Despite myself, I looked up—this was a story I had never heard before. He shifted uncomfortably, a large and intimidating man in a too-small chair.
“Something happened,” he continued, “a long time ago, before I even knew your aunt. Your mother had a hard time forgiving Rachel for it. Matter of fact, she never forgave Rachel. Your aunt is a very different person than she used to be. I know you don’t want to be here, and I know you miss your mother—but as hard as it may be to believe, your aunt misses her, too. It wasn’t Rachel who didn’t want to visit you, or call you, or come to the hospital or the funeral. Your mother refused to let us come see you. We could have come—we wanted to come—but it would have been against her wishes. Rachel didn’t want to do that, not when your mother was in so much pain already. It was a hard choice, and I know there are days she wishes she had just barged in there and tried to make things right.” He paused, searching for the right words. “You are allowed to be angry. You are allowed to feel whatever you want to feel. But if you can, maybe try and cut Rachel a little slack. She lost her sister just as much as you lost your mother. And it may not look like she’s in pain, but she is. Maybe even more than you, in some ways, because she never got to say good-bye.”
There was a moment of silence, then Joe stood, looked around my room, and let himself out.
I locked the door behind him, then piled the chair in front of it, and a stack of books, and my hamper. It wouldn’t keep people out if they were determined, but it made me feel better, to put things between me and them. I crawled into bed in the dark and spent the rest of the night shaking, unwilling to cry when I knew the sound would carry beyond my door. If I started crying now, or yelling, or screaming, I wouldn’t stop. So I clenched my jaw, ground my teeth until they hurt, until my throat ached. Eventually, I fell asleep.
*
I woke up on the seventeenth of November to snow. Big, fat, fluffy flakes of snow that had begun falling well before dawn. When I went downstairs for breakfast, there were no presents or decorations; no one even said “happy birthday,” which was exactly how I’d wanted it.
We sat down at the table and everyone but me folded their hands as Joe said his daily breakfast prayer.
“Dear Lord,” he began in his quiet, deep voice. “Thank you for Caitlin’s presence here in our family. Thank you that she turned seventeen today and has become a beautiful young woman. Thank you for the snow. And thank you for pancakes. Amen.”
The bitterness surged up and I tried to keep it from showing on my face. I was a beautiful young woman? Thank you for pancakes?
“There’s plenty, so I expect you to eat everything,” Rachel said cheerfully as she heaped my plate with food without asking me how much I actually wanted to eat. And just like that, I lost my appetite, anger curdling through my stomach. I forced half down my throat, not tasting any of it, because even though I didn’t want to care about what Joe said, I did, and some part of me was trying not to hate Rachel. As usual, just at the end of breakfast, I heard the grumble of the diesel engine as Adrian’s truck pulled into the driveway.
“I’ll see you guys later,” I said, standing up.
“Wait, you forgot to open your present!”
Rachel ran into the laundry room, dashing back into the kitchen with a box in her hand.
I could feel the anger rising up the back of my throat at the sight of the wrapping paper. Be nice, a voice in my head warned me.
“You said you didn’t want anything, so we got you something we thought you could use.” She smiled hopefully. I tried to freeze the blank look on my face instead of letting it slip into a grimace.
“I’ll open it when I get home,” I said finally. “I don’t want to keep him waiting.”
Rachel nodded and I walked outside into the silently falling snow. It was warm in the truck since the heater was blasting, so I settled into my falling-asleep-in-the-passenger-seat routine. Adrian drove, used to the silence by now, and we arrived at school.
In homeroom, Trish leaned over and whispered “happy birthday” to me. I smiled. It was hard to be mean to Trish, because she was Trish. She was basically the most genuine, kind, bizarre person I had ever met. She was supportive, didn’t pry or expect anything from me, and sensed when I needed my space. If she were a guy, I’d probably date her. Or, if I were a lesbian. And if she were a lesbian. I guess we’d both have to be lesbians for that to work. Regardless, she made a pretty great friend.
The day passed quickly, although I got a few more happy birthdays, and a tiny chocolate from Mrs. Goode. After school, Adrian drove me home as usual.
“Hey!” Rachel called from the living room sofa when I came through the front door. It amazed me that she could keep pretending like we were totally fine when I’d already told her, to her face, what I thought about her. “How was your day?”
“Good,” I replied. I was getting better at lying.