Lies That Bind: Lily's Story

By K. Leigh Michaels

Though she is no stranger to depression and suicidal thoughts, Lily could never have suspected that her best friend Declan would kill himself. Yet, convinced she should have seen it coming, she herself is the only one she blames for his death.

Starting her final year of high school without him is hard enough; knowing he gave in to the darkness that she continues to fight makes it even harder. When the other kids at school start spreading rumors about her connection to Declan’s suicide, every remaining aspect of her life becomes unbearable.

It is through an unexpected friendship with Rhody - a friendship that Declan would strongly disapprove of - that Lily learns how to cope with her feelings by avoiding them altogether. But when Rhody’s lifestyle catches up with him, Lily is forced to face her pain and the truth.

Lies That Bind: Lily’s Story takes an honest and uncompromised look at some painful and difficult issues that many teens face, including depression, suicide, and drug use.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K. Leigh Michaels
• Release date: Aug 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311953315

K. Leigh Michaels

K. Leigh Michaels has had a passion for children and teens since she was a young girl, and has been writing stories since she was six years old. Combining these two loves came naturally as a teen when she began writing short stories and poetry for teens. Leigh has a Bachelor of Arts in English from the University of Wisconsin, and has had several poems published in anthologies.Leigh lives in Wisconsin with her husband and five adopted children, whom she loves spending time with and learning from on a daily basis. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys playing the piano and occasionally composes simple arrangements and accompaniments. She loves to read, almost as much as she loves to write. She enjoys cooking and baking and is also an amateur runner.Leigh is currently working on two Young Adult Fantasy novels and a second Juvenile Fiction for publication.

Book preview

I'm starting my senior year of high school without him, and it's all my fault.

We'd only been friends since eighth grade - and it was near the end at that - but it felt like we'd been friends our whole lives.

I spent several years feeling like I was dangling by a thread over a dark bottomless pit before I woke up one morning shortly after my thirteenth birthday and realized my only way out was to let go of the thread. My only way out was down.

My mom, a senior partner at her law firm, came home from work early that day with a headache and found me in the bathtub. She dragged me back from my way out with towels wrapped tightly around my wrists and a phone call to 911. The doctor in the ER kept telling me how lucky I was that my mom happened to come home early; the vertical slices up the inside of my arms would have otherwise allowed me to bleed out very quickly.

I kept thinking, Lucky? Really?

I was lucky that I lived in a shroud of darkness and hopelessness. I was lucky that I thought the only way to get out of the darkness was to let myself go. I was lucky that breathing hurt so badly that I couldn't stand to be alive anymore.

What was lucky was that my mom was understanding and genuinely wanted to help. I was lucky that she never told me - or acted like - I was broken or damaged. I was lucky that though I was raised to believe and trust in God, she never once told me that I just needed to trust Him more or have more faith or read my Bible more often. I was not just lucky; I was blessed, and thankful that she didn't make things worse by doing any of those things. Instead, she took me to several therapists, patiently listened as I tried to explain after each introductory visit that it just didn't feel right, and set off to find yet another one. She persevered until we finally found one that I felt good about, one that wasn't pushy or coddling or distant. Caterina listened more than she talked, only asking occasional questions; and it seemed like she actually cared. I'd been with her ever since, and truly felt that she was only person who got me sometimes.

I was also lucky - and grateful - that my mom didn't suffocate me, or suddenly treat me like a criminal who couldn't be trusted. Sure, she hovered a little more than usual - who in their right mind wouldn't be worried after their child attempted suicide? - and she asked me to stay with my Auntie Melinda every day after school for awhile.

But she also sat down with me and helped me make a plan in case I felt that way again. She didn't ever once demand that I never attempt suicide again; she didn't tell me she couldn't trust me, or ask me what she had done wrong to cause this to happen, or scold me for making her worry about me.

She recognized immediately that there was an underlying problem, and that it had nothing to do with her.

And that had to have been hard; for as long as I could remember, it had just been the two of us. I was her family.

It had never been easy. But I'd never gone there again. My mom helped make sure of that, just by being there for me and being supportive and never judgmental.

I still battled depression. I had days that I didn't want to get out of bed. Mom was good at helping me take mental inventory, determine if it was a day I needed to stay in bed and give myself some time, or a day I needed to push myself and just keep going.

Today was one of those days.

It was the first day of my senior year of high school. I'd started every year of high school with my best friend Declan; I'd never had a first day without him right by my side. We took all the same classes. We participated in the same extracurricular activities, with the exception of sports; he played soccer while I played volleyball. We hung out most weekends, unless his presence was required on a family outing – his parents were really big on family activities.

Used to, I reminded myself. We used to hang out most weekends.

Now he was gone, and in his place was an empty hole.

I knew my mom was worrying more now than she usually did. I mean, it wasn't unexpected, but it wasn't an assumption on my part either; she was hovering. She had been hovering for three months - all summer that is, ever since it had happened; but she had been practically smothering me for the past week.

She'd taken me school shopping the weekend before the first day of school, which was a Tuesday. She hadn't done that since seventh grade. She made a day of it; we hit some office supply stores in the morning, had lunch, and then went to a few department stores.

She held up notebooks and folders and binders, asked me what colors and patterns I wanted. She asked what kind of pens I preferred. I picked black. Black everything. Not because I was brooding or being morbid, but because I was completely incapable of making choices. I was thankful that as a high school student, I was able to pass up the aisles of markers and colored pencils and construction paper; it would have been too much.

After lunch – during which I poked a salad around my plate and tried to take a few bites while my mom did her best not to get upset with me for it – I repaid my mom for her office store torture by treating her to her own torment at the department stores. That wasn't exactly my goal, but it was bound to happen with her constantly pushing colorful skirts and sweaters at me, when the only colors I could handle picking out were black and gray.

Lily, my mom said, exasperation plain in her tone, you need at least a little color in your wardrobe.

Define 'need,' Mom, I retorted. I didn't get snappy with my mom very often, but I was not in the mood to be pressured, especially when it came to something as inconsequential as clothes.

I'm serious. You don't want to go back to school as 'the Goth Girl.' Do you?

Well, Mom, no one would blame me.

There was no denying that the whole school knew that Declan and I were best friends; there was even less denying that by now every single one of them would have heard about what had happened.

They might not blame you, but...

But what, Mom? I muttered under my breath. I was suddenly feeling defiant. Then I recognized the feeling for what it was – anger, the dangerous emotion – and quickly backed off. Here. I grabbed a royal blue blouse and held it up under my chin. How about this?

My mom smiled, pleased. Yes. That's a beautiful color on you.

Fine. I could buy a royal blue shirt that would never leave my closet if it would satisfy my mom enough to leave me alone while I picked out the remainder of my black and gray wardrobe.

The final things that I needed were a few new pairs of my favorite jeans. I prayed the whole time that my mom wouldn't comment on the fact that I always bought the same brand and style. She didn't.

Still, by the time we got home that evening, I was exhausted, both physically and emotionally.

When I told my mom I was going up to my room to lie down, she nodded and didn't say a single word. She didn't even call me for dinner, which I didn't realize until I woke up the next morning to find that I had slept fourteen hours straight.

We went to church Sunday morning, but spent the rest of the day lounging around the house in yoga pants, watching old movies like Casablanca and An Affair to Remember and 12 Angry Men.

We took a break to make a snack between movies, and my mom was at the stove making popcorn when she spoke.

Do you think maybe tomorrow...

I snapped my attention from the root beer floats I was making to my mom, extremely suspicious of the subject she was about to bring up.

Never mind, she said quickly, seeing my face.

What? You were going to suggest I go to work with you? My voice sounded more sarcastic in my own ears than I intended it to.

No, my mom laughed. Then she sobered quickly. I was just going to say... maybe you'd like to visit Auntie Melinda.

I sighed. I'm fine, Mom. I promise.

You're not fine. You've been holing yourself up in your room more since... it happened. And I don't blame you, she added quickly. I just would feel better... She let her voice trail off, which made it obvious that she knew she shouldn't have said it, but it was too late. It set me off.

"It would make you feel better?! My voice rose with each word. Well, Mom, since how you feel is obviously the most important thing in this situation, I guess I'll just do whatever you want!" I threw the ice cream scoop into the sink, where it clattered noisily against the stainless steel, and pounded up the stairs to my room.

I refrained from slamming my bedroom door. The truth is, by the time I reached the top of the steps, I had gotten over my little tantrum and was already feeling a little bad for yelling at my mom. But I wasn't ready to apologize yet. She didn't need to know I was already over it.

Before I could sulk for too long, my mom was knocking softly on my door.

I was lying on my stomach on my bed, hugging my pillow and facing the window, away from the door. I didn't answer; I knew my mom would just let herself in like she always did, fight or no fight.

She came in quietly, and I heard her inhale and exhale before she spoke. I'm sorry, she said softly.

I sighed and rolled onto my side so that I was facing her. She crossed the room to my bed and sat on the edge.

You know... It's not that I don't trust you. I just worry sometimes. I'm a mom; moms worry about their kids. Just because I do my best to worry less than other moms... doesn't mean that I won't ever worry.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I know. I'm sorry.

She looked like she was about to reach over and hug me; so I leaned back and turned my head slightly to give her a sideways squinted look.

She threw up her hands in an okay- fine gesture. So... she ventured after a few moments of silence, tomorrow...

Ugh! Mom! It's just another day. Just like every other day this summer.

I know... Except that it's not. It's the day before you start school.

Mom. Okay, how about if I promise to call Auntie Melinda if I feel like... doing anything. My mom's sister only lived a few blocks from our house; I could walk there in ten minutes - or she could drive to our house in less than two minutes if she needed to.

I could see that my mom was mulling my proposal over in her mind; she was probably weighing the likelihood of getting more than that out of me against the probability that I would keep my word as far as calling my aunt was concerned.

Okay, she finally said. I can live with that.

Okay.

Okay. Now. Can we get back to our movies? I've been dying for that root beer float all day.

I stood up and gave my mom a one-armed hug. Sorry.

Hey. I'm still a mom, and you're still a teenager. It's all good.

I couldn't help but smile as we headed back downstairs to the kitchen.

The next day was anticlimactic. I tried to sleep in, but woke up early when I heard my mom getting ready for work; so I ended up just lying in bed alternating between reading a book and staring out the window until I finally summoned the energy to get up and take a shower. It was ten-thirty.

I never ate breakfast, but at noon I heated up some leftover salmon and roasted vegetables (something you should know about me - I'm a pescatarian) and ate it in the living room while catching up on the latest episodes of my favorite summer show.

I finished my lunch but couldn't think of anything productive to do; so I watched TV until I had cleared all the episodes of my show from the DVR. It was four o'clock when I hit the delete button after finishing the season finale.

My mom called my cell phone twice: at eleven forty-five and at three-thirty. She didn't ask if I was okay, but I knew that was her reason for calling. I tried to sound bright and cheerful, even though ironically, it was her calls that reminded me I was going back to school the next day and that Declan was gone. I had been perfectly, blissfully, forgetful of those facts until her number lit up my cell phone screen.

I wandered around the house for about a half hour after turning off the TV. I ate an apple for a snack, put a load of laundry in the washing machine, vacuumed the kitchen floor - and then my bedroom - and then flopped onto my bed, my energy and motivation depleted.

My mom called one last time, to let me know she was on her way home from work. This phone call was a daily occurrence, but since it signaled the end of the day, it brought my mind once again to what I faced in the morning.

Declan was gone.

He had done it the last week of school. The second to last day, to be exact.

He hadn't even gotten out of finals. He'd taken them, each and every one; he'd studied hard too. We'd studied together, making up study sheets and drilling each other into all hours of the night. He'd taken them seriously, threatening to beat me in all subjects.

Fat chance, I'd told him. And of course I'd been right. Not that it mattered.

I'd have happily given him the high scores in all subjects - hell, I'd have happily given him the coveted Valedictorian spot - if it would have stopped him from doing it.

As it was, I would be graduating in about nine months, with honors, a gold medal, and several scholarship offers to top colleges, but without my best friend.

I should have seen it coming.

It was a message I'd been hearing in my head at regular intervals throughout the summer. I alternated between believing it and telling myself to shut up.

Today I had no power to fight against the thoughts.

Of all the people in Declan's life, I was uniquely qualified to recognize the signs. His parents could blame themselves, his older brother could blame himself, his soccer buddies and coach could blame themselves; but really, the blame belonged to me. Declan had hidden his pain and his dark thoughts so well that there was no hope of his family seeing any of it.

But I - I knew. I knew how it felt to be alone at the bottom of a deep dark hole. I knew how it felt to be trapped on a cliff on the side of the mountain and believe that the only way out was to jump. I knew how to hide it from everyone around me; I'd been doing it almost my whole life.

So why hadn't I realized that that was what Declan had been doing?

And why hadn't he confided in me? He was the only person, aside from Caterina, who I ever talked to about the depression. He should have known that I would understand.

Why didn't he tell me?

That was the thought that occupied space in my head whenever I wasn't blaming myself for not seeing it.

At the funeral, I'd wanted to talk to his parents, but I'd been afraid that they would blame me, too. So I'd stayed back, even though watching everyone else file past his coffin and hearing the things they murmured to him just pissed me off. No one knew him like I did; no one had the right to care now.

Then his mom had seen me, standing as far from them as I could while still being in the room, and she had nodded and beckoned me to join them. I didn't want to make things more awkward or embarrassing; so I crossed the room to where she stood with Declan's father and older brother Damien, who was a sophomore in college.

I'd hugged her, but had shied away from Damien and Declan's dad.

I'm so sorry, Mrs. Johnson, I'd whispered against her shoulder. I'm so, so sorry. I wish I'd known what else to say.

I should have known.

I should have saved him.

I should have been the kind of friend he would have talked to about it.

I hate him for leaving me.

I hate myself more.

When I pulled back, she'd looked into my eyes - deep into my eyes, like she could see all the way to the ineffable, unsanctified things that I wanted to say.

I'm sorry too, Honey, she'd said softly. I know how much you meant to each other. If you ever need anything, you let me know.

I'd nodded - or at least, I thought I had. Thank you.

With another hug, Mrs. Johnson whispered, It wasn't your fault.

She was lying.

I wanted to visit her. Every day, all summer long, I'd wanted to jump on my bike and ride the few blocks to their house. But my imagining of how that would play out vacillated wildly between two basic scenarios. In my head, she would either:

1. Run out the front door, throw her arms around me with a tight hug, and insist that I come in the house to join her for a cup of tea and her homemade scones while we sat and talked about our fond memories of Declan until the day grew so late that I realized my mom would be worried about me.

Or

2. Open the front door just enough to peek out and tell me to please go home and never come back because the sight of me reminded her too much of Declan, and she couldn't bear it.

I was so terrified of the latter reaction that every time I considered going to see her, I found my feet rooted to the floor and suddenly remembered the pile of chores I needed to do.

I'm home!

I sat up quickly, surprised to realize I'd just spent a half hour on what had only seemed like five minutes' worth of memories.

I hadn't responded within point three seconds of my mom's announcement, and I fully expected her to burst through my bedroom door in the next point seven seconds. So I grabbed Jane Eyre from where it sat on my nightstand, and sat back against my pillow with the book open in my lap.

I didn't have to pretend to read, since the book was one of my favorites and I could easily pick up any sentence in any chapter and instantly get lost in the story.

Lily? Lily!

I was right. The bedroom door swung open with force and unceremoniously banged against the wall.

Are you - she sounded panicked. - okay? she finished, her tone switching to calm and even a little confused.

Hi, Mom, I said, looking up at the last minute - because I'd considered not looking up at all, but decided that would be cruel.

Lily! she exclaimed.

What?

Didn't you hear me say that I was home?

Well... yeah, I guess so. I was being intentionally noncommittal. She needed to get the message that overreacting was ridiculous and unnecessary. I held up my book. You know how I get when I'm reading.

She nodded and looked like she might be breathing a sigh of relief.

You okay, Mom?

Yep, just fine. I picked up Chinese for dinner. I got your favorite, vegetable fried rice.

And egg rolls?

Of course.

I turned my head and squinted. Crab rangoons?

She smiled enigmatically. I dropped the book on the bed, not caring that I was losing my place, and hurried to follow my mom back downstairs.

In the living room, I set up TV trays and turned on the TV and DVR while my mom unpacked everything onto the kitchen counter. We had a dining room table, but we only sat there together for breakfast on the weekends. During the week, we were both too busy to sit down for breakfast, and we weren't home for lunch. Dinner was in the living room, like this.

What are we watching tonight? Mom asked as she set a carton, a wax bag, and chopsticks on my tray.

How about... 'The Blacklist'? I suggested. It was one of our new favorite shows.

Sounds great. She had returned with her own carton and egg rolls, plus the carton with our crab rangoons.

Mom? She looked up. Thanks.

She smiled. Chinese was my favorite. She knew.

The sun was shining gloatingly through my window when I woke up Tuesday morning.

I'd have preferred to walk to school in the pouring rain.

With an irritated sigh, I threw back the quilt and sheet and slipped out of bed. I stood blankly in front of my open closet for at least five minutes before remembering that I was supposed to be picking out clothes for the day.

I decided on a black top - one of the new ones - that had three-quarter length sleeves and was mostly plain, with only an off- centered vertical seam down the front. Then I grabbed a pair of jeans and a black belt. I tossed everything onto the bed and went into my bathroom to take a shower.

I blow dried my hair while I was still wrapped in my towel, then dressed and ran the straightener through my hair a few times, getting out the worst of the natural waves. I took a pair of socks from my drawer and stood before my closet once again to choose from my small collection of Doc Martens. I decided on the red tinted pair, the only bit of color that I could see myself putting into my wardrobe this year.

Most - if not all - of the other girls would still be wearing flip flops.

No, not all, I reminded myself. There were the girls who always wore the biker boots all year round, or the boots laced up to their knees. But I would probably be the only one wearing regular shoes.

Who cares?

Not me.

I grabbed a lightweight black sweater and my backpack, packed with all of my new supplies from the weekend shopping trip, and left my room, pulling my door shut behind me.

My mom had made French toast - my traditional first day of school breakfast. I sighed, not really in the mood. I never ate breakfast, and if she was going to force the issue, I would have preferred sprouted whole grain toast with cashew butter; but my mom had