Bury Me(18)

My eyes searched the grounds in front of the prison, hoping for a glimpse of Nolan. It seems weird to be seeking out the person I’d spent the last few days being afraid of, but at this point he might be the only person here I can trust. It’s impossible to fear someone who went out of his way to save my life. If he was the one who hurt me or wanted to do me more harm, he could have easily just let me jump in the lake. Or he could have pushed me. I was so busy imagining the feel of the cool water on my skin that I never even heard him come up behind me.

Not finding him anywhere in my sight line, it occurs to me that I don’t hear the sound of the lawn mowers in the distance or men’s voices chatting as they work and I realize everyone must have gone home for the day. He always seems to be watching me and waiting for me any other time I’ve gone outside and, of course, now that I actually want to talk to him, he’s nowhere to be found.

As I continue eating, I flip open the photo album I brought outside and placed on the porch next to me. Under a few of the photos from my childhood, there is a small white strip of tape with my mother’s pretty cursive script, explaining what certain photos are.

Ravenna’s tenth birthday!

Ravenna learning to ride a bike!

Christmas morning with Ravenna!

Each photo I look at fills me with unnatural anger at the happy, smiling child I see on the pages, and I don’t know why. Shouldn’t I be happy seeing proof of how normal and wonderful my childhood was? Instead, I want to rip each photo from its clear plastic sheet, tear them all into a thousand pieces and scream that it was all a lie. I hate the child in the photos. I hate that her life looks so perfect in black and white when the reality of living color is the exact opposite.

On the last page, I see one photo by itself in the middle: a picture of both my parents fishing in the lake, and looking toward the camera with smiles on their faces. Off to the very edge of the photo, at least a hundred feet from my parents, staring at the water with wide, frightened eyes is ten-year-old me. Under the picture my mother has written: A day of fishing! Poor Ravenna won’t go near the water, as usual.

With a heavy sigh, I slam the album closed and toss my half-eaten sandwich on the plate, my appetite suddenly gone. Scooping up the album and my dish, I head upstairs to put the dirty dish in the kitchen sink, and then wander into my bedroom, tossing the album onto my bed.

I stare at the mess I made of my room and decide to leave it for now as I flop down on the bed on my back, staring up at the ceiling. An idea pops into my head and I quickly roll onto my stomach and lean over the edge of my bed, reaching underneath for the journal I quickly tossed there when my father came in. I’m tired of feeling that, at any moment, the things I’ve remembered are going to slip right from my grasp. Even if the journal is missing a bunch of pages that could possibly give me answers, there are still a few blank ones left where I could write things down that I’ve already figured out. Like how I hate pink, hate having my hair braided, hate all my clothes, and I don’t know how to swim. How quickly I get angry when something makes me mad, even though I’m supposedly sweet and good, and how I have memories of feeling so much pain that it takes my breath away. So many things that don’t add up, but maybe if I write them down and look at them long enough it will all come together.

Feeling around blindly with my hands, I come up empty. Scooting my body more over the edge, I lift up the bedskirt and stare underneath my bed at nothing but an empty floor. Someone took my journal. I was only out of my room long enough to search the kitchen and eat a quick dinner. As far as I know, the only two people here right now are my parents, since the handful of tour guides, the receptionist, and the grounds crew have all gone home for the evening. My parents are the only ones who could have taken it, but why? It’s not like there was anything useful in it, since half of the pages were missing. I didn’t even remember that I’d kept a journal, so how would they know of its existence and where it was located?

When I hear the click of heels moving across the living room floor in the direction of my room, I groan and quickly push myself up on the bed, curling my legs under me and wait for my mother to barge in. I’m sure my father has told her all about how I behaved earlier, and she’s most likely going to give me hell for the way I acted with him. As the minutes ticked by after my father left my room, I replayed what happened over and over in my head while I searched for the journal pages. Even I realized my behavior was strange, no matter how good it felt, no matter how right it felt. I probably should have gone to him and apologized. I’m sure the “old me” would have done it, but I couldn’t apologize for something I wasn’t sorry about. I’m so tired of faking everything and trying to be the girl I just don’t know how to be. Nothing feels right about any of it. I’m supposed to be good and polite and not ask questions when everything in my head is telling me to be bad and loud and question everything.