Page 11 of How to Hide in Plain Sight
I leave the kitchen in shock. I believed I already knew our family tree, with all its many branches and blossoms and bark. I believed I saw the whole story. But in fact, I saw only a small portion. None of its roots. None of its rings.
—
I WAKE ON THE LASTday of summer with strange red bumps on my legs.
“Geez, Boose,” says Karma at breakfast. “You leave your legs out on a rotisserie last night? Those are some ghoulish bugbites.”
In bed that night, I wait for sleep to take me, trying desperately not to scratch my legs. Out in the hallway, Taz and Speedy whisper to each other. I don’t hear everything they say, but they seem to be discussing bees; I catch the wordhives.
I think back to my parents’ conversation on Cradle Island.You really aren’t worried? I swear, I haven’t seen her cry once.
Could Mom be right? Am I not grieving for my brother? Am I even sad he’s gone?
Don’t be ridiculous, I tell myself.Of course you’re sad your brother died.
Then again, it’s true that I hardly cried. But that’s just me. I’m not a crier. And it’s not like I haven’t cried at all, right? Surely I cried at the funeral. Surely.
But…did I?
As I sat next to my second cousin on that sofa, did I?
As I sat under the weight of Karma’s trembling arm while the minister gave his speech, did I?
I can’t remember. How can I not remember?
I scratch my legs harder.
If I don’t remember crying at Henry’s funeral, then how can I becertain that I’m sad he’s gone? What if I’mnotsad? What if I’m secretly happy about it?
That’s crazy, I think.You’re not happy your closest brother is dead. You miss him so much.
But what if I don’t?
That’s it. That’s all it takes.
My mind picks up speed, running in endless circles. I tell myself that it’s crazy to think I’d be glad my brother is gone, then in the same breath, I circle back to the fact that I didn’t cry at his funeral. Didn’t cry. At my own brother’s funeral. Crying is the way your body tells you you’re sad. If I didn’t cry, I must not have been sad.
Then, as soon as I finish that thought, I circle back. Tell myself not to be ridiculous.
But then, as soon as I finishthatthought, I circle backagain, even though I don’t want to. Because I didn’t cry. I can’t ignore that fact. I’m not grieving. That means I’m not sad Henry is dead. And if I’m not, does that make me a bad person? It must, right? Only a bad person wouldn’t cry after the death of their brother.
I curl my legs into my chest.
My mind runs in circles, circles, circles. I don’t understand what’s happening. Soon, it isn’t even about whether I cried at Henry’s funeral anymore. Soon, I’m just worrying about how much I’m worrying. Then I start worrying about the fact that I’m worrying about worrying. Then I start worrying about worrying about worrying about worrying, and suddenly my mind feels so crowded, as if my thoughts aren’t filtering out in the way most thoughts do. As if something is blocking the exit. As if, rather than in and out of my mind in an orderly line, one thought replacing another, they linger. All of them. Half sound like me; they speak with the internal voice I’ve always recognized as my own. The other half do not. The other half—they have their own voice. They’re loud. So loud. They’re a living thing. They’re hundreds of blind moths in search of a flame,flying chaotically about my mind, crashing into each other, knocking things over. I cringe as glass shatters in places I can’t see.
I try every method I can think of to shut out the noise. I hum. I turn my head to the side and recite the Spanish alphabet, a list of strange and wonderful sounds we learned at school the year before. I recite the letters as loudly as I can, speaking into the fabric of my pillow. It doesn’t help. The moths keep beating their wings, keep knocking into precious artifacts in my mind, keep smashing them to pieces. I pick up both pillows and squeeze them over either side of my head. One for each ear. I assume it will muffle the noise. It doesn’t. How could it? This noise doesn’t come from outside my head. It comes from within.
—
I BURST OUT OF MYbedroom door, sprint down to the kitchen. “Dad!” I yell. “Dad!”
He’s there. Sitting at the kitchen counter, drinking black cherry soda. A normal activity. One I’ve seen him perform a thousand times. He jumps when the door slams open, jolted from his normalcy.
“What?” he asks, looking wildly about. “What? What?”
I stare at him, at the bewilderment on his face. I blink. Though the Worry isn’t gone—though I can still feel it turning and turning, a wheel in a track of wet mud—I recognize then that I’m the only one who can hear it.
“Never mind,” I say. Then I shut the kitchen door and run back upstairs.
