The floor groans as I picture him shifting outside the door. “Sara.” There’s a finality in his voice. A certainty. “You are home.”
I grab the bucket and throw it at the door. It clangs against it and clatters to the floor. Even with a bucket of waste splattered across the room, all I can smell is bleach. It burns my nostrils every time I breathe.
“I’m not Sara!” I yell, but right then, after only seven days, I start to wonder if I am her. I don’t feel like myself anymore.
It doesn’t take long for everything we think we are, no matter how deeply grounded, to be rooted up and cut away. It doesn’t take long to lose yourself in such a way you almost find yourself hoping you’ll never be found.
All it takes is one week.
IT’S THE DAY of Earl Rae’s funeral.
It’s also the day my parents have planned to have a big get-together at one of the event centers overlooking the Sound. I wonder if they planned it that way on purpose or if it’s mere coincidence.
Two weeks have gone by since I was found. My parents are making it something to celebrate. I’m going along for their sakes, but after two weeks, I should be doing better. I shouldn’t still be floundering in everyday conversations or fretting over the thought of going out in public or failing to move forward.
I should be easing back into normal life instead of feeling like I’m being dragged behind a truck against my will. I should be looking forward to the party tonight—seeing family I never thought I’d see again, catching up with old friends—but I’m not.
I think I’m dreading it mostly. Dreading most of it at least.
I’m tucked into the back of Dad’s Tahoe, and I feel like a little kid driving to her first day of kindergarten. My nerves are standing on end, and my stomach feels like someone’s using it as a stress ball. Squeeze, release. Squeeze, release. Maybe that’s part of the reason I haven’t had much of an appetite lately—because I don’t want to have to worry about throwing up from the endless stomach spasms.
Mom turns around in her seat as we roll into the event center’s parking lot. She’s smiling. Her dress is sparkling from the streetlights and so are her eyes. “Are you excited?”
They’ve done so much for me. They’ve put so much into this night. “Yeah, I am.”
“It’s going to be one hell of a night, that’s for sure.” Dad’s in a tux, which is a big deal. I guess the last time he wore one was for his wedding.
“Now, sweetie, if anytime you feel . . .” She bites her lips, her memory probably flashing over the incident at the mall. “Like you need to be alone, just let me know, and we’ll find you a special place. We’ll lock the women’s bathroom if we have to, okay?”
I look out the window. To her knowledge, I’ve only had one of those “incidents,” but I’ve actually had several since. All of them were brought on by feeling overwhelmed. All of them ended with me passing out and having some flashback of my time with Earl Rae. Not all of the flashbacks were unpleasant either—I think those were more disturbing than the unpleasant flashbacks.
“Okay,” I answer as I scan the parking lot. It’s filled with cars. I don’t see a single space open, and this isn’t exactly a small event center.
“I’ll let you girls off here and go park.” Dad brakes right in front of the main doors and waits.
Mom throws her door open and slides out, excited. I linger in the backseat.
I’m wearing a dress Mom picked out for me after she went back to the mall alone. She was way more productive on her own than she would have been with me in tow, having an “incident” whenever I ran into someone from my past.
It’s a long, strapless plum-colored dress with a thin satin belt. It’s really lovely actually. I might have picked it out on my own if I’d been with her. It fits pretty well too—other than the chest area. Although that problem was solved by mom’s creativity with a padded strapless bra.
She picked up a pair of flats and a pair of heels, and I obviously chose the flats. A party with a couple hundred people was not the time to make my reappearance in heels after a ten-year break.
Mom made an appointment to have my hair done too. She found someone to come to our house even. Earl Rae occasionally trimmed my hair since he didn’t let me handle anything sharp after the mirror incident, but he couldn’t cut a straight line no matter how many times he tried.
When the hairstylist was done, she’d taken off some length, cut a straight line, and styled my hair in a way she called “Hollywood glam.” I called it “driving me nuts all night from being in my face,” but it did look nice.
Now that I’m sitting here, minutes from stepping inside the party, I feel like the dress and the hair are an illusion. Kind of like taking a can of gold spray paint to a rotten tooth—the shiny coat doesn’t change that what’s beneath it is still decaying.
Mom opens my door when I don’t open it. “Are you okay, Jade?”
I’ve heard that question so many times over the past two weeks my automatic response is conditioned into me. “Yeah. Just making sure I have everything.”
As I slide out of the backseat, Mom holds up a thin silk scarf in the same color as my dress. She had it dyed to match and everything. “Did you decide on this, sweetheart?”
I stare at it hanging from her hand. I don’t want to hide behind it, but I wonder if I should. Just because everyone inside this building has to know about the collar by now and has probably seen pictures of my scar doesn’t mean they need to see it two feet in front of them.