Amy Chelsea Stacie Dee (7 page)

And then Stacie stopped screaming.

THE SAFEST THING
to do would be to stay in my room with the door closed. The more I talk to the people around me, the more chances there are that I'll slip up.

In the week since my dad came home, he's looking like my dad again. Under the gray hair, behind the extra padding, there's the man who used to take me fishing on the real river, the part where the fish really liked to bite. There's the man who taught me how to ride my bike, and pooh-poohed the training wheels my mom wanted me to use. There's the man who took Jay and me on camping trips in the mountains. And also the man who cracked jokes at dinner and made my mom crazy by tracking mud through the house, and who listened to hip-hop music in the garage.

He left before we woke up in the morning.

He was always home for dinner.

He helped me with my homework.

He read to me.

He always listened when I talked.

He smiled a lot.

He was a real father. The kind every kid deserves to have. The kind who doesn't have moods, doesn't lash out, doesn't punish them by tossing their food. Doesn't hit them. The kind who loves his kids' mother for all the right reasons, who loves her because of who she really is.

There's another kind of love. It's the way you love the things you own, like your sports car or your favorite outfit—or your dolls. Some people would say it's not really love at all. But they never saw the way Kyle looked at Stacie. They never saw the way he held Lola in his arms and smiled, the way his eyes lit up as he told her what a precious little doll she was. How angry he became when we didn't act like dolls were supposed to. There's a kind of love that's just like hate, that won't let go, that doesn't give but only takes.

That wasn't the way my dad loved me, or the way my dad loved my mom, once.

They tiptoe around each other, as if they don't know what to say.

There are six years of history, unspoken. Rips and tears and cracks and mountains between them.

The safest thing would be to stay in my room, but with them here, I can't do that. I can't do that because even though they're as broken as I am, they still love me and each other. I can feel it in the way my mom's hand cups the carrots she's chopping for the stew she's making, which was one of my dad's favorite dinners. I can feel it in the way my dad stands
in the kitchen door, nervously fingering the broken trim. I remember that he used to do that while Mom cooked, and he'd be talking about his day at work. He didn't talk in a steady stream like Lee—and Dee. For him it was burst of information punctuated by quiet. A complaint about a client followed by a joke, followed by Mom's soft laughter, followed by Dad rubbing his hand along the trim. Then Dad would say something else, and Mom would reply. There was always laughter.

Now Dad stands in the doorway silently. Jay, who used to be a bundle of energy, always running around, sometimes racing through the kitchen between Mom and Dad, sits on the couch, also silent. He sits with his arms crossed, and when he sees me coming from the hallway, he looks away. It's not supposed to be like this. He's supposed to call me a stupid name, ask me what I'm doing, ask me to play a game with him. But I'd settle for him to say anything to me at all.

I sit down on the other end of the couch. “Hey.”

He still won't look at me.

“What's going on?” I think that's what you say to people when you're trying to just say hello, but it sounds strange coming from my mouth. In the last six years, I don't think I ever said it.

Jay picks up the TV remote, then puts it down again.

“I'm sorry you can't watch TV,” I say. It's still banned in our house because of all the news about me.

“Did you have a TV?” he asks.

“No.”

“That sucks.” He fiddles with the remote.

But that wasn't what sucked. I did miss it sometimes. I wanted something to pass the time, to give me a moment of escape. Because I had something to escape
from
, while he was here, safe and sound. Free. And he can't appreciate it. I want to tell him that at least it wasn't him, at least he got to grow up with a home and parents and school and, yes, TV.

“That's not what I missed.” I hear the tone in my voice, the annoyed snap. I used that tone so much with him when I was ten. And afterward, I wished I hadn't.
We'll bring you some stupid blackberries, okay?
Those were the last words I ever said to him, and I still can't find something nice to say. It's not his fault he was safe. I'm
glad
he was safe.

Jay doesn't reply, just keeps fiddling with the remote. I think that I should go back to my room and wait until Mom calls me for dinner, but then Dad comes over and sits between us.

Go back,
I think.
Talk to Mom the way you used to.
But I like the fact that he's here, that I don't have to miss him anymore. I don't have to miss any of them, but we don't talk. We sit on the couch in silence until Mom comes out of the kitchen.

She sits in a chair near the living room window.

I suddenly want to be here so much it almost knocks me over. I want to be here and to have always been here and for all of us to be together. I want to be the girl who grew up as a big sister, who snapped at her brother and never thought a thing of it. I don't know what I would have done today if I was that girl. Maybe Dee and I would still be best friends, and we would have gone to the lake together, or the library, or ridden our bikes around town. Maybe we'd have grown apart, and
I'd have gone to the movies, or watched TV, or played soccer. Maybe I'd have lain in bed all day here at home and never talked to anyone, or surfed the Internet for celebrity news. But whatever I would have done, I want to have done it, and I want to be sitting here now watching TV, listening to Mom and Dad talk, telling Jay to stop annoying me.

But.

Lola and Barbie need me.

I never meant to leave them. Not ever. Not for anyone. Even Jay. Even Dad. Even Mom.

•   •   •

The thing that you have to understand is, being a mom sucks. Changing diapers is disgusting, and I know that people say it gets less disgusting, but it doesn't. It's disgusting a whole bunch of times a day. Babies have to be fed, and little kids have to be entertained, and they always want your attention, and you would think that with three people to give them attention, it would have been easier. But that's not true when you're the only one in the room who's sane.

I know I don't seem sane right now. And the truth is, I'm a mess. There's so much on my mind that it weighs my whole body down, and it makes me silent, and it makes me cry, and it makes me hide behind my hand as if I could really brush the past away. But trust me, I was sane. I was the one who got up to feed them, and held them and rocked them until they slept. I changed their diapers, and I told them stories, and I played with them and taught them.

All I wanted to do was sleep, and let that little room and
the big man with the little head and even Stacie fade away into nothing. But I got up every morning and fed them. I kept going. And it sucked.

•   •   •

But also, it didn't suck. Also, I never knew what life was for before I had them.

If I didn't have them, I would have only had that little room, and the big man with the little head who raped Stacie and treated me like I was nothing, and a cousin who was no longer my cousin, who had disappeared into darkness.

Lola and Barbie never knew that their lives were supposed to be different. They were born whole. They were born for me to love them, and to love me in a way I thought I'd lost forever. So I would go back to changing diapers, to losing sleep, to bathing and feeding and playing and protecting. I would go back in a heartbeat.

WHEN DINNER IS READY,
we all go sit at the table. We sit in the same spots as we used to—the spots that no one ever assigned but that we just fell into because they were ours. Even after so much time, it feels right to be in the chair facing the refrigerator. It would feel wrong to be anywhere else. There's nothing on it now, though. No pictures. No calendars. No list of chores we're supposed to do. It's an empty white space, and I wonder if that's what we are—if we should at least try to be something new instead of what we should have been.

“How's Beth?” my mom asks.

My dad is putting his phone away. He just stepped outside to talk to her—Beth—his new wife. I think he was trying to hide it from me, but in this small house, it's impossible.

He glances at me.

“It's okay, Dad,” I say. “I know you're married.”

He clears his throat. “She's fine.” He pauses. “Kids are
fine.” He turns to me. “Beth's kids. Liam is five and Beatrice is three.”

Just like Lola and Barbie.

“He acts like they're his,” Jay says. “New wife, new kids, new life. Forget about you, forget about us.” He picks up his plate and heads for his bedroom.

“It's not . . .” Dad shakes his head and can't finish his sentence. Because really, it is like that. I can see it all over his face, in the way his shoulders hunch and he stabs the meat with his fork instead of shoveling it in.
Best dinner ever, Patty,
he used to say. “They need me, too.”

“I know, Lon,” Mom says. She's on the verge of tears, but she takes a bite.

“What are they like?” I ask.

“Beth is a teacher,” he says. “High school math. Special-needs kids. Liam . . . typical boy, rambunctious. Bea is always asking questions. Always wants to learn everything. She reminds me of you, Amy. A lot.” He spins the fork, and I can see that it hurts him. Even after he ran away, he still thought about me. Of course he did. He's a parent. Just because he's a dad and not a mom doesn't make it any different.

“They're good people,” Mom says. She chews her hurt and her anger with her food, swallowing it. She's not happy he's gone, but she's accepted it. Just like she accepted that I was dead.

Did that make you feel better?
she used to ask me when I was little. She'd ask it after I had a tantrum or said something mean. I'd have to admit that it didn't feel better to get angry, but only made me feel worse. So I know why she accepts things.

“I'd like to meet them,” I say.

“They'd like to meet you, too. After your mom called, we told them they had another sister. They were really happy. Bea wanted to know all about you.”

“She sounds great.” I eat and watch my parents eat, and we all try to pretend that Jay's chair isn't empty. This may not be the normal we wanted, but it's a lot closer to normal than what I had. This is my family. They're broken, and I'm the reason, but they're still Mom, Dad, and Jay.

I look at the plain white refrigerator, the metal sink with the two halves, the curtains with the yellow flowers over the kitchen window. The cookie jar that used to be my grandma's that has the word
home
written in white ceramic letters. Mom's beat-up Betty Crocker cookbook. The line in the table where the leaf goes in. My dad's red knuckles curled around his fork and the clip holding back my mom's now partly gray hair. My mom's nose, narrow and sharp, and her long eyelashes. The glass of milk Jay left on the table.

And the taste of my mom's stew, something I never thought I'd eat again. I hold a bite in my mouth, the savory gravy floating over my tongue.
This
is food.

•   •   •

It's dinnertime, but we're having cereal.

It's about a month after he took us, and I'm never sure if I'll be allowed to eat. Some days we get three meals, but others we get one, even if we do every single thing he asks. If we screw up, we get nothing. I've been careful all day not to do
anything to set him off. I've answered to the name Chelsea, and I've called Dee Stacie.

I've sat quietly unless he tells me to do something.

I've comforted Stacie, but not too much. Never reminded her of home, never said a word about the world outside. It's better if I say nothing at all.

Kyle pours cereal for both of us, and I'm so hungry, it's all I can do to wait until he's done pouring. We haven't eaten anything all day, but he has. He had canned soup that he heated on the stove, right in front of us, just a few feet away. We smelled it, and Stacie gripped my hand, and we stayed quiet.

The cereal is dry and bland, but we eat it. Taste means nothing when you're hungry. There isn't much that means anything then.

•   •   •

As I savor my mom's stew, I think about the food we had later, what Kyle bought when he finally went to town for groceries. Eggs, milk, whole-wheat pasta, cheap meat. I cooked it well enough so we could eat it and keep going another day. After the girls were born, it started to taste better, even though I didn't do anything different.

•   •   •

Lee calls, but I tell Mom to say I'll call her back. I like her, and I missed her, too, and I know she's trying to help me, but I'm not ready to see her again. I want to go to the mall again and to other places with people, but not yet. For now, I need to
be with these three people, these people who cared so much about me that they broke apart.

Jay goes out during the day. He grabs his bike and rides off the first chance he gets. Mom has taken leave from the post office, where it turns out she works full-time now, so the three of us are at home together.

Dad drives me to the lake, and we go to the far side, away from the area where there are a lot of people, and sit at the edge of the water in the summer sun. He knows he shouldn't take me to the river where Kyle found us, but he also knows I like the water, that I need it. I don't know how he knows this. Maybe it's because I got that from him. We sit at the edge of the lake and talk about things that wouldn't mean much, if you were normal. But to me, they mean everything.

He took over a friend's business in Boulder, and they have twenty-five employees.

Beth needed her kitchen renovated, and when she came into his office, Liam ran away from her and jumped into Dad's lap.

They live in a two-story house with a garage and a basement and a backyard shed.

Bea drew with crayons all over the family room wall, and they couldn't bear to paint over it, so now it's the wall everyone's allowed to draw on.

Dad has to watch his sugar because he's prediabetic.

There are sailboats on the lake, and I watch them float around the water as I listen. There isn't much I can tell him in return, but he lets me be silent. The best parts are when we're
silent together, when a burst of talking is over and we look out at the sailboats.

I think about the times we used to come here as a whole extended family, Mom, Dad, me, Jay, Aunt Hannah, Dee, and Lee. We'd go to the other side of the lake, where there was parking and a roped-off swimming area and bathrooms and a concession stand. Dee and I were the first to jump in, but even Lee liked to swim. She'd be wearing her sparkly pink tankini while she raced us to the buoys. And then Jay would come through and splash us all, and we girls would gang up on him. Lee and Dee actually went in together on one of those tankinis for me on our last Christmas. It was just like Lee's, except blue.

I stare at the sparkly swimsuit wrapped in tissue paper. It's so
not me
that I can't think of a thing to say, so I just keep staring.

Lee and Dee giggle. Dee thinks my reaction is so funny that she has to hide her face in Lee's shoulder.

“Come on, Amy, try it on!” Lee says.

“Oh my god,” I say.

“Amy, you'll look great in it,” Dee says.

“Of course she will—that's why
I
had the idea,” says Lee.

“Guys, I mean, thank you, but . . .” I stumble over my words, and I can see Mom raising her eyebrows at me from Aunt Hannah's couch. I doubt she wants me wearing this kind of swimsuit, but I doubt more that she wants me to be rude about the gift. “Thank you.”

“Come on!” Lee grabs one arm, Dee grabs the other, and they pull me past the Christmas tree, up the stairs, and into Lee's room. A picture of a ballerina in a pink tutu hangs above her twin bed.
“Dee, turn around.” They huddle together while I change out of my jeans and T-shirt into the suit. I feel ridiculous, but when they turn around, they both squeal.

“You look so good, Amy!” says Lee.

“
So
good!” says Dee.

I can't even stand to look in the mirror because I'm afraid I'll stick out like a dozen rows of Christmas lights. But when they push me into the bathroom and make me look, I realize that it kind of does look good. It fits perfectly.

The next time we went to the lake, I wore it. Aunt Hannah had bought Dee a new one-piece with little cutouts, and Dee and Lee thought we were the three coolest kids at the lake. I felt weird with all the sparkles, but we were having so much fun together that it didn't matter. We did all the usual things—swimming, splashing Jay, eating fudge bars. I'd forgotten about all of that until just now.

“You okay, kiddo?” Dad asks.

“I was just thinking about how we used to come here,” I say. “Remember that sparkly swimsuit Lee and Dee gave me?”

Dad chuckles. “Your mom gave Hannah a good talking-to over that.”

“I never knew.”

“Eh, she decided it wasn't worth fighting over. You kids seemed so happy.”

“We were.” We're all the way across the lake from the swimming area, but I can see kids playing, little ants on the sand or in the water splashing each other. I wonder if I ever would have gotten comfortable with that tankini, if Lee and
Dee together could have got me interested in clothes and makeup and all that stuff, in being cool. But I never had a chance to change, to figure out how I'd grow up. I'm a universe away from days at the lake and Christmas gifts.

Dad puts his arm around me, and I lean into him. We stay there until the sun starts going down.

•   •   •

Mom and I walk in the park, the same park where Dee and I used to roller-skate when we were little, where Jay and I used to play on the swings and the monkey bars. It seems smaller but also greener than I remember. It's full of life, and I get used to the feel of Mom's steps beside me.

She tells me about how she's a supervisor at the post office now, how Jay got his first report card with no Cs last semester and is going to play baseball in high school. She stopped going to church a few years ago, but she's thinking about going back. And she's learned some new things to make for dinner that she hopes I'll like.

I tell her I'll like them.

We see TV reporters following us with cameras, but they don't come close. We pretend they're not there.

Every night we have dinner as a family, and even though he doesn't look happy, Jay stays at the table. I learn that he spends most of his time with a friend named Trent. And when Mom drags it out of him that he has a girlfriend named Nona, he smiles. I want to meet his friends, and I hope that Jay staying at the table is a beginning, a sign that someday I'll be able to.

Another week has gone by, and I'm doing all right. Lee
has called for me three times, but then she gives up on me and talks to Mom. She wants all of us to come over for dinner with her and Aunt Hannah. Mom isn't sure it would be right, but Lee insists. She talks and talks and lets Mom go and then calls back. She says the whole family needs to be together and Aunt Hannah needs us, and finally, Mom agrees.

An hour before we're supposed to leave, Beth calls. I hear Dad's side of the conversation, and he's repeating the words to a children's story. He's talking about a black bear whose best friend was a field mouse, and while he recites the words to the story, he smiles.

I told Lola and Barbie stories just like that. There was the one about Mr. Otter and Mr. Turkey, based on Mom's obsession with the high school mascot, but there was also the one about Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck, which was new to the kids because we didn't have a TV. I even told them the one about the sponge who lived under the sea in a town called Bikini Bottom. I loved telling them stories. I used to smile just like Dad.

•   •   •

I can hear them laughing.

More, Chel!

Chel, another one!

When Mom knocks on my door, I'm crying.

“Honey, we don't have to do this,” she says. She thinks I'm crying about the dinner.

“No, I want to,” I say. I blow my nose into a Kleenex.

“Dr. Kayla says we shouldn't push you.”

I've seen her twice since I walked out, but I haven't said much. Mom thinks that means I'm not ready for anything. But Lee told Mom she's convinced Aunt Hannah not to ask me any questions, and I believe Lee.