Saving You, Saving Me (6 page)

“Thank you,” I said. “But I’d definitely feel more comfortable with a script around.”

Derek grinned. “That’s what they’re there for.”

I looked over the scripts and said, “Am I supposed to know all the different types of scenarios that would come up?  There’s cutting, divorce, bullying, bulimia, break ups, all kinds of stuff in here that I don’t have the answers to, Derek. I mean I’m not a psychologist or a doctor. How am I supposed to answer their questions if I don’t even know the basics of what they’re talking about?”

“One step at a time, Sam,” Derek said patiently. “We’ll take it one step at a time.  No need to feel overwhelmed right now.  It’s a lot to absorb. That’s why I encourage you to go look up these issues on Wikipedia or Google it.” Derek came closer and sat in the chair besides me, looking into my eyes. “You know, you don’t have to start taking calls until you’re ready. Even then I’ll be around so you’re not handling the call alone.” He turned away and opened his bottled water, taking a sip from it. “I’m sensing you’re not sure about all this?”

“No, no,” I said quickly. “It’s a lot to take in, and I wished I knew more about each of these topics so I could be more helpful to the callers.”

“You can do that when you get home. Right now, let’s go over some of the scripts so you have an idea where to start. He pulled a stack of multiple stapled papers, took the top one off the pile and handed it to me.

“This one’s about cutting,” he said. He winced. “Self-injury. Do you know anything about it?”

“I know one girl who did it,” I said. “She was much older than me at the time so I did not get to know the details, but I know it affects mostly girls than boys, and it usually affects teens. I mean I don’t know adults who continue doing it.”

Derek said, “You’d be surprised. There are adults who still cut themselves in order to relieve tension of extreme stress from abuse or violence. Usually the cutter uses a razor to cut themselves to cut through (sorry about the pun, Sam) their numbness to the traumatic event.”

 “Ouch,” I said, wincing. “Why do girls want to harm their own bodies like that?”

“They think it will help them feel better. It’s a temporary relief, if at all, and most cutters would agree it hurts more later. Some cut because peer pressure, others because it’s the only way they can deal with something, when they can’t talk to anyone about it.” Derek took a sip from his drink and said, “So, that’s why we’re here. We’re here for them to talk about whatever is causing them so much pain that they feel compelled to hurt themselves more in order to feel better about themselves.”

“That’s the opposite of what I’d think people would do when they’re in pain,” I said.

“True, but our mind works very strangely sometimes. It’s a defense mechanism,” Derek said. “But let’s go through the scenario now you have more of an idea what cutting is.”

He lifted up the phone and pretended to be on call. “Ring ring.  Hello, you’re calling Sawyer House. What do you want to talk about?”

I read the next line in the script. “Um, I’m not sure why I’m calling, but I need to talk to someone.”

“Everything you say is kept confidential with us. You can talk freely with me. Why do you think you need to call here?”

“Because I’m cutting myself and I can’t stop.”

“When did you start cutting yourself?”

“Last week.”

“What happened last week?”

“A group of my friends began cutting, and they made me do it.”

Derek stopped then and said, “there are many pages here on cutting, but I want you to read through it so you have an idea about what to say.”

“And after that, you want me to read through this pile of scenarios, too, right?”

Derek grinned. “Right. It can take all night, but you get the idea. We are short staffed tonight so I have to be on call. How about joining me for this one call?  You can observe me, listen in on the other headset.” He stood up and walked to the door while I gathered all my papers together into a neat folder.

Derek led the way back to the call area, and took me over to one of the cubicles. He gestured for me to take a seat, while he rolled another chair over. “Comfy?” he asked, sitting down. 

“Perfect,” I answered back.

“Now put the headset on so you can hear the conversation.” He put his headset on, and when we were ready, he gestured at a screen in front that was flashing green, indicating there was a call on hold.

On his phone, there was a button with the light blinking green.  He tapped on it, and began speaking in a calm but friendly tone. “Hi, I’m Derek from Sawyer House. What do you want to talk about tonight?”

He was smooth, confident, gentle, and caring throughout the call. The girl, who calls herself Becca, said she was having a hard time dealing with some girls in school who started picking on her since she began dating their friend’s ex-boyfriend. She felt ostracized because of it, and her friends who wanted to be as popular as these girls, ditched her to become their friends instead. She didn’t know what to do.

“Are you still with the girl’s ex-boyfriend?” Derek asked.

“No and yes,” Becca said. “We just started dating but we’re not officially together like boyfriend and girlfriend.”

“Do you like him and want to be with him still despite the girls’ tormenting you?” Derek asked.

“I do,” Becca said.

“How does he feel?”

“I think the same,” Becca said.

Derek and Becca talked for 15 more minutes while he asked her questions, and she responded stiffly at first, but gradually became more comfortable.

“Then continue dating each other and forget those girls. If they start anything, walk away and don’t get into an argument or fight with them. It fuels them. Go to someone of authority like a teacher, principal, or even your parents and let them know what’s happening. Let your friends know what’s happening so they can help stand up for you, too. And if you feel threatened in any way, go to your local authorities.”

“Well, thanks, Derek,” Becca said after a pause. “I feel better already, and I’ll let my teachers and principal know before anything happens.”

“Good luck, Becca. Keep calling here if you need to talk. You are always welcome. Remember, You have what it takes to change things.”

“Thank you,” Becca said shyly. “Bye.”

“Bye,” Derek said gently.

The green light on the button went clear, showing the Caller was no longer on the line. Derek turned to me, took off his headset, while I took off mine. “Well?” he asked. “What do you think?”

I smiled widely at him, feeling good about how Becca felt afterwards. “You’re really good at this,” I said.

“You’ll be good at it too, in no time,” Derek reassured me. “I’ve had two years more experience at this than you so I’m used to all different scenarios and issues. Not that everyone’s problems are only statistics.  They’re not, but in time, you kind of figure out what to say.”

I laughed. “No, you’re just good at this.”

“True,” he admitted. “But what would you have said in that scenario?”

“Almost the same thing,” I joked.

“Then you have good instincts,” Derek said. “That’ll get you through.”

The green light came on again, and Derek put on his headset.

I placed my headset on, and listened in. 

“Hello, you’re calling Sawyer House. What do you want to talk about?” Derek asked.

A guy came on and said he liked this girl, but she did not know what to say to her, and if he should make the first move…  Derek raised his eyebrows while I grinned.

For the next 30 minutes Derek asked a lot of questions, but ended up answering more than half of them. I thought if I had gotten that call, would I be able to answer it since I was a girl, and just when I thought that, the phone conversation ended, and Derek turned to me. “In that case, if you get a call that you felt you’re not equipped to handle, let me know or someone else. You could try to answer his questions or just listen to him,” Derek said. “It depends on how much you know about…romance,” he laughed. He stared at me. “What would you say if you had gotten that call? How would you advise a guy who finds himself liking a girl, even if he had just met her, and doesn’t know how to  proceed?”

Derek had stopped grinning and was seriously waiting to hear what I would say.

I smiled. “I don’t have much experience in romance, really, Derek. I don’t know how I would have answered.”

“No,” Derek said, genuinely surprised. “You haven’t had much experience at all?  No boyfriend, no dating?”

I shook my head smiling, feeling a flush cover my face. “I just never found time for it or was never that interested in anyone.” As I said that, suddenly the image of Collins McGregor’s face flashed in my mind. He was the first person whom I had ever felt a head over heels reaction to which I could not understand.

“Unbelievable,” Derek said. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you’re not exactly hideous or anything. You would have thought a girl like you would have your pick of guys.”

I blushed. “Oh, come on, that’s not true.”

“Hey Derek, Sam?” Gail popped around the corner. “I’m heading out, but I wanted Sam to know how happy I am she’s here.” She gave me a hug, and handed me a vanilla envelope along with my purse. “Here are your copies of records, before I forget. And your purse.” She looked at her watch. “It’s time for you to head out, too.” She looked over at Derek.  “How did she do on her first day?”

“Brilliantly,” Derek said, holding my gaze. “Just need to brush up on what each scenario is, and in no time, she’ll be ready to handle any call.”

“That’s why she’s here!” Gail said, leaving.  “See you again in a few days, Sam.”

I nodded. Derek got up and walked me out of the building and to my car. “I think you’re going to do great here, Sam,” he said smiling. He opened my car door while I got in, our hands lightly brushing. It was warm, nice. “See you in a few,” he said before he headed back into the building.

I let out a breath. Serious Susan was quietly applauding. I went through the entire night alright without thinking about Collins McGregor, except twice. Lola looked on, a pout on her lovely face.

Sunday – Two Weeks Later

           
I
t was Sunday, and I was at Dad’s church, playing the piano. I was not particularly good at it, but I knew all the songs because I have been playing the same ones since Dad was a pastor at a much smaller church. There he was in front of the church, a beautiful altar with a stained glass window depicting a scene with a Lion and a Lamb. Mom sat in the front pew with little Nydia, my beautiful little sister, dressed up in a sweet white puffy dress with  a blue satin sash and embroidered blue flowers. It had been two weeks since Mom’s drunk incidence, but I was still mad at her for driving herself and Nydia around fully intoxicated. What if something had happened?  I wanted to let Mom have it that day when I drove her car back after Collins McGregor and I found her and Nydia at Dad’s church. But she looked so miserable, and out of it, I held my tongue.

            I was glad Dad did not come back from the conference until late at night when Mom was asleep. He didn’t say anything to me the night he came home, tired-looking and grim. He didn’t say anything to Mom, either. It’s been two weeks, and he still hasn’t talked to Mom about it.

            I watched Dad as the song the congregation was singing came to a close. Dad was a good-looking man with thick dark hair and some grey on his temples. The women in church thought he was handsome, and the men thought he was charismatic, confident, and successful, the pastor of a large church with a beautiful family. Mom sat in the front pew, dressed in a green sheath dress that matched her big green eyes, her full brunette hair long and straight, her pale milky skin almost wrinkle-free except for the ones around the edge of her mouth. Mom was a beauty in her younger days, looking like a 1940s pinup girl and always wearing bold red lipstick on full lips.  She was originally from a small town in Texas when she moved to Hollywood to pursue her dream of being an actress when she met Dad. She could pass for being my older sister at times when she wore her hair down straight like mine or in a Veronica Lake wave. When I was dressed up with full war paint on including the bold red lipstick, everyone said I got my looks from Mom. Next to her was Nydia, looking sweet and charming in her dress.  She had Mom’s green eyes but Dad’s coloring and a square jaw like Dad. She looked more like Dad than Mom, while I did not look at all like Dad. Getting up from the piano bench, and smoothing the skirt of my pink sundress, I walked over after the song ended and sat down next to Nydia.

            The air between Mom and I was strained, but I made an effort. “Mom, you look nice in that dress.”

            “The Church Lady’s Book Club lunch meeting is right after service,” she whispered back.

            “Ah,” I said, thinking how ironic that Mom was The Church Lady, and how she kept a book blog called The Church Lady Blog, a blog that reviewed and recommended romances, cookbooks, Christian, children, young adult, and erotica books. “Which book is it this week?” I asked.

            “A juicy one,” Mom said. “Jane Eyre in Bondage.”

            I’d about bit down on my tongue and swallowed it, I was so surprised. Lola came out of her boudoir carrying a copy of Jane Eyre in Bondage, along with some accessories. Serious Susan had her hand to her mouth in shock. Me, too, Susan.  Me, too.

            “You got a group of women from church to read that for the book club?”

            Mom’s eyes glittered with glee. “Can’t go wrong with a classic. And they loved it. Our lunch theme is Victorian Ecstasy – red velvet cupcakes, licorice shaped like whips…”

            “Mom!” I said, loud enough for people around us to look our way. My face burned.

            Lola was now sashaying around in six-inch heels carrying a red velvet cupcake in one hand and a ridiculously long black licorice in another, shaped like a whip. Serious Susan was in my worn yellow armchair, keeled over.