From my bed, I stared through my window at the oak in the front yard. The oak’s limbs dipped up and down in the wind like they were bobbing for apples. It was easy to not think of anything else.
Sometimes I’d hear Maeve banging pots around as if she were trying to smash them. Now and then, Maeve and Mickey’s voices climbed in argument, always ending with slamming doors.
I just watched the oak branches outside my window bob up and down, up and down.
But when they stopped moving—when there wasn’t a breeze in the sky—the nightmares would begin.
But really, day-mares was more like it.
There was one where Dad bought me a lollipop in a tool store when I was ten. He just grabbed a random one and tossed it in the shopping cart. Watermelon. I remembered sucking on it as we walked to the truck, looking up at him as he smiled at something Caleb said. My hand itched to hold his. I worked up enough courage to “accidentally” brush my knuckles against his before chickening out. I didn’t want to jinx anything. Maybe the next time he bought me a lollipop—or maybe even an ice cream cone—I’d tuck my hand into his.
That never happened.
There were other memories like that, of me scooping up anything I could interpret as affection. And my brain played them over and over again in my head until I hated myself.
Desperate—that’s what I’d been before I learned to despise him, latching onto shadows of kindness. I’d hoped they’d grow and grow until they became real.
But my mother—I couldn’t remember her. Only a vague image popped into my head from a picture of her I discovered behind Caleb’s mattress years ago while playing hide-and-seek. I knew who the red-headed woman pushing a baby swing was as soon as I saw her. Excited, I’d shown it to my dad. I’d waited until he was drunk, but not enough to get angry. Sometimes he said more after he’d had a little to drink.
But he’d had more than I realized. He’d ripped the photo from my hands and thudded over to the bathroom, tossing it into the toilet. I’d turned away, biting down on my balled fist at the sound of urine hitting water. He flushed when he finished.
On day five or six, Maeve stopped bringing food to my room. I would creep downstairs now and then and eat whatever leftovers she’d saved in the fridge and grab a few things for the following day.
When Maeve suggested I go back to school on Monday, I shrugged. When Monday arrived, nothing much changed except I began applying makeup again. My bruises looked the same, but I didn’t analyze them past getting the job done. Yellow for the purple areas, green for the red, peach for the yellowing edges, dab with a heavy-duty concealer.
Go downstairs. Eat something. Leave. Come home. Sleep.
Mickey led me to school the next day and the day after that. Students’ and teachers’ voices melted into a buzzing drone that played in the background. Mickey and Bridgette stayed close, never leaving me by myself. But I didn’t care—I didn’t feel like thinking about it enough to care.
Instead, I spent my spare time counting the tiles on the classroom ceilings, doodling on paper, skimming chapters of schoolwork that I would have to read over and over again because I couldn’t concentrate. I ignored the other students’ glances and whispers, and they, for the most part, didn’t bother me.
Saturday came again. When the sun stabbed through my window and into my face, I cracked open an eyelid, made out 8:11 am on my bedside alarm, and slung a pillow over my eyes. I slept until 1:00, no one bothering to disturb me.
My stomach rumbled, but I tried to ignore it. I hadn’t eaten much last night—a leftover veggie sub—but it kind of annoyed me that I still had to be hungry on top of all the other messed up stuff I needed to deal with.
After spending another hour in my room, I headed down to the kitchen.
Mickey and Maeve both sat at the counter, their heads pivoting toward me as I entered.
“She lives!” Mickey said with a smile too tight around the edges to be genuine.
I avoided his eyes as I made my way to the fridge, grabbing some milk.
I opened and shut the silverware drawer without saying a word.
“Kella,” Maeve said as I grabbed a bowl from the cupboard.
“Kella?” Maeve tried again.
I grabbed a box of granola from the pantry and poured some into the bowl, quickly followed by milk.
“Kella.” Maeve reached out and placed a comforting hand on the back of mine. I froze, staring at it. Someone placing a hand on top of mine shouldn’t seem like a language as foreign to me—as uncomfortable—as Irish had been.
“We think—I think—you should visit a counselor. Someone you can talk to about, well, everything you’re going through. Someone who will help you work through it.”
I kept staring at her hand on mine until she moved it away.
I looked up in time to see Maeve and Mickey exchange a look. They were worried. I got that, but a therapist…
“No,” I said, my voice hoarse from disuse. “No, I’m not visiting some shrink who thinks they know what’s going on in my head after fifteen minutes.”
“Not a shrink, Kella. A therapist. Someone who just talks with you—helps you process losing your parents.”
I shook my head adamantly.
“Kella, I really think it could help you.”
I stared down at my granola for a long time. When I met Maeve’s eyes again, I had to clench my jaw to keep my chin from trembling.
“No,” I said.
“But—”
I turned away, bowl in hand as I headed out of the kitchen.
“Just think about it, okay?” Maeve called after me.
I paused before circling back to the counter. “No.” I looked her in the eye, willing her to
