.”

“To play with friends in the neighborhood?”

“Ah, yeah.”

“Did you hang out at their houses?”

“N—Why?”

“I’m curious if you had other parental role models.”

“Oh.”

“Well, did you?”

“I mostly hung out in the woods. A nature preserve behind our house.”

“Ah.” She tries for a conspiratorial grin this time, though it drops when I don’t return it. “A parent-free zone.”

“I guess.” Please don’t ask who I was with. If I have to talk about Gavin, I might lose it.

“Did you drink too?”

“No,” I say immediately, before correcting myself. “Well, only a few times.”

“A few times a week?”

“No, a few times in total. Not until the end of my senior year.”

“And what precipitated that?”

“What pre… ? Nothing. I just started, I guess.”

“So, you were around your mother’s drinking for years and you just started one day, out of the blue.”

I shrink lower in my chair. “Yeah.”

“What about with your friends?”

“What do you mean?”

“Before coming to Worthington, did you drink with your friends? Or with your sister?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I only drank a few times before coming here. I poured myself a glass and went to my room.” Drinking and crying and looking through the photos Gavin left for me.

She pauses to underline something on her page and then flips to a fresh one. “Okay. That gives me a feel for your life before you came here. Let’s talk about what your life has been like at Worthington. It’s a big adjustment, going from living with your family to a freshmen dorm. How is your roommate?”

“She’s fine.”

Joha

My scholarship requires that I maintain a 3.0 average. I barely squeaked by and I know it. “They’re fine. Harder than high school but I’ll get used to it.”

She nods in understanding, then pulls a pamphlet out of a drawer and hands it to me. “There is a student tutoring service you might want to look into.”

I accept the glossy folded paper with two smiling students beaming from the front, my stomach clenching as we work closer to that night. “Thank you.”

“Let’s get a little more specific, regarding your alcohol use here on campus. Prior to the incident, had you been drinking on other occasions?”

“No.”

“No? Are you sure? Because you won’t get in trouble for telling the truth. My role in this process isn’t punitive, Poppy. The reason we’re talking is to evaluate the extent that alcohol has affected your life at Worth U, and ensure you have the best chances for a safe and successful future here.”

Safe and successful. I wonder what she would say if I told her I’ve already failed on both counts.

“That was the only time I had anything to drink on campus.”

One eyebrow tics upward, and I sense her skepticism. “So you’re saying that this was a one-time event, that it won’t happen again?”