Now, she’s this huge distraction to me. She’s larger than life, even though she’s hardly five feet tall.
She reminds me of a snowflake, but the look on her face when she caught me gawking at the scars on her arms and shoulders, told me she was nothing close to a snowflake. It was fierce, almost angry. Challenging. Immediately, Shakespeare’s quote comes to mind: And though she be but little, she is fierce.
I sensed right away that Nor has had more than her share of the kind of shit that life throws your way.
The scars prove that she overcame whatever challenges she went through.
I can’t stop thinking about her.
I don’t want to think about her.
I prefer my normal, but from the moment I caught her staring at me, I knew that normal would be a memory I’d remember fondly months from now.
This girl is trouble.
She is chaos.
She is perfect.
BY THE TIME I WAKE up the following day, my dad has already left for work. He was scheduled to start his new job today at the police station. As much as I would like to sleep in, I want to start ticking off the things on my to-do list, which include surveying the lawn to check on where I’d like to plant flowers, and unpacking the boxes in my room. I plan to visit my grandma because I haven’t seen her in ages. I promised her that I’d visit her when we got here. She’d promised me she would gift me a few lotus flowers as well as carnations and roses for my little gardening projects.
After taking a shower, I slip on a knee-length yellow halter dress. I glance at the mirror on the vanity in front of me, my gaze automatically moving to the white scars on my arms, shining like a beacon. I don’t feel the same twinge of guilt or embarrassment I felt a year ago. If there’s one thing the past year has taught me, it’s that my past, no matter how troubled or perfect it was, doesn’t define my future. It doesn’t define me.
I am who I am, and who I want to be. I am more than enough.
I’ve also learned that, even though my mind is in a better place right now, it doesn’t stop the craving for the immense rush I used to feel, having a sharp object pressed on my skin. I just have to fight hard and avoid possible triggers that would send me tumbling down the thousand steps I’ve ascended thus far. Taking a deep breath, I focus on the wall across from me, where a poster of a doodle I worked on a few months ago hangs. The words self love stare back at me, reminding me to love myself first, an inspiring quote my therapist in Ohio used to repeat over and over until those words imprinted themselves on my heart.
I pluck a lemon drop from the bowl on my desk, pop it inside my mouth and cross the room to my gramophone on top of my desk. It was a gift from my Grandpa from my mom’s side. My grandparents and my mother’s twin sibling, Sabine, died in a cabin fire on Christmas ten years ago in their cabin in Hawthorne. After several investigations, the reports confirmed it was caused by a candle they probably forgot to put out. Their death affected my mom so much, sometimes it’s a miracle she gets out of bed. Yesterday was a good day for her.
Grandpa and I shared the love of old records, and Sinatra. After grabbing a Sinatra record from the pile on my desk, I place it on the gramophone. By the time I climb down the stairs humming Frank Sinatra’s Strangers in the Night under my breath, I’m grinning, ready to start my day.
Boxes are still piled up next to the walls in the living room. A few are open, with newspapers used to wrap our stuff scattered on the floor. Voices drift from the kitchen, pulling me toward the room. Elise is going on about heading out to buy the stuff she needs for her next project. For a fourteen-year-old girl, she’s a ball of energy, positivity and ideas. Elon is finishing up her bowl of cheerios, with earphones tucked into each ear. Her head bobs to whatever music is playing on the iPod stashed inside the pocket of her shorts. Mom is standing at the sink, fiddling with the dishtowel in her hands, while staring vacantly out the window.
Oh God, no.