Page 35

Cathy

“Here’s your sweet tea.”

I accept the glass from Aunt Nellie, but it feels too heavy, so I set it down on the nightstand. Leaning over, I sip from the straw.

I’ve been in her guest room ever since she and Dad found me on the floor of the storage room after the Bible study—a fetal ball in the middle of a rainbow of spilled paint and scattered crayons.

Dad helped Aunt Nellie get me home. She cleaned me up like Mom used to do and put me in bed. Even kissed my forehead.

Dad and Aunt Nellie were so kind to me. So gentle.

Maybe finding me in that state woke them up, pulled them out of the shared panic of the congregation.

And I think Aunt Nellie feels guilty for the incident in the church parking lot.

Her actions caused my crisis in the basement, and she knows it.

That’s got to be why she’s being so sweet, so determined to help me.

No matter what I am, what Dad has done, or what Aunt Nellie said, the three of us are family. We’re all we got.

Too bad it took them a while to realize that because I think I’m broken.

Wounded inside, suffering from some kind of PTSD, I’m guessing.

I’ve been feeling wretched for days—over a week, maybe more.

This isn’t normal for me. Recovery after an episode never takes this long, and I don’t usually feel this weak.

I can’t seem to do more than sip sweet tea and sleep.

Occasionally I stagger to the bathroom or eat some crackers, but that’s about it.

There’s a fog in my brain that I can’t shake, and I feel hollow inside, like every bit of fire and will has drained right out of me.

I guess that’s what happens when I’m forbidden from wandering like I’m supposed to.

My inner banshee has suffered a deep trauma, and it might take a while to heal.

Maybe it will leave me in peace in the meantime.

Maybe I can enjoy being taken care of for once.

Allow myself to be sick, to be still . To let Aunt Nellie play mom.

She seems to enjoy it, and to be honest, I do, too.

“It’s Saturday night,” says Aunt Nellie. “I think you should take a shower and come to church with me tomorrow.”

At the mention of the church, the storage room flashes into my brain, and I shudder with terror.

“You can sit with everyone in the service,” she says. “Between me and your dad. Might do you some good.”

“I don’t think I can,” I whisper.

“Don’t worry, honey.” She brushes my hair back from my forehead with a cool hand. “I’ll help you.”