bed. The warmth of the tears on my cheeks comforts me in an odd way. I hide my face in the neck of my T-shirt and wrap my arms over my head. I bury myself there as though I can block it all out. As though this time will be different, and I won’t dream about it.
I do anyway.
Hours, or even days, later, for all I care, my door opens. It’s Dad. Strange to see him here in my room like this. He stretches his face into what might pass for some as a smile. He hands me a large frozen yogurt. Then he sits on the edge of my bed. His brown eyes take it all in. His hair is perfectly combed. His blue dress shirt hasn’t got a crease in it. I smirk.
The cold yogurt tastes good on my throat, soothing the bee stings. I feel it hit my empty stomach like a heavy weight. It settles in. Peach and vanilla. Emerson’s favorite. I wonder if he realizes, if he knows that I would choose chocolate.
Dad has a yellow pad in his hands. He writes a note.
How are you doing?
I answer, “Peachy.” Just like the yogurt.
Does anything hurt?
“My head . ” And my heart. But I don’t add that part.
You’ll be back to normal before you know it.
He wants that to be true; I can tell. Not just for me. I understand that now. Because I’ve noticed that he isn’t looking at me at all. Not really. Not at my scarred head and bruised face. Not my defective ears. He can’t deal with the damaged me. I’m not a problem he can fix. Suddenly, I don’t want to talk to him anymore.
“I’m really tired,” I say. “Thanks for coming.”
A look of relief passes over his face. And then, just as quickly, he covers it with another stiff smile. He leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
I watch him leave. Seeing my dad leave always makes me sad. I used to think he was my hero. But after what he did to my mom—to us—it can never be like that again. Now he’s a hero to his new kid, I guess. I think he visits out of obligation, to prove to himself that he’s not such a bad guy. That just because he divorced my mom, he didn’t divorce us.
He might be able to lie to himself like that, but I know better now.
I turn onto my side and face the window. I wonder if I will ever be happy again. I think of the little rainbow girl in the hospital. Happiness danced in the air around her. Surrounding her with a joy for life. I want to be like her. Instead, I am treading water, trying desperately to stay above the depths of despair threatening to pull me under. Threatening to drown me in sorrow and self-pity forever.
I am struggling so hard. And I know, even if I don’t want to admit it, that right now, I am losing the battle.
A lone tear slips down my cheek. Lodges itself between my skin and the pillow. I feel the dampness soak into the pale blue cotton. I keep the other tears inside, not letting them fall. One tear is enough. If I let them out one at a time, maybe I won’t drown.
The freedom in honesty
— Hayden —
I know the instant she sends the text. I look at my phone and wait for it. I can almost hear her clear deep voice speaking the single word to me: “Afraid.”
I waited to hear back from her, second-guessing my text. Maybe I didn’t say enough. I wondered why she hadn’t responded.
But now she has. I stare at her message, thinking of the subtext beneath the single word. Afraid. I think of her sitting alone in silence. Feeling lonely, lost.
I want to tell her that she isn’t alone, that I am here for her. But I don’t want to scare her away, not when she is already afraid. Not when she is brave enough to be honest with me. So I write back, carefully. As if she is the tawny cat basking in the sun on our porch.
For weeks, the cat watched me, and I watched her, knowing that one day, she would learn to trust me. Every day, I sat on the porch. I played my guitar, pretending not to notice her. And every day, the cat moved closer and closer. Until one day, I found her lying in a sliver of sunlight right next to me. Since
I do anyway.
Hours, or even days, later, for all I care, my door opens. It’s Dad. Strange to see him here in my room like this. He stretches his face into what might pass for some as a smile. He hands me a large frozen yogurt. Then he sits on the edge of my bed. His brown eyes take it all in. His hair is perfectly combed. His blue dress shirt hasn’t got a crease in it. I smirk.
The cold yogurt tastes good on my throat, soothing the bee stings. I feel it hit my empty stomach like a heavy weight. It settles in. Peach and vanilla. Emerson’s favorite. I wonder if he realizes, if he knows that I would choose chocolate.
Dad has a yellow pad in his hands. He writes a note.
How are you doing?
I answer, “Peachy.” Just like the yogurt.
Does anything hurt?
“My head . ” And my heart. But I don’t add that part.
You’ll be back to normal before you know it.
He wants that to be true; I can tell. Not just for me. I understand that now. Because I’ve noticed that he isn’t looking at me at all. Not really. Not at my scarred head and bruised face. Not my defective ears. He can’t deal with the damaged me. I’m not a problem he can fix. Suddenly, I don’t want to talk to him anymore.
“I’m really tired,” I say. “Thanks for coming.”
A look of relief passes over his face. And then, just as quickly, he covers it with another stiff smile. He leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
I watch him leave. Seeing my dad leave always makes me sad. I used to think he was my hero. But after what he did to my mom—to us—it can never be like that again. Now he’s a hero to his new kid, I guess. I think he visits out of obligation, to prove to himself that he’s not such a bad guy. That just because he divorced my mom, he didn’t divorce us.
He might be able to lie to himself like that, but I know better now.
I turn onto my side and face the window. I wonder if I will ever be happy again. I think of the little rainbow girl in the hospital. Happiness danced in the air around her. Surrounding her with a joy for life. I want to be like her. Instead, I am treading water, trying desperately to stay above the depths of despair threatening to pull me under. Threatening to drown me in sorrow and self-pity forever.
I am struggling so hard. And I know, even if I don’t want to admit it, that right now, I am losing the battle.
A lone tear slips down my cheek. Lodges itself between my skin and the pillow. I feel the dampness soak into the pale blue cotton. I keep the other tears inside, not letting them fall. One tear is enough. If I let them out one at a time, maybe I won’t drown.
The freedom in honesty
— Hayden —
I know the instant she sends the text. I look at my phone and wait for it. I can almost hear her clear deep voice speaking the single word to me: “Afraid.”
I waited to hear back from her, second-guessing my text. Maybe I didn’t say enough. I wondered why she hadn’t responded.
But now she has. I stare at her message, thinking of the subtext beneath the single word. Afraid. I think of her sitting alone in silence. Feeling lonely, lost.
I want to tell her that she isn’t alone, that I am here for her. But I don’t want to scare her away, not when she is already afraid. Not when she is brave enough to be honest with me. So I write back, carefully. As if she is the tawny cat basking in the sun on our porch.
For weeks, the cat watched me, and I watched her, knowing that one day, she would learn to trust me. Every day, I sat on the porch. I played my guitar, pretending not to notice her. And every day, the cat moved closer and closer. Until one day, I found her lying in a sliver of sunlight right next to me. Since
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