The Lies About Truth(4)

God, I wished she were pocket-size. Her hope was infectious.

“Okay,” I said.

Moms have a habit of hovering when they don’t want to say anything else, but they don’t want to leave the vicinity. I tucked the envelope she’d given me under my thigh, hoping my sweat wouldn’t soak through the paper, and pointed at the door.

“You aren’t going to open it?” she prodded.

“Not with you standing there.”

She chose to tease me rather than be offended. “I only wanted to . . . check for anthrax. Can’t be too careful these days.”

“Good night, Mom.”

She blew me a kiss. “Don’t stay out here too late.”

Thankfully, she left me in peace. When she stopped watching through the kitchen window, I slid my finger under the flap and ripped through the envelope as I read the front. My name was typed, but there was no address. Weird. Maybe it was a prank. Or a late birthday card. Gina or Gray might have dropped it off. They were the most likely candidates since I’d fallen off the radar of my other friends. Max sent a few real cards and a package at Christmas, but if he’d mailed this from El Salvador, it would have had stamps.

I removed a single piece of typing paper from the envelope. As I unfolded it, I scooted my chair toward the bulb in the center of the porch, expecting to have trouble seeing the words. There was no trouble at all. In the middle of the page was a single typed sentence.

I turned thirteen years old today and I went skinny-dipping with Trent McCall.

I dropped the sheet of paper and covered my mouth with my hand.

“Sweet Jesus.”

I wrote that sentence four years ago. Four years ago on a scrap of notebook paper. On a scrap of notebook paper that I put inside Big. Big, who was three parts stuffed animal, one part journal, and all parts mine. No one had ever seen it before.

Someone clearly had.





CHAPTER THREE


Rage. (n.) that gut feeling of disgust when your parents interfere with your life.

I wasn’t certain when Mom and Dad decided it was acceptable to go through my personal belongings, but we were about to have words.

“Mom!” I yelled as I entered the kitchen. And since she didn’t do this alone, I put Dad on the hook too. “Dad!”

They clearly hadn’t anticipated my anger, as they were lounging in the TV room watching their latest Netflix obsession. I wanted them at the kitchen table. I wanted an explanation. Yelling as much, I watched them enter the room and eye me as if I were a Bigfoot they needed to tranq. I flung the envelope down. “You had no right to do this.”

Dad’s head tilted to the side. He spoke in a calm but stern voice. “Sit. Down.”

I sat. Once I was down, I threw the envelope across the table. Paper looks angry when it’s thrown.

“Would you like to tell us what this is about in a civil—”

I civilly interrupted him. “This is about you going through my stuff.”

“No. This is about you cooling your jets, young lady,” Dad answered.

Not one time in the past year had we taken these tones. Mom and Dad had been patient, supportive partners in my surgeries, recovery, and therapy. On the whole, I had very few complaints. But going into my room, pilfering my personal thoughts, typing them out like this . . . No one would be okay with that invasion of privacy. No one.

“You want to tell us what’s going on?” Dad began.

I pointed to the envelope. “That’s what’s going on.”

Dad started to remove the page. It was about then that I realized my parents appeared utterly clueless. If I’d gotten this wrong, my dad was getting ready to read a sentence I’d have a hard time explaining.

“Wait a minute.” I snatched the paper away and looked at Mom. “You gave this to me on the porch. Where did you get it?”

“From the mailbox.”

“It was just in there?” I asked.

“It was just in there,” she repeated.

Time to backpedal. “Somebody played a joke on me.” I pasted on a fake smile. “I thought it was y’all. Family meeting over. Go back to House of Cards. I’m really sorry I raised my voice.”

Mom stared at the envelope. Dad looked uncertain how to proceed. I saw him wondering what it was about the envelope that had caused me to unhinge.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Mom asked.

I shook my head. “No. I’m sorry. I thought . . . I just thought wrong.”

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Dad said, “Honey, is all this”—he waved at my emotions as if they were another person in the room—“about the anniversary?”

“Don’t talk about Trent, Dad. Please, I . . .” My voice shook, but I kept the tears in check. I missed Trent like I missed the person I used to be.

Makeup covered parts of my scars, but nothing covered up grief. My dad saw it on me.

“Look, kiddo.” He knocked his knuckles on the table. “You’ve got to buck up.”

“Tony.” My mom tried to stop him, but he ignored her.

“No, Tara,” he warned my mom in the same stern voice he’d warned me in earlier. “She’s got enough courage in her, and we’re going to help her get it out. We’ve talked about this.”