CHAPTER ONEEDITH
Knives always make me nervous.
Metal gleams as Jim lifts the knife in his large fist and slices into his slab of ham. In his every movement, no matter how innocuous, I see the possibility of violence. But the man sitting across the table is not my dad, I remind myself.
My dad is dead. I don’t have to fear him anymore.
Jim smiles, exposing coffee-stained teeth. “Everything okay, Edith?”
My foster father’s voice is smooth and easy, my name familiar in his mouth. I’ve lived with him and his wife for nine years, but I doubt either one remembers what terrible anniversary September 15 marks. My parents’ murder-suicide took place ten years ago today. If Jim remembered, he wouldn’t be asking me if everything is okay. He would know it’s not.
“Fine,” I lie, my head throbbing.
Another migraine. Just what I need.
“Want some OJ, sweetie?” my foster mom, Patricia, offers, as if some sugary juice can sweeten me up.
Her wedding ring clinks against the glass as she hands me a cup, and for a moment, I’m a little girl again, and the glass shatters against the wall. I flinch as my mom kneels, painstakingly picking up the pieces, even as they slice her fingertips open. It’s the same way she tried to salvage her marriage—until she bled the same bright red as the paint on Patricia’s nails.
“Thanks,” I say without emotion.
These people who aren’t my parents keep talking, their voices barely louder than the TV. In this house, the volume is kept to a quiet hum in the background. When I was little, I’d turn the TV up until it blared, but it still wasn’t loud enough to drown out my dad yelling. I try to never think about my parents, but today it’s impossible not to.
I force myself to take a bite of breakfast. The eggs are poached to perfection, but as I chew, I miss the crunch of Mom’s burnt bacon. I have no appetite for this, or anything else, but unless I eat, Jim and Patricia will worry, so I have some more.
Bea runs up to the table and pouts. “I thought we were having pancakes.”
Patricia pats her head. “Maybe Saturday before Edith’s cross-country meet.”
My little sister stuffs her mouth with buttery toast, all complaints forgotten. Even though they were her parents too, she has no idea what anniversary today is.
I clear my throat. “Speaking of, I’m probably going to stay late at practice.”
“Just let me know when to pick you up,” Jim says, reaching for his newspaper.
I shake my head. “Maddy will give me a ride. Thanks, though.”
Only eight hours until practice. Eight hours until I’m running on the track, my eyes fixed on the horizon, my lungs filling with each quick breath, my skin slick with a sheen of sweat, my feet poundingover polyurethane. Running is the only time I can forget what happened.
Unlike here.
Sunlight streams through the window, illuminating the picturesque breakfast spread complete with gingham tablecloth and happy family. Jim, with his starched white shirt and sweater tied around his neck, reads a newspaper. Patricia, with her full face of makeup and floral dress, sips some orange juice. Bea, with her junior school uniform and cute little pigtails, fits right into this scene.
And then there’s me, a piece with too many sharp edges to fit anywhere.
So I’m trying to smooth myself down, make myself smaller until I’m one of them. I have no choice; otherwise I might turn out like my dad. And that scares me more than anything. It’s bad enough I have to see his gray eyes staring back at me every time I look in the mirror. So I smile a little wider, laugh a little louder while Bea chats excitedly with our foster parents.
I grip my fork tighter. Maybe if I had grown up with parents like Jim and Patricia, I wouldn’t feel so out of place. Maybe if my dad hadn’t killed my mom and then himself when I was seven, I wouldn’t feel so angry all the time, rage simmering just under the surface. Maybe if he wasn’t my dad, I wouldn’t have his eyes or his hair or, worst of all, his anger.
Maybe I wouldn’t have to pretend.
I’m determined to belong here, even if it means pretending. In less than a year, when I turn eighteen, I might not be able to. Jim and Patricia haven’t adopted us, which means I could be separated from Bea, the onlyrealfamily I have left.
Everything is fine. I’m fine.
At least Bea doesn’t remember any of it. She was too young. To her, Jim and Patriciaareour parents. She doesn’t remember what happened to Mom and Dad, and probably doesn’t remember our brief stay withour uncle either. She doesn’t even realize she gets her auburn hair and brown eyes from our real mom. Being happy is easy for her.
As I swallow another bite, something heavy and cold settles in the pit of my stomach. I squeeze my fork until my fingers tighten into a painful fist. Seeing them all so happy, even on a day like this—especiallyon a day like this—makes me even angrier. My hand starts to tremble, so I hide it in my lap before anyone can notice. I smile until my cheeks hurt when all I want to do isscream.But I’m a good daughter. A good sister. A good girl.
