Page 44 of Peppermint Bark

“The memory tonight was from before she transitioned, right? That’s why she was confused about her name.”

Mallory nodded, then blew out a long exhale. “I’ve triggered her with much less, and I didn’t know …” Her knee started to bounce, voice so quiet I strained to hear.

“I fucked it up the first time. We were watching Home Alone. I didn’t realize … I teased her for crying at a kid’s movie. Her eyelids were fluttering, but she — she wasn’t there, you know? And I panicked. I shook her, screamed her name. I yelled that the family would come back for him, but that only made the crying worse. Mom pulled me off, spoke gently while I paced the hallway. I was a complete mess, I thought I broke my friend, I —” Her breath hitched, and in the lights on her face from highway lights, tear lines reflected on her cheeks.

“How did you know what to say?”

“When she came to work the next day, she explained how even small triggers can make her re-live the most traumatic memories. She coached me on what to say if it happened again. And it did. And it will keep happening, maybe forever. That might have been the hardest part for me to understand. I couldn’t fix it for her, but I can be there when she needs me.”

She wiped away the tears. “I still fuck it up. One time, I didn’t … I didn’t get her grounded back into the present well enough, and I asked about her memory, and she started looking around for Elijah. I had to tell her — I had to watch her lose him all over again, Alex.” My tough, fierce sister shoved her knuckle into her mouth to hold back a sob.

"Ok, I’ll save all my body throwing energy for you, ok, Shrimp?" I reached over to squeeze her nape. "Anything else I should avoid?”

She glared at me skeptically, as if I was looking for Grace’s weakness to use in a negotiation and she wanted me to stay away from her entirely.

“Mal … I don’t want to hurt her again.”

She tucked her leg up onto the bench. “She can usually recognize her triggers and catch herself. If you see her breathing deeply, wiggling her toes, gripping a table or desk, those are some of her coping mechanisms to ground herself.”

Oh shit. She’d gripped the chair in the dining room at Carol’s house, and when I said her name, she’d looked through me for a minute. Before sharing about her family’s kitchen table. Had she been reliving a memory?

“When her body stiffens or her breath hitches, she told me to remind to her breathe, which can be enough to pull her back into the present. But unexpected things send her back, totally out of her control. A scene in a movie, a particular smell. One time it was a hawk.”

I paused, thinking through all the ways I could accidentally make her worse. “Sounds like a lot of work, making sure you don’t mess up.”

“She’s my best friend, Lex. She and Kate are the sisters I always wanted. She’d burn down the world for me, and I don’t know what I did to deserve that loyalty.”

My throat tightened painfully as my sister glanced over her headrest and smiled softly at Grace’s restful expression.

I choked out, “She’s lucky to have you, Mal.”

“I’m luckier to have her,” she said quickly.

“Understatement of the century,“ I replied dryly.

“Siri, what flowers say, ‘Sorry I was careless and triggered your PTSD?’”

I expected lilies or daisies, but I was wrong. Tulips, apparently. Huh.

I didn’t want to give the wrong impression — flowers might seem, ugh, romantic. I went with what I know: Mexican food. Because nothing says, ‘Sorry I made you relive the worst moment of your life’ like apology burritos.

Good thing I brought them because when Grace opened the door, wearing an oversized Vermont hoodie and flannel pajamas, with her damp hair loosely braided and the makeup scrubbed off her face, she looked exhausted.

Leaning warily against the door frame, she eyed me cautiously. She shouldn’t keep the door open with wet hair, she could catch cold.

“I brought burritos,” I said, holding up the paper bag with a cocky smirk.

She didn’t budge. Her eyes narrowed on the bag. “Which meat?”

“All of them.” I almost ordered two of my regular order, but didn’t know if she’d like that, so I asked for one of each. “Plus guac.”

“But guac is extra.”

“I’m extra,” I shrugged. Isn’t that something the kids say?

She reluctantly let me in — Thank you, Guac — and set the table for two. When was the last time I ate at an actual table with silverware and napkins, not at my desk while reviewing a contract between calls?

“Did you choose carnitas because your mom made it?” She nodded without looking at me. “Good, then I don’t have to share the best choice.” I smugly unwrapped the barbacoa. Her eyes crinkled at my fake gloat.

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