She stands and pulls a pair of large nail clippers from her pocket. She cuts through the tie holding my left wrist. Then she moves around the foot of my bed and does the same with the right. She doesn’t ask if I’ll leave my IV in if she cuts me free. She doesn’t warn me that if I try it again, my wrists will be rebound. She just cuts me free like that’s all there’s left to do.
“I’d advise you to ease yourself back into your old life. Little bits at a time, not the whole thing all at once.” She unwinds the second restraint and tosses it into the garbage, pocketing the clippers again.
I rub my wrists for a second, then I reach for the cup of water. I sit up and drain it in one drink. I may not be ready to see them, but if I wait until I am, it might never happen. I have to pick my life up where I left off. As best as I can. This is part of that process.
“Let them in.”
I HAVEN’T SEEN them in ten years. The ten minutes I wait for them feels like another ten years.
Before she left, Dr. Argent told me I’d gotten to Seattle Mercy around three in the afternoon. It’s almost nine o’clock at night now. A lot has happened in the less than twelve hours since I’ve been rescued. Tests have been run. A shrink has “shrunk” me. I’m about to be reunited with my family.
It’s a lot to take in all at once, like Dr. Argent warned me, but I’m not about to tap the brakes. I’ll be okay. I’ve dealt with a lot. I can deal with this. I can deal with whatever comes. I’m strong.
These are the things I feel like I have to repeat to myself until I’ve convinced myself of them. I’m okay. I can deal with whatever comes my way. I’m strong.
I’ve brainwashed myself before—I can do it again.
That’s what’s playing on a reel in my head when a knock sounds outside my door right before it opens. I’ve raised the back of my bed so I’m more sitting up than lying down, and I’ve been a good patient and left my IV in my arm where the doctors want it. My wrists still burn a little from the restraints but not so bad a little cream and rubbing can’t fix it.
Who’s going to come in first? Who will it be?
I feel like I should know this. I lived with these people for seventeen years and Earl Rae only ten. I should know them well enough to be able to figure out who’ll be the brave one to slip through the door first.
Dad. That’s who it will be. He’s always been the head of the household, and we all knew it. He’ll be the first one through the door.
I’m wrong.
It’s my mom. I don’t recognize her at first. It isn’t until she half says, half cries my name that I know it’s her. She might look different, but her voice is the same.
“Sweetheart . . .” she says-cries next, walking forward a few steps before waiting for everyone else to file in behind her.
Dad comes next. He looks the same. Exactly the same. His hair’s still precisely parted to the side, his moustache is as prominent as ever, and he still enters a room like he owns it. Unlike Dad, Mom’s hair has started to gray and she’s lost weight. Probably as much as I have. She looks . . . old—like thirty years have gone by instead of ten. I wonder if I look the same.
Dad doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at me for a moment, then he has to look away. His hand moves to his mouth, and his back shakes.
“Hi, Dad.” I have to remind myself to call him dad. It doesn’t come naturally anymore.
When I speak, he turns around a little. His hands settle on his hips, and his back shakes again.
“Oh my god, Jade.” Mom wipes her eyes. They’re raining tears. “Thank god they found you.”
She moves a few steps closer, but it feels like they’re hanging back. Waiting for an invitation from me or to gather up a little more courage. I don’t know. I feel as uncertain what to do and say next as they do.
Two more people come through the door. They hang back by Dad, almost like they’re trying to hide in his imposing shadow. I don’t recognize them. At first.
A decade has a way of really changing a ten- and fourteen-year-old. My brother, Connor, has a goatee and is wearing a University of Washington tee. He’s tall like our dad but doesn’t have the same wide shoulders. He tries to smile at me, but it doesn’t last long. He rubs the back of his head and leans into the wall.
Sam looks a lot like Mom—or a lot like she had. Sam looks put together and polished, the way I remember her looking as a fourteen-year-old. She can’t even look at me but stays an arm’s length from the door, shifting from one foot to the next every few seconds.
This is my family. How can I feel this uncomfortable around them? How can they feel so uncomfortable around me that they can barely stand to look at me?
I reach for my cup of water. It’s empty. I grab the pitcher. It’s empty too.
The longer the silence stretches on, the more I wish I’d taken Dr. Argent’s advice and waited on the family reunion thing. I don’t know what I was picturing, but this isn’t it.
“So . . . how have you guys been?” I ask.
Mom sniffs and keeps moving closer. “Let’s not talk about how we’ve been. Let’s talk about what we’re going to do now that you’re back. Now that you’re home.”
When she notices Dad, Sam, and Connor still huddled close to the door, she waves them over. Connor moves first, then Dad. Sam last.
“We’ve missed you, sweetie. So, so much.” Mom chokes on a sob.