Backlash

“I feel s-sad,” I sniff.

“Why?”

I should have known she wouldn’t let it go at that.

“Because …”

I hesitate. How do I admit I miss a person who never really existed? That’s going to make me sound even crazier than everyone already thinks I am.

“You probably won’t understand.”

“Try me,” she says.

It’s hard to know who I can trust anymore. I’m afraid to trust anyone. But I figure she’s bound by doctor-patient confidentiality and the truth is, there’s no one else I can really talk to about Christian.

“I know this is going to sound crazy, because he wasn’t even a real person, but … I miss Christian. I miss him a lot.”

I swallow, willing myself not to start crying again. “And when I feel that … when I’m alone in my bedroom crying because I miss him and I feel so lonely, I know I’m the stupidest girl who ever existed,” I tell her. “Because he was Bree. Or her mom. And none of the nice things they made him say were even true.”

“Feelings just are, Lara,” she says. “It doesn’t do you any good to judge yourself for having them.”

“But how can you miss a fake person?” I argue.

“It’s not the person you miss,” she says. “It’s what he gave you emotionally.”

I start ripping the tissue into little pieces in my lap as I consider what she’s said.

“What do you miss the most about your chats? How did chatting with him make you feel?”

And then I can’t stop the tears again, as I’m once again hit with the emptiness and the loss.

“He … made … me … feel … special,” I sob. “Like … I was actually … worth something.”

She lets me cry without probing further, and I’m grateful for that. I’m grateful that I’m allowed to experience these feelings without her making me analyze them anymore. Because right now I’m exhausted just from having them.

“Lara,” she says, and her voice is softer and gentler than it has ever been before. “You are worth something. Maybe we need to work on you owning that before you get into more relationships.”

I shake my head. “How do I own something I can’t see?”

“That’s what we’re going to work on,” she says. “Helping you to see your strengths.”

I think it’s a useless exercise because I don’t have any strengths, but she sounds so confident about the possibility of it happening that I feel a tiny whiff of hope, as faint as the breeze from a butterfly wing.

Even that is a step up from the utter despair I’ve felt ever since Christian told me the world would be better off without me in it. Is this progress?

Mom is on her cell in the waiting room when I get out. We walk out of the office, and when I push the elevator button she shakes her head and points to the stairs, gesturing to the phone.

“It’s Nightline,” she mouths.

Oh no. Not more TV.

I try to tune out as we walk down the three flights of stairs, but it’s hard to avoid the sound of Mom’s overloud cell-phone voice in the echoey stairwell.

“Yes, it really is sick, and as a parent, one of the most frustrating things is that there’s no adequate legal remedy available,” Mom says. “That’s why I’m pla

I stop so abruptly Mom almost trips over me on the stairs. “What are you talking about, ‘Lara Laws’?” I hiss.

She mutes her phone. “Wait till I’m done,” she says. “I’ll explain everything.”

I don’t want to wait. It’s my name she’s tossing around here. I don’t want my name on a law. I want it all to go away so I can try to forget it ever happened.

“But, Mom —”

She waves her hand at me to be quiet, and I turn and stomp down the rest of the stairs as noisily as I can, making sure to slam the door at the bottom.

The brisk autumn air outside the building does nothing to cool my anger. Neither does the length of time I have to wait by the car as Mom stands in the lobby finishing her phone call. By the time she comes out to the car, I’m fuming.

Mom acts like nothing happened.

I get in the car and slam my door. “So are you going to tell me what these Lara Laws are about, or am I supposed to find out by watching Nightline?”

Mom starts the car and backs out of the space like I haven’t even spoken. It strikes me that maybe there’s a good reason I feel like I don’t matter. Note to Linda …

“Earth to Mother? Why are you using my name without my permission? I have a right to know what this is all about.”

“I’ll tell you what this is all about,” Mom says, her voice calm and even. “It’s about helping you and other kids like you. It’s about making sure that if any adult is as sick as Mary Jo Co

Mom says this is about me, but it isn’t. It’s about her. If it were about me, she would have told me sooner. I would have been a part of it. Instead I’m just the convenient excuse for her next political project.

“Call it something else,” I say. “I don’t want it named after me.”

The only sign Mom gives that I’ve pissed her off is how tightly her hands clench the steering wheel.

“What else would we call it?” she asks.

“How about the Psycho Parents Law?” I suggest.

My mother is not amused.

“I’m doing everything I know how to help you, Lara. It would be nice to have a little appreciation once in a while,” Mom snaps.

“If this is really about helping me, how come you didn’t ask my opinion first?” I say. “Why didn’t you even tell me about it?”

Mom doesn’t respond right away. Her eyes remain on the road ahead; her lips are tightly compressed. In my imagination, I can hear the cogs of her brain working, coming up with the way to frame this that she thinks will play best to the angry-teen-daughter constituent.

“Lara, honey, you’ve been in a fragile state since your … hospitalization. We’ve been trying to protect you. The last thing Daddy or I want to do is cause you more anxiety when you’re in such a delicate state of mind.”

“Really, Mom? You thought that using my name for some new law you want to get passed without asking me about it was going to help my delicate state of mind?”

“Of course I was going to talk to you about it, Lara,” Mom says.

“Yeah — after you talked to freaking Nightline and the rest of the country.”

Mom doesn’t say anything for a moment. When she does speak, her voice cracks like she is on the verge of tears.

“I’m doing the best I can here, Lara. You’re my daughter. These people hurt you, so badly that you tried to kill yourself, and the police and the prosecutor are telling us that their hands are tied because of the existing laws. I can’t just sit here and do nothing. And I had to consider your mental health.”

“I might be depressed and confused, Mom, but I’m not a baby,” I tell her. “I don’t want you to use my name. I’m never going to be able to put this behind me if you’re going on nationwide TV talking about Lara Laws, am I?”

“Making sure this doesn’t happen to other people can help you put it behind you, Lara,” Mom says, and now I see a tear rolling down her cheek. But somehow knowing that she’s hurting, too, and it’s my stupidity that made it happen doesn’t make me any less angry. Only more.

“No, Mom. It’ll help you put it behind you. Not me. You. Stop pretending this Lara Laws thing has anything to do with me.”

We ride home the rest of the way in silence, the distance between us much wider than the front seats of a car.

I need to escape from Mom when I get home, so I take my book and my Snuggie and go out to the patio, even though it’s cold. I’d rather freeze in solitude than be warm in the house with her. It works for a little while, but then I’m distracted by voices. I look up and see my sister climbing down the ladder from the old tree fort. But she wasn’t up there alone — because following her down the wooden rungs is Liam Co