Page 2 of A Summer to Save Us

A s if spellbound, I stare down from the second story at our freshly mown lawn and the blooming white rose hedge.

Sometimes, I want to jump. It’s Monday, my bedroom door is locked, and I’m sitting on the windowsill as usual, my fingers clinging to the frame.

Something tempts me, urging me to let go and watch myself fall.

I don’t feel anything, and that scares me every time.

My heart doesn’t pound, nor does my pulse quicken, possibly because the distance to the ground is not high enough.

I wouldn’t die. Probably not. More likely, I would break my back and not only be mute but also paralyzed.

My mom once said everything comes in time to those who know how to wait. Actually, those weren’t her words but Leo Tolstoy’s. I don’t know if the writer ever actually had to wait for anything; all I know is that he was orphaned at the age of nine. When Mom left our family, at least I still had Dad.

How lucky! I think sarcastically.

“Kansas?” my brother’s voice echoes impatiently from downstairs.

He’s certainly already in the kitchen with everyone else: Dad, Arizona, and James.

And I’m certain Arizona was the first because, for my dazzling sister, the hands of time can’t turn fast enough; she’s like a tornado that sweeps over everything, no matter what chaos she leaves behind.

“Hurry up! I’m leaving in ten minutes, with or without you!” James shouts, annoyed.

I sigh. I hate taking the bus because it makes me feel even more out of place than I usually feel.

Thankfully, I already missed the bus this morning.

I know I have to go to school. I can’t possibly pretend to have a stomachache again because Dad didn’t buy it the last three times in the past week.

My absences now exceed the permissible limit, but my stomach actually hurts thinking about Kensington.

Discouraged, I slide down from the windowsill. I would love to barricade myself in my room. It’s the only place I feel safe.

I glance around the room, my eyes wandering over the pink floral wallpaper, the curtains with the pale yellow suns, and the corner shelf with my children’s books. Next to it, newer books are stacked in several columns almost up to the ceiling—fantasy stories and fairy tale adaptations.

If it were up to me, I would stay in my room forever. Time seems to stand still here, and I can still be the girl who believes in miracles, who waits for her mom to return, until everything is fine .

I even have her framed birthday card hanging on my wall. The first and last.

All the best, Kansas. Buy yourself something nice. I think of you often .

As if it were contaminated, Arizona picked up her card, grabbed the cash, and tossed the card into the trash, while James made some kind of puzzle out of his. I think he even painted a skull on it.

“Kansas, for heaven’s sake, you lump of cement! Come on already! I know you can hear me! Nine more minutes!” Now, James sounds angry. Or, to put it in his language, pissed off.

Damn! I’m still in my sleep shirt—a hand-me-down, long-sleeved blue shirt from my brother that reaches my knees. Sometimes, I think it’s my last connection to him, something I can feel on my skin like a hug.

For a moment, I stare at the girl in the mirror. She’s so foreign to me. Stranger than Arizona. Stranger than my brother Jamesville. Stranger than Dad.

The girl could be someone else, someone I met by chance and now recall fleetingly—maybe that would be a good thing.

She looks like a “before” photo in a magazine—nothing on the oval face is too big or too small.

A common face, with straight, light brown hair that falls far over her shoulders and green eyes that are too far apart and always appear a little intimidated.

Fairy eyes , Dad used to say a lot, but that was before Mom left.

Lately, I look like I’m not truly here, almost translucent.

Just like Marty McFly when he faded from the photo in Back to the Future .

Sometimes, I wonder how twins can be as different as Arizona and me.

Arizona would always be the “after" photo with her baby-blue googly eyes and blonde curls, not to mention a kilo of makeup, fishnet stockings, and high heels. She always makes sure she’s not overlooked.

I grimace, turn from my reflection, and pull James’ shirt over my head.

I don’t think he even knows it ended up in my closet, but then there’s a lot he doesn’t remember.

I quickly slip into light-colored jeans, a dark blue long-sleeved shirt, and flip-flops.

At least my footwear corresponds with the predicted mid-eighties temps in Minnesota.

“Kansas!” James shouts. “If you don’t come down now, you’ll have no time for breakfast! You know I have to be on time, or Wilcox no party or event starts until she arrives.

Without looking, she picks up the next load of cucumber pieces but purposefully turns her back to me when she spots me.

My already cramped stomach hardens even more. I miss her so much. But ever since Chester kissed me, she’s been punishing me with silence. She’s basically mocking me since silence is something associated with Kansas Montgomery. And the kiss from Chester? Let’s just say I didn’t ask for it.

I sit quietly in my seat next to Dad.

He doesn’t even look up from his newspaper, and once again, I would like to scream at him, Look at me! Ask me how I’m doing! But I can’t. A wall separates us, as difficult to break through as the steel safes at Fort Knox.

Inconspicuously, as if I had to make myself invisible in addition to being silent, I pour some nut muesli into my bowl, even though I’m not hungry.

Chewing as quietly as possible, I catch my brother watching me over the top of his Psychology Today . When our eyes meet, he quickly looks away.

Another family member who’s relieved when I barricade myself upstairs in my room, simply because he doesn’t know how to deal with me. James acts like I’m deliberately not talking to him. Everything he says and does somehow seems like a protest against me as a person.

Okay, he’s mad at me because my expensive private school is eating up Dad’s income. That’s why he has to work for the company Wilcox and Sons in the garage, and his psychology studies have to wait.

Whether that’s why he snaps at me or completely ignores me, I can’t say. I used to know what was going on inside him.

That’s the worst thing about remaining silent and not being able to communicate—everything slips away. Not just yourself or the words, but also the people.