Finding a Knife

Ever have new flooring put in?  It is one of those things that no one looks forward to, but generally results in a happy outcome.   We put new floors in two rooms last week – one was my office.  And one was Molly’s bedroom.

After Molly’s death, I never had a huge need to clean out her room, but Frances did.  So, Frances cleaned out a lot of Molly’s things; but many of Molly’s treasured belongings are still in her room closet waiting for the day when Frances and I are both strong enough at the same time to go through them.   I have put some art supplies in her room now and we half jokingly call the room my studio, but an easel doesn’t really change anything.   That room will always be Molly’s room to us.

To clear out the space for the new floors, we had to take everything out of the closet.   There were doll clothes my mother made for Molly, a sleeping bag that Molly received one year for Christmas, left over school supplies, old clothes, a field hockey stick.

And there was a briefcase.  Frances used it back when she was a manager in retail, but she had given it to Molly. I opened it, thinking that it it was in good enough shape, maybe we should give it away.

I noticed the dollar bill first.   And the knife second.

After Molly was released from the hospital I insisted on talking to a doctor – which was not part of the typical protocol for releasing an adolescent to her family. UNBELIEVABLE.  We had more access to her dentist than her psychiatrists.

Anyway, I asked the doctor point blank.  Should we lock our knives up?  And he said, unequivocally, “No.  Everything should be normal.”  It was what I wanted to hear.  And I was happy to comply.  But it was bad advice.

Molly had been cutting herself, and she obviously had secured a knife from our kitchen and was hiding it.  Looking at the knife in that briefcase put me right back in those moments when Molly was alive and I would get hints that something was very wrong.  I would read a text or sense something in her voice or find a journal entry.  And I would be terrified until she seemed fine again or a doctor told me not to worry.

There are pieces of my daughter that I will never know.  The happy child that laughs with me from the photo on my desk – the capable teenager she let me see – were real.  But there was another girl as well who was troubled and lonely and unreachable. 

Our house is full of memories of the happy Molly.  But Molly would tell me, I am sure, that her reality was not the world of happiness and confidence that we attempted to build with her; she was consumed by whatever inner turmoil she struggled against. 

We’ve got Molly’s bedroom all spruced up now.  It looks nice.  But it is somehow fitting that I found the knife that she had stashed away in the closet.  It is tempting to build a legacy for Molly that is all lightness and talent and beauty.  But that is only part of the story.