A knock on my door wakes me from the nightmare. I jerk straight up in bed, a silent scream contorting my face. It takes me a minute to remember I’m in my bed and not careening over the side of the mountain. My heart is hammering like a hummingbird, as if it’s about to burst from my chest. Sweat clings to me everywhere; my hair knotted and tangled around my neck and face. Flinging the covers off, I put my feet on the cold wood floor, bending over to try to slow my breathing.You’re not there. You’re safe,Summer. It’s only a memory.I repeat the phrases to myself as I suck in huge lungfuls of air.
“Summer sweetheart, are you okay?” Sue asks, peeking into my room.
“Yeah, Sue, I’m okay,” I croak. My throat is raw, so I must have been screaming in my sleep.
Sue comes over and sits on the edge of my twin bed, already dressed for the day, giving me a quick side hug. She knows I’m not comfortable with touch since the accident and the horrible foster home I was in. She’s the only person who doesn’t make me panic when she touches me, but it took many months to get there with her. “You poor dear. I know today is rough. I brought you some water. Here, take a few sips forme.”
I grab the glass from her and take a drink. The cool water is soothing, sliding down my sore throat. I take a few more mouthfuls before setting the glass on my desk. “Thanks, Sue.”
She looks at me with compassion and understanding, wiping some of the sweaty hair off my cheek. “You’re welcome, Summer. I made your favorite waffles this morning. Why don’t you come down when you’re ready?”
I nod, “Okay, thanks, Sue.”
Sue is a retired teacher from my high school. She heard about my foster situation from her friend Julia, who’s still the receptionist there. She reached out to Child Protective Services, or CPS, and asked if I needed a good home. The timing was perfect, as my caseworker needed a new placement after my foster home shut down. The “dad” was too friendly with the young girls. I wasn’t raped, but it had come close. Others weren’t so lucky.
Mary, my caseworker, expedited Sue’s application to get approved. She quickly completed the training course and home inspections, and I’ve been with her ever since. She’s been a real rock for me, taking all the baggage I have in stride and never pushing my boundaries.
Sue gives my shoulder a quick squeeze, then leaves. I continue taking deep breaths as silent tears trickle down my cheeks. Some days, life feels insurmountable, and even the act of breathing hurts. Today is one of those days. It’s been a year since the accident. One year since losing everyone I love. I simply want to hide away from the world under the bedcovers. If only that were an option today.
Leaning upright, I rub the pronounced ache in my chest and reach over to grab my phone off the worn oak desk, bringing up my favorite pic of all of us. It was at Christmastime, a little over a year ago. We were all standing around the tree in matching forest green deer pajamas. Yes, we were a matching pjs kind of family. Mom bought each of us and Jake a matching set every year for Christmassince Lily bee was born. We were so happy, not knowing we’d be torn apart a few weeks later. Some days, I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that they’re gone. I wake up sometimes and forget, expecting Lily bee to come bounding into my room or see Mom poking her head in to make sure I’m awake. Wiping my damp eyes, I place a kiss on the pic. “Love you guys. I’ll come visit after school.”
As I stand up, I can feel every sore muscle in my body. Even my toes are tight. Attempting to stretch out, I lift my arms above my head, turning side to side, arching my back. School today is going to be absolute torture, but I can’t skip because I’ve missed too many days this year. I remind myself I have to live for Mom and Lily bee and Jake, no matter how hard it is.
Grabbing some comfy clothes, I head into the hall bathroom. Turning on the shower, I brush my teeth while waiting for the water to warm up. After stripping down, I jump in, letting the hot water beat down onto my head and neck, trying to ease some of the tension there. I’ve been trying not to think about this day as it approached, knowing it would be terrible. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stop time, and now I just want this day to be over as fast as possible.
Tears start trailing down my face again, mixing with the water, as an anguished sob breaks through, then another. I drop into the tub, wrapping my arms around my legs and bury my face as the hot water cascades over me. Painful sounds rip from my body as I shake with the force of them. I shouldn’t be here. Not without them. It’s not fair they’re gone and I’m not. All my joy left this world with them. I cry for what I’ve lost and what I’ve missed out on since they left. I cry for what they’ll miss in the future.
No Summer, I remind myself.Mom and Lily bee and Jake would want you to live. You have to live for them.Steeling myself, I push out of the water’s path and take some deep breaths, practicing the breathing exercises my therapist taught me. Affirmations roll through my mind.
You are going to be okay.
One moment at a time.
It’s okay to grieve.
Let yourself feel whatever you need to and let those feelings pass on.
It takes a good 20 minutes before I am back to functioning. The water is cooling down, so I quickly stand up, wash, and get out of the shower before the water gets icy. I dry off and get dressed, avoiding the vanity. I’ve been practicing looking in the mirror at my body these past few months, but I’m just not up to seeing the scars today.
The accident caused a concussion, swelling on the brain, a broken leg and internal bleeding, along with a bunch of bruising and cuts. My heart stopped on the way to the hospital and again during surgery to fix the internal bleeding. I was placed in a medically induced coma for several weeks to help my body heal. The resulting scars on my thigh, arm, chin, and stomach are a type of visual torture for me. I hope someday they make me feel strong instead of devastated.
After brushing out my long, wavy brown hair and putting my dirty clothes in the hamper, I head downstairs. Sue is at the table reading the newspaper, as usual. Our town still delivers daily newspapers, even though most people read the digital version these days.
She gets up to grab my waffles from the oven when she sees me. “Here you go, your favorite, sweetheart. I’ll grab the maple syrup and whipped cream.”
One thing I appreciate about Sue is that she doesn’t push me to talk or to be okay. She lets me deal in my way. Her only insistence when I moved in was that I see a therapist. I wasn’t thrilled about that at first, but knew after everything I endured I had to get help. It was therapy or another foster home, which wasn’t an option for me.
I was devastated and angry at the world when I was finally released from the hospital almost two months after the accident. I had lost everything. My family, my home, my whole life. I had no one and wasn’t coping at all. The first foster family was nice enough, a couple who unsuccessfully tried to have children, but they couldn’t handle me. I always skipped school, had terrifying nightmares, couldn’t eat, and was deeply depressed. I had no control over anything and was lashing out at everyone around me. They took me back to CPS after a month.
Foster family number two only cared about getting a monthly check, regardless of who I was. The mom worked, and the dad stayed home with the foster kids. Food was always scarce in that crowded, dirty house. The older kids took care of the younger ones because Stan was too busy drinking beer and watching tv. I kept to myself, but shared a room with another teen girl.
I was so wrapped up in my grief that I didn’t notice the signs the dad was a creep until one day when I skipped school and snuck back into my room to get some sleep. The nightmares kept me up most nights, but I discovered that sleeping during the day gave me far less horrible dreams. Passing out hard as soon as my head hit the pillow; I woke to Stan leaning over me naked while he was pulling my jeans and underwear down. I screamed my head off. Stan backed away when I started screaming, and Carla, the foster mom, knocked on the door, yelling at me to keep it down. Apparently, she came home early from work because it was slow. After leaving the room, I immediately took the bus to CPS and reported Stan’s actions to the agent on duty, although I sensed his disbelief. I took the bus to the police station next. They promised to investigate and arranged for me to go to a group home that night. Three days later, the news broke, and all the foster kids of Stan and Carla Davis were removed from their home.
Safe to say, it was a straightforward choice to agree to see a therapist after that trauma. I had no desire to set foot in another unknown foster home.
“Summer, are you visiting Jake after school today?” Sue asks.
“Huh?” I shake my head to dislodge the disturbing thoughts. “Sorry, zoned out,” I admit, as I rub the ache in my chest again. Memory lane is not a good idea today.
