Page 53 of This I Know
“What is it?” I say. I drop my pencil and stand up, thinking something must be wrong. She’s breathing hard; she must have run up the stairs.
“Guess what?”
I release my breath and sit down again. Nothing that important ever starts with aGuess what.If it was so important, she’d have come out with it.
“Well, come on,” she says. “Guess.”
“Mom, I have no idea. Will you please just tell me? I have to finish this for tomorrow and then I need to pick out what I’m going to wear tonight.”
“Ah,” my mom says, suddenly sidetracked. She walks to my closet and pulls open the doors.
See? Not important.
“You’re going out?”
“Yes.” I give her my attention, trying hard to be respectful despite this looming homework. “Is that okay?”
“Well, it is a Friday. And since you’re being responsible and getting your homework done so early in the weekend…”
Yes.That was my plan. Get the homework done early, impress the mom. Go to the party.
“…I guess it’s all right with me. As long as you’re not going alone.” She turns. “You’re not going alone, right?”
“I’m going with a friend.” This buddy system thing is new with her, too; it’s one of her little attempts to somehow keep me safe. But after having met my sociopath face-to-face, I’m not so sure it would do much to deter another.
She resumes sifting through my hangers. “Alright. And don’t be out too late. Please?”
“I won’t.”
She sighs, turning away from my closet and back to me. She claps her hands clean as though even being in the vicinity of that damn dress is contaminating. “Good. Well, my news. Here goes.” She clasps those hands together and lifts her shoulders like a little kid in line for an ice cream sundae. “I just got off the phone with Dr. Brandt, and you’ve been cleared.”
I don’t speak. I don’t move. I’m numb.
She separates her hands, an inaudiblewhat the heck.“Don’t you see what this means, Avery? You’re cleared. You’re better. You’re good to go. No more doctor’s visits, no more therapy.” Her face is clenched, awaiting my response.
I should be happy, but I’m not. Because really, Mom, what the hell doesgood to gomean? Like just because some doctor gives me a superficial all clear I can now carry on as normal, as if any of this healing thing followed any kind of predictable timeline?
I smile as best I can. “That’s great, Mom. Thanks for letting me know.” It’s an automatic response, a proper one that’s verging on complete fakeness, but she doesn’t see through it.
She bends over and hugs me. “I’m so proud of you. I want you to know that.” She kisses the top of my head, then stands. “And have fun tonight.”
She leaves and closes the door behind her.
I’m glad she’s happy for me; I could see the emotion in her face and voice. She was on a kind of high, the high of a great accomplishment – the accomplishment being me, her daughter, having not died and now theoretically healed.
I drop my pencil again. I can’t work on this assignment anymore. I walk to my closet and open it up. It’s brimming with new clothes – basics, more importantly – in my favorite neutral colors. Last week I had some time on my hands, so I arranged them by color – the nudes with the nudes, the blacks with the blacks, the whites set aside in their own little pristine section.
With all these news clothes, I now have tons of tops, but only three bottoms. And only one dress. Well, two if you count the one I was assaulted in. But I’m not counting that one, and I doubt I ever will.
Thatdress stares at me from the dark right-hand corner. I barely see it from the depths of the shadows, but I just make out some flutters of the edges of black tulle where it meets the light.
I blink back to reality and grab my only other dress.
I hold the other dress out in front of me, still cascading from its hanger. It’s nothing impressive, just your average, cliché little black dress, but it’ll do.
I slam the closet shut.
Ethan
