Looked both ways.
Used my instincts.
Armed myself.
Didn’t leave my drink unattended.
But none of that mattered now, as he ground my head against the mattress; as his fingernails dug into the front of my neck.
My arms dropped. A choking sound burst from my mouth. A mix of bile and purple punch shot into the back of my throat.
“Do you know where that expression comes from?” he asked. “The cat having your tongue?” He started to explain—something about Egypt and tongue-eating cats.
My mind grew foggy. The room was getting blurry. Still, I tried to fight back, drawing upward with my leg, wanting to knee him in the groin, flailing outward with my arms.
He removed the rag—one quick pluck. My teeth clanged down, and I let out a wheeze. Something tasted sweet. Why did my tongue feel so lumpy?
“Now, tell me the truth,” he said. “What do you think about fairy tales? Which one is your favorite? Tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine…”
My heart pounded.
“Want to give me a little hint?”
Just then, I remembered. On my bedside table, I had a glass of water. I turned my head slightly and started to look over.
But he grabbed my jaw and forced it open, stuffing something else into my mouth—something softer than before; bulkier, like sweatshirt material.
Still, I reached a little farther.
My fingers grazed the night table. Just a little bit more. I felt the surface of the glass. I searched for the rim. Why was he letting me? I just needed another inch as he continued to stuff—in, in, in, filling my cheeks, deep into my mouth …
Was he poking my eyes?
Was that water on my forehead?
Drip, drip, drip. Like a baptism.
My fingers curled over the rim of the glass. I got a good grip and swung outward, toward his head. The sound of glass shattering echoed inside my brain.
Had I hit him? Did I stab him?
The minty scent of mouthwash filled my senses, brought tears to my eyes. Was I still fighting? I could no longer tell.
A patch of gray flashed in front of my vision. A picture of Hemingway, my calico cat that’d died ten years before, pressed inside my mind’s eye.
Had a glass really broken?
It was all too much to process: what my body parts were doing, what was really, truly happening.
A blazing burst of light shot out inside my brain like the lights of a fire truck—bright red and blue flames, burning up my thoughts, painting splotches on the pavement.
“Sleep now, sweet girl,” the voice said right at my ear as though he were nestled beside me. “There will be time for fairy tales later.”
He continued to talk, telling me a story about a water well and a forest girl until eventually his voice melted like wax in a fire, just a puddle of muffled sounds.
My consciousness melted too: a hot, dripping mess. I pictured the door in my bedroom, in my childhood house, four years before. Beyond it, I saw a pile of yellow ashes and clouds of maroon smoke, as though through the ray of my neighbor’s stained-glass sun.
NOW
7
The following day, after my aunt leaves for work, I go outside to my mom’s old Subaru. It’d been parked on the street on the night of the fire. My aunt kept the car, assuming I might one day want to have it. I’m glad she did, because aside from fading memories, it’s one of the few things I have of hers.
I unlock the door and crawl into the back. Mom’s yoga blanket is here—a thick wool one that smells like the lavender oil she used to carry home from her vinyasa classes. I drape it over me and pull my old bedroom doorknob from the pocket of my sweatshirt. The knob is from the house that burned. It’s discolored from the fire, but a star is still in the center of it, drawn with little-girl hands and a red Sharpie marker. Back when I was five, I believed that drawing the star there, in the center of the chrome, and coloring it in, would somehow magically create a keyhole. Needless to say, it didn’t work, and my parents were not amused. But I’m grateful for drawing it now, because weeks after the fire, when I went back to the scene, the star helped me recognize the knob from the heap of what remained of my childhood home.
I open up the podcast app on my phone and play Star Up, the series my parents and I used to listen to on long car rides. It’s currently on its eighth season. With the blanket snuggled close, I curl up on the seat, with the doorknob pressed against my palm, where the burn mark used to be. And as I listen, I ask myself questions about the characters, like what Mom would say about Maisie’s choice to go off to boarding school, or what Dad would think about Thomas’s father’s drinking problem. Would it remind him of his own father?
When I close my eyes, I can almost trick myself into believing that we’re just stopped at a gas station en route to New York City or the lake house in Maine, that Dad’s using the restroom, that Mom’s buying snacks—licorice sticks and pretzel rods. They’ll both be back in a few moments, I tell myself.
I inhale a deep breath and try my best to hold on to these thoughts—to keep back the fire inside my head. But when the Star Up episode ends, reality creeps back and I remember who I am: someone who’s not at all ready to go back to being me. And so, I advance to the next episode, eager to get back to make-believe.
NOW
8
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Paylee22: I tell my parents I’m fine
