pens and post-its around and then drop it too.
âDâArcy, stop. Thereâs nothing here,â Mom says.
âThatâs what Iâm trying to tell you.â Iâm shouting now. âThereâs nothing because youâre wrong.â I open the cupboard under the window where she keeps paper and envelopes and a roll of Bubble Wrap. I yank the shelf inside off the little plastic pins, and everything spills down onto the floor.
Mom tries to reach for me but I pull away and push past her.
I have to show her. Where? The living room? The dining room? My dadâs books fill up most of the shelves on one whole wall in the living room. I grab a big hardcover book from the middle shelf, hold on to the front and back covers and shake. âLook,â I shout. âNothing.â I drop it and pull another down. âNothing.â Then another.
Behind me I hear my mother yelling, âDâArcy! Stop it. Stop it!â
I start to hum, as loud as I can, to drown her out. I have to show her sheâs wrong.
A small, brown pottery pig that my dad brought back from Mexico squats in the center of the shelf. With one long sweep I shove the rest of the books onto the floor. My mother grabs one of my arms from behind.
The pig smashes into dozens of pieces on the hardwood floor, all except for one pointed shard that flies up and sticks in the side of my free hand. I hold out my arm, watch the blood well up and trickle down around my wrist. But I donât feel anything.
I hear my motherâs voice and the sound of bits of pottery crunching under my feet as she pulls me away, down onto my knees. Mom squats beside me and tries to put her arms around me. I twist away and curl into a tight ball. The only sound I hear is my breathing as the tears slide down my face and drip onto my hand.
But I donât feel anything.
It takes four stitches to close the gash in the side of my hand. A nurse gives me a needle in my hip that makes me feel slow and fuzzy. An intern who smells like pizza and doesnât look any older than me does the stitching. I guess the cut isnât bad enough for me to get a real doctor.
I wonder if this is where they brought my dad after the accident. Did he get a real doctor or just some guy with hair flopping in his eyes and pepperoni breath?
The nurse gives my mother a little tube of cream and instructions about changing the bandage around my hand, like Iâm too stupid to do it myself. I donât even look at them. Instead I stare at a poster on the wall about the misuse of antibiotics. Finally Mom says, âOkay, we can go.â
She doesnât even try to talk to me on the way home. I stare silently out the passenger window. A couple of times I glance at my mother out of the corner of my eye, but she never looks away from the road. Finally she pulls into the driveway and shuts off the car. I hear her shift in her seat.
Donât touch me.
She clears her throat. âDâArcy, I know how you feel,â she says.
No, you donât, because I donât feel
anything
.
âYour father wasnât thinking clearly. Because he never would have...â She clears her throat again. âHe loved you very much. More than anything in the world.â
In my mind I turn down the volume so her voice sounds like itâs coming through the radio from a station hundreds of miles away. Iâm not listening. I donât hear anything. I just stare out the car window. After a minute my mother gets out of the car. I stay, stiff and still, in my seat.
I donât hear anything.
I donât feel anything.
thirteen
The den looks like a hurricaneâs blown through it. Iâve seen rooms, houses, that look like this on the news after a storm. I step over the stuff on the floor, find one of the drawers and slide it back into the desk. I donât know what to do next.
I drop into the chair. I can hear my mother in the living room, putting books back on the
âDâArcy, stop. Thereâs nothing here,â Mom says.
âThatâs what Iâm trying to tell you.â Iâm shouting now. âThereâs nothing because youâre wrong.â I open the cupboard under the window where she keeps paper and envelopes and a roll of Bubble Wrap. I yank the shelf inside off the little plastic pins, and everything spills down onto the floor.
Mom tries to reach for me but I pull away and push past her.
I have to show her. Where? The living room? The dining room? My dadâs books fill up most of the shelves on one whole wall in the living room. I grab a big hardcover book from the middle shelf, hold on to the front and back covers and shake. âLook,â I shout. âNothing.â I drop it and pull another down. âNothing.â Then another.
Behind me I hear my mother yelling, âDâArcy! Stop it. Stop it!â
I start to hum, as loud as I can, to drown her out. I have to show her sheâs wrong.
A small, brown pottery pig that my dad brought back from Mexico squats in the center of the shelf. With one long sweep I shove the rest of the books onto the floor. My mother grabs one of my arms from behind.
The pig smashes into dozens of pieces on the hardwood floor, all except for one pointed shard that flies up and sticks in the side of my free hand. I hold out my arm, watch the blood well up and trickle down around my wrist. But I donât feel anything.
I hear my motherâs voice and the sound of bits of pottery crunching under my feet as she pulls me away, down onto my knees. Mom squats beside me and tries to put her arms around me. I twist away and curl into a tight ball. The only sound I hear is my breathing as the tears slide down my face and drip onto my hand.
But I donât feel anything.
It takes four stitches to close the gash in the side of my hand. A nurse gives me a needle in my hip that makes me feel slow and fuzzy. An intern who smells like pizza and doesnât look any older than me does the stitching. I guess the cut isnât bad enough for me to get a real doctor.
I wonder if this is where they brought my dad after the accident. Did he get a real doctor or just some guy with hair flopping in his eyes and pepperoni breath?
The nurse gives my mother a little tube of cream and instructions about changing the bandage around my hand, like Iâm too stupid to do it myself. I donât even look at them. Instead I stare at a poster on the wall about the misuse of antibiotics. Finally Mom says, âOkay, we can go.â
She doesnât even try to talk to me on the way home. I stare silently out the passenger window. A couple of times I glance at my mother out of the corner of my eye, but she never looks away from the road. Finally she pulls into the driveway and shuts off the car. I hear her shift in her seat.
Donât touch me.
She clears her throat. âDâArcy, I know how you feel,â she says.
No, you donât, because I donât feel
anything
.
âYour father wasnât thinking clearly. Because he never would have...â She clears her throat again. âHe loved you very much. More than anything in the world.â
In my mind I turn down the volume so her voice sounds like itâs coming through the radio from a station hundreds of miles away. Iâm not listening. I donât hear anything. I just stare out the car window. After a minute my mother gets out of the car. I stay, stiff and still, in my seat.
I donât hear anything.
I donât feel anything.
thirteen
The den looks like a hurricaneâs blown through it. Iâve seen rooms, houses, that look like this on the news after a storm. I step over the stuff on the floor, find one of the drawers and slide it back into the desk. I donât know what to do next.
I drop into the chair. I can hear my mother in the living room, putting books back on the
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