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Authors: Steena Holmes
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earlier.” Nina laid down her pen and glanced behind her to where my desk was.
My lips pursed. I didn’t want to talk about them. Not right now. Maybe after I’d read them. I was only ten years old when I wrote in the first journal, and who knows what I wrote then. The last thing I needed was for Nina to psychoan alyze me.
“I want to go into work for a few hours tomorrow. I know it’s not on the schedule, but will you be around to watc h Grace?”
The frown on Nina’s face sai d it all.
“It’s just for a few hours, I promise.”
“Don’t you think you should spend time with your sister? That’s why she’s here, af ter all.”
I winced. She w as right.
“I know, but…” I really couldn’t think of a vali d excuse.
“Did something happen between you and Charlie? Is that why you’d rather go into work than spend time w ith her?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“That’s not an answer , Diane.”
I hated when Nina admonished me like that. It wasn’t just how she looked at me, with disappointment in her eyes. But it was her tone and the little sigh she gave before she asked me the question.
I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to react with Charlie now, after everything that happened yesterday. Nor was I sure that she really wanted to spend time with me and Grace. Other than her holding Grace when she first arrived, she’d shown no real interest in my daughter, and I wasn’t sure how to handle that. I knew it was in large part due to her own personal fears and her engagement with Marcus, b ut still.
“I feel like I need to show Charlie that I haven’t changed, that I’m still the big sister I’ve alw ays been.”
Nina sipped at her tea and watched me from over the rim o f the cup.
“So you think you’re showing her t his, how?”
“I’m not.” I shook my head. “But I see it in her eyes, the way she watches me when she thinks I’m not looking.”
“What is she looking for?” Nina reached for her pen and had it poised over the notebook.
“To see if I’ve gone crazy. Like our mother did. I know she is, and I don’t know how to convince her I ’m fine.”
Nina stood up, walked over to my desk, and grabbed the journal from the top of the pile. I stiffened at her actions. What was s he doing?
“Do you think you’ve gone crazy?” She sat back down and placed the journal b etween us.
I fidgeted in my seat, unable to stay still. My arms were going numb so I flexed them, dropping them to my side and raising them over and over while wiggling my fingers. Nina just sat there and w atched me.
“No, I don’t think so.” I scratched the top of my itchy eyelid and then rubbed my ear. All of a sudden I was itchy all over.
“You don’t know or you don’t think so?” Nina picked up her pen again.
“Stop writing about me in your notebook!” I blurted.
Nina’s hand stilled. She set down the pen, closed the book, and folded her hands o n her lap.
“What makes you think I was writing about you? Perhaps I was making a grocery list for all the baked goods I now have to make.”
Embarrassed, I bowed my head and glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. I felt like I’d just gotten my hand slapped, like a small child reaching for a cookie after being told no. Except I wasn’t a child and I didn’t need to feel that way.
“Diane, I couldn’t help but notice the journals on your desk.” Nina picked up the book but didn’t open it.
Part of me was perturbed that she would go through my things, but another part of me expected it and was a bit relieved she’d done so. Maybe I could discuss this with her, talk about some of the symptoms my mother experienced, and find a way to discount Charlie ’s fears.
“My mother went…crazy after she gave birth to our baby brother. Back then”—I shrugged and stared down at the table, unwilling to see the reaction on Nina’s face—“there really was no way to get her any help or even realize she need ed help.”
“How old w ere
My lips pursed. I didn’t want to talk about them. Not right now. Maybe after I’d read them. I was only ten years old when I wrote in the first journal, and who knows what I wrote then. The last thing I needed was for Nina to psychoan alyze me.
“I want to go into work for a few hours tomorrow. I know it’s not on the schedule, but will you be around to watc h Grace?”
The frown on Nina’s face sai d it all.
“It’s just for a few hours, I promise.”
“Don’t you think you should spend time with your sister? That’s why she’s here, af ter all.”
I winced. She w as right.
“I know, but…” I really couldn’t think of a vali d excuse.
“Did something happen between you and Charlie? Is that why you’d rather go into work than spend time w ith her?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“That’s not an answer , Diane.”
I hated when Nina admonished me like that. It wasn’t just how she looked at me, with disappointment in her eyes. But it was her tone and the little sigh she gave before she asked me the question.
I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to react with Charlie now, after everything that happened yesterday. Nor was I sure that she really wanted to spend time with me and Grace. Other than her holding Grace when she first arrived, she’d shown no real interest in my daughter, and I wasn’t sure how to handle that. I knew it was in large part due to her own personal fears and her engagement with Marcus, b ut still.
“I feel like I need to show Charlie that I haven’t changed, that I’m still the big sister I’ve alw ays been.”
Nina sipped at her tea and watched me from over the rim o f the cup.
“So you think you’re showing her t his, how?”
“I’m not.” I shook my head. “But I see it in her eyes, the way she watches me when she thinks I’m not looking.”
“What is she looking for?” Nina reached for her pen and had it poised over the notebook.
“To see if I’ve gone crazy. Like our mother did. I know she is, and I don’t know how to convince her I ’m fine.”
Nina stood up, walked over to my desk, and grabbed the journal from the top of the pile. I stiffened at her actions. What was s he doing?
“Do you think you’ve gone crazy?” She sat back down and placed the journal b etween us.
I fidgeted in my seat, unable to stay still. My arms were going numb so I flexed them, dropping them to my side and raising them over and over while wiggling my fingers. Nina just sat there and w atched me.
“No, I don’t think so.” I scratched the top of my itchy eyelid and then rubbed my ear. All of a sudden I was itchy all over.
“You don’t know or you don’t think so?” Nina picked up her pen again.
“Stop writing about me in your notebook!” I blurted.
Nina’s hand stilled. She set down the pen, closed the book, and folded her hands o n her lap.
“What makes you think I was writing about you? Perhaps I was making a grocery list for all the baked goods I now have to make.”
Embarrassed, I bowed my head and glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. I felt like I’d just gotten my hand slapped, like a small child reaching for a cookie after being told no. Except I wasn’t a child and I didn’t need to feel that way.
“Diane, I couldn’t help but notice the journals on your desk.” Nina picked up the book but didn’t open it.
Part of me was perturbed that she would go through my things, but another part of me expected it and was a bit relieved she’d done so. Maybe I could discuss this with her, talk about some of the symptoms my mother experienced, and find a way to discount Charlie ’s fears.
“My mother went…crazy after she gave birth to our baby brother. Back then”—I shrugged and stared down at the table, unwilling to see the reaction on Nina’s face—“there really was no way to get her any help or even realize she need ed help.”
“How old w ere
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