I pull the van in and hit the fob again to close the door. When the light fades as the door makes its slow descent, I sigh with relief. I climb out and walk over to the door that leads into the house, pressing my fingers to the wood. I wonder if this house remembers me, if it pulses with evil intent, or if it was just a spectator to my trauma, caged by the same walls I was.
The thought of stepping through that door makes me feel physically sick. But with nobody else to do it, it falls to me. Foronce, I wish it would fall on someone else’s shoulders. Enough of my blood has been spilled in this house for it to be classed as a sacrifice. But for once, I want to be the goddamn lion instead of the lamb being led to slaughter.
I fumble in my pocket, looking for the key, and take a deep breath. I try to remember my counselor’s advice as I close my eyes and steadily count to ten in my head, breathing in deeply and releasing it slowly.
Okay, I can do this.
I unlock the door and push it open, jumping when an ominous creak makes me think of a horror movie I once saw about a haunted house. And if that’s not a bad omen, I don’t know what is. Good thing I’m not scared of ghosts.
Ghosts, I can manage. It’s monsters that hurt me. And for better or worse, they’re dead now.
I leave everything in the van for now, in case I can’t handle being here and need to make a run for it. I don’t beat myself up over it. I’ve had a lot of time and therapy to learn how to be kinder to myself and more forgiving of the decisions I made as a scared, touch-starved girl. I’m not there yet. There are some things I’ll never forgive myself for, but my anger has diminished into guilt and sadness, which I suppose is just the next step in the grieving process.
I walk through the doorway into the mudroom before pushing open the door that leads to the kitchen. I’m hit with the smell of dampness and mildew. I breathe in and out through my mouth as I make my way inside so I can open the window above the sink. I have to shove it hard before it opens, but when it does, I take a deep breath, letting the crisp morning air fill my lungs and clear my mind. I turn back around and freeze, feeling like I’ve been teleported back in time.
I cover my mouth with shaky hands as I survey the room. The old pine cabinets were out of date ten years ago, and theavocado green peeling paint makes the room look as if it has been frozen in time since the seventies. In fairness, it probably has been. The Formica gray and white table that came from a garage sale sits to the side with its mismatched chairs and scratched surface. I ate many lonely meals at that table and did my homework sometimes by candlelight when my mom forgot to pay the electricity bill. It was one of the first things I took over when I got my first job at the local ice cream parlor.
I wander into the hallway before stepping into the living room. Nothing has changed. It still has the same smoke-stained wallpaper with the tiny red flowers dotted over it. The same gray carpet that is so worn in places that you can see the floorboards beneath. The faded brown leather sofa and reclining chair sit in the same spots they did six years ago. If I close my eyes, I can picture my mother sitting in that same damn chair, yelling at the television with a glass of wine in her hand. At least the place is relatively clean. Housework was not one of my mother’s strong points.
Not that she had many strong points, to begin with. I’m sure some people would say it could have been worse, and I’m sure that’s true, but neglect can be just as damaging as physical abuse. When you’re a kid and the only parent you have forgets that you’re alive— well, unless they’re making you bleed—that leaves a lot of mental scarring. No hot meals until I was old enough to fend for myself, no new clothes unless I could sneak some money from her purse without her noticing, and—perhaps worst of all—noI love yous.
Maybe that’s why I latched on as hard as I did to the first person who said they loved me. I just had no way of knowing that they would twist that love until it resembled something dark and ugly.
Blowing out a deep sigh, I pull my eyes from the chair and the ghost of the woman who once treated it like a throne. Lettingher fade from my memories should be easy. After all, she forgot I existed altogether, at least until my body changed from that of a girl into one of a woman. Then she noticed me, but not as her daughter—as her competition. That’s when the physical abuse started. It was a way to beat down my confidence and pride. To make me feel small and helpless. And for a long time, it worked. In those days, I longed for her to go back to being neglectful. I spent half my life praying for her to notice me and the other half wishing to be invisible. Is it any wonder I’m as fucked in the head as I am?
I walk out of the living room, gathering my courage to look around the rest of the house. I know without needing to go any farther that the whole house is going to need, at the very least, a deep cleaning if I want to sell it for anything other than a loss. I don’t care about making money on it. I’ll be happy as long as I can make enough to cover any outstanding debts she left behind. I don’t know who paid for her funeral or if that’s another expense I’ll be expected to foot, even though it took place long before the lawyer tracked me down.
A loud bang outside has me turning toward the house next door. I hear yelling and then a door slam before I spot a flash of blonde zip past the window toward the back gardens. Curiously, I make my way down the hall, toward the back door, and peer out the grimy window next to it, surprised to see the bent-over shoulders of someone sitting on the steps to this house crying. I should leave it alone. There is absolutely no good that can come from me going out there. But as I watch the young girl cry, I flash back to all the times I cried alone on those same damn steps. I would have done just about anything for someone to have wrapped their arms around me and asked if I was okay. I pull the keychain from my pocket and find the back door key. I pause with it in my hand while I decide what to do. The sob that breaks free on the other side of the door is what finally makesthe decision for me. The door creaks when it opens, making the girl turn around and reveal her tear-stained face. A face that was tear-stained the last time I saw it, too.
I stare in shock at the beautiful teenager in front of me. She had been eleven years old the last time I saw her in the arms of her brother. Now, she must be the same age I was when everything fell apart. Katy had always been pretty, with her long blonde hair and her big blue, doll-like eyes. But now that she’s grown into her own skin, she’s an absolute knockout.
She looks at me with confusion and wariness before recognition dawns. I expect her to start yelling at me, to tell me how I had ruined her life, and how she hated me. What I don’t expect is to get almost barreled over as she flings herself into my arms and sobs her heart out on my shoulder. I freeze for a second, not sure what to do. This is the first time I’ve been touched by someone, other than a brush of a hand or an accidental bump, in years.Three years, to be precise. I don’t count my time being pushed around.
Turns out comforting someone is instinctual. I wrap my arms around her like I used to when she was all gangly limbs and hold her tightly as I breathe in the fresh scent of her floral perfume.
She pulls back and looks up at me in wonder. “I’ve missed you so much. Where have you been? Are you moving back here now?” She fires her questions at me, making me smile. I motion to my throat and then open my mouth and shake my head. She looks confused for a second, so I repeat the motions until she gets it, feeling a little like Ariel trying to explain losing her voice.
“You can’t speak?” She finally gets it.
I shake my head. I’ve not spoken one word since the accident. Doctors tell me that physically, there is nothing wrong with me. But mentally...well, that’s a whole different thing altogether. Selective mutism, they call it, a side effect from my PTSD—the fancy label the medical professionals stuck on me. But that’s notreally the case. Mine is more like elective mutism. I don’t speak because I don’t want to. I’m not sure my voice would even work now after so many years of not using it.
“From the accident?” she asks. I nod. It’s not like I could even begin to describe the fucked-up-ness of the situation.
“I heard about your mom. I’m sorry,” she tells me, wiping away the stray tears that cling to her cheeks. Not wanting to talk about my mother, I reach forward and wipe one of her tears with my finger and hold it up for her to see. I cock my head and frown at her in question. She sighs and plonks herself down on the steps. I sit down beside her and wait for her to speak.
“I got into a fight with Mom and Dad again. I want to join the army.” I look at her in surprise. It’s not the first time she told me this, but she was eleven at the time. I guess I expected her to change her mind a dozen times since then.
“Mom and Dad want me to go to college and make something of myself. I looked around and applied for dozens, and I know I’ll get in. It’s just not what I want. It isn’t what they want either,” she says bitterly, wiping at more tears.
“They want me to go to the college they’ve selected, the classes they’ve preapproved. They refused to entertain the idea of me joining the army at all, especially after Banner got shot.”
I freeze, not breathing, not moving, before grabbing her arm so she faces me. She looks alarmed when she takes in my expression. I mimic a gun firing.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry, Sorrow, I wasn’t thinking. No, Banner’s fine. He was shot in the leg, and there is nothing wrong with him now, other than having a bad attitude and some pain when it’s cold out. He was discharged on medical grounds, not so much because his leg has a metal bar in it and half a dozen pins, but because of the nerve damage. Which explains why, for months, he was just permanently pissed off at the world. Mom and Dadnearly lost their minds. They couldn’t lose their son, not after what happened with—shit, sorry, Sorrow.”
I have no idea what I’m supposed to be feeling right now, but the overriding emotion is relief. I might not be Banner’s friend anymore, but I never wanted anything bad to happen to him.
“He really is okay, Sorrow. He works at Price Security now, and he loves it. The guys there are like his new squad. I know it’s not the same, but he’s happy.”
