You'll Never Know

by Katie Cross

  Fish sticks littered a plate next to me on the grass. Splotches of water from my small swimming pool sparkled on the half-dead lawn. A flash of heat warmed the bottom of my feet. Little Rachelle shifted to stand in a different spot, her eyes glued on the house. A little whimper escaped her lips. On instinct, I stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder. Her tense muscles relaxed.

  Could she feel me?

  Was this … real?

  “That’s not what I’m trying to say,” Dad said. “I just … feeding her nonstop ice cream is no way to raise a child.”

  “Don’t be dramatic! It hasn’t been nonstop.”

  “She needs to learn portion control. Look at her!”

  “I suppose you’re going to say that I need it next, right?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

  Two figures appeared in the window. One agitated, pacing back and forth as he rammed his hand through his thick black locks. The other throwing her hands in sharp gestures.

  “I don’t need to put words in your mouth!” Mom cried. “It’s written all over your face. You’re ashamed of me just like everyone else. You’re so concerned about what I feed her? That’s rich coming from you. You’re never here! When you actually put some face time in with your child, you can critique the way I raise her.”

  The ice cream fell from little Rachelle’s cone with a plop and melted into the grass. Little Rachelle frowned. Her body trembled. I crouched next to her, tears welling. Heat washed through my heart in long, sonorous waves when I saw the pain in her eyes. I remembered.

  Oh, how I remembered.

  “Oh, no,” little Rachelle whispered.

  A door slammed inside. Light flashed, as if someone had thrown open drapes. Mom screamed.

  “Don’t you walk away from me! If you walk out that door, don’t bother coming back. We don’t need you! We don’t even want you.”

  “Why would I?” Dad shouted. “You don’t respect me. You don’t appreciate the twelve-hour days I work to pay the bills, to buy the food you stuff in your face every other minute. You don’t even let me have a say in raising my own daughter! You just throw it in my face that I’m never enough.”

  “We’d be better off without you!”

  Little Rachelle shoved the rest of the cone into the ground and darted across the lawn.

  “Daddy,” she whispered. “Daddy, no.”

  I followed close behind.

  She ran to the back door and attempted to open it, but her sticky hands caught on the doorknob. It was locked. With a chubby fist, she banged on the door.

  “Mom!”

  Another door slammed—the front door. Shouts followed, unintelligible and fast. Everything seemed to blur. The world slowed. Panic surged through my veins. Something hung in the air. Something frightening. She could feel—we both could feel?—that something was wrong. This fight was different.

  “Mom!” she screamed through a sob. The door trembled under her pounding fist. “Mom!”

  I dropped to my knees next to her. Tears fell down my cheeks when I gently grabbed her shoulders.

  “Rachelle,” I murmured, “it’s okay.”

  She didn’t stop, but her frantic punches slowed.

  “Mom!”

  Distant shouts. A car starting. More screaming, sobs from somewhere else. Rachelle stopped and cocked her head to the side. In the booming silence that followed, my eyes darted over the trailer. It was so much younger. The paint hadn’t peeled. A latticed skirt circled the bottom. No rust spots dotted the exterior. Little Rachelle rubbed her wrist under her nose. I turned back to her, my hands still on her shoulders.

  “It’s okay, Rachelle. This isn’t your fault.”

  She sniffled. “They fight all the time.”

  For a moment, I froze. She heard me. Could I really talk to her? Was this a chance to recreate what had happened? To tell her the truth—not let her believe the lies she’d gathered like flowers in a field? A thousand thoughts whirled through my mind until I forced them to calm.

  “I know they fight a lot. It’s very scary, isn’t it?”

  “Daddy hates me.”

  My hands tightened on her shoulders. “No, sweetheart. Daddy doesn’t hate you. He … he hates himself. He hates that he doesn’t … ah … he doesn’t know how to be a dad.”

  The moment I said the words, I knew they were true. Something in my heart seared, as if knitting back together. She turned to me, her bottom lip jutting out, and stared right into my eyes. Until I saw her, I hadn’t realized how much it had hurt that day. The heaviness sank into my heart like a stone.

  “Mom hates him,” she whispered. “She says he’s … he’s gone too much. That he’s trying to control us the way Grandpa controlled her. She says he’ll hide the food and we won’t be able to eat.”

  My voice was husky when I said, “She doesn’t hate Daddy. They loved each other once. They’ve just forgotten how much. Sometimes that happens when you grow up. Things aren’t always easy. But they both love you very much, even if they don’t get along very well.”

  “Then why do they fight?”

  “They fight because they’re angry.”

  “At me?”

  “Definitely not. At…” I paused. Was there a right answer? Their voices had been livid and tinged with desperation. Maybe even rage. Definitely pain. Mom had sounded like a mama bear. Not weak or frightened or small.

  She had once been mighty.

  “They’re angry at themselves,” I finally said. It felt right. “At each other. At really difficult adult things that they have to face. But not at you. Absolutely not at you. They’re both trying to protect you. Just … in their own way.”

  “I want them to stop.”

  “I know you do. I know.”

  Rachelle stared at the back door. Her jaw tightened. Her steely gaze didn’t waver. She stared at the door, nostrils flared. But her shoulders relaxed beneath my hands. Did I dare tell her that things wouldn’t get better? That it would be difficult for many years? That she’d never see him again, and Mom would slowly fade away into a shell?

  “It’s not your fault,” I whispered again, feeling desperate. “If there’s anything I want you to understand, it’s that none of this is about you. None of it! You are beautiful and good and kind and worth so much more than you believe. Can you believe that, Rachelle?”

  The back door opened. I straightened, coming face-to-face with Mom. She didn’t seem to notice me. She was young. A little overweight but not frighteningly so. She still moved with ease. Her hair hung in thick waves onto her shoulders. Tears sparkled in her eyes when she pushed open the back door. Little Rachelle shuffled back to allow space for the creaky screen door. She tilted her head, eyes sparkling.

  “Mom?”

  “Come inside, baby girl,” Mom whispered, not seeing me there. “It’s just you and me now.”

  Tears glimmered in my eyes when I reached out to touch Mom, but my fingers traveled through air. She didn’t feel my touch on her arm. She didn’t see me—didn’t know how similar we looked. Twins. We could have been twins.

  “Rachelle,” I whispered and dropped back down to her. Time seemed to pause, elongating to give us space. A tear dropped down my face when she glanced back at me, solemn and wide-eyed. “I’m sorry this is happening to you. But I love you. They love you. It’s not your fault. Please remember that? Please?”

  Little Rachelle stepped inside with a sniffle. The door shut behind them. I stood on the porch, my heart a burning coal. The quiet backyard turned into waves. The heat abated.

  My heart paused with a hiccup, then I streamed into the darkness that waited behind the memory.

  I woke up with a gasp.

  Sweat coated my face and neck. I sat up, sticky from the night humidity, my cheeks wet with tears. My heart raced until the endless drone of the television in the background reoriented me. My breathing slowed. My heart calmed. I collapsed back to the pillow and shoved the hair out of my sticky face.

 
Then I closed my eyes and fell back to sleep with a little girl on my mind.

  The sound of a lawn mower ushered me out of sleep.

  I emerged to life one layer at a time. My muscles felt as heavy as my thoughts, as if they wanted to stay in the safety of the darkness. Despite the strange fog that pervaded my mind in the wake of such a strange dream, there was something else that had changed. Space had opened up in my brain. Had my heart grown? Or had weight simply flown off of it?

  I felt powerful.

  Different.

  When I stepped out of my room, Mom occupied the couch. She skimmed through the commercials, remote in hand. After a few seconds, she stopped on an old black-and-white movie. A plate full of sausages and scrambled eggs sat on the couch next to her. She grabbed a sausage and brought it to her lips. I thought of the fierce mama bear she’d been that day and wondered where she’d gone.

  I thought she’d never really tried to be my mom, but she did once, I thought. She wasn’t always like this.

  With a shiver, I recalled the haunted expression in her eyes when Dad left. I went to the bathroom and cranked up the hot water. One could certainly argue that I’d reframed a massive memory last night. Perhaps the darkest of them. Janine’s voice played through my mind while I stood beneath the warm spray of the shower on one leg.

  Reframe your thoughts. Pull out the positive. Don’t focus on the negative.

  Once the water turned lukewarm, I stepped out. My hair felt silky when I pulled a comb through it, brushed my teeth, strapped my brace back on, and hobbled out with one crutch. Steam billowed out with me despite the sultry day. Mom didn’t look up from the couch as I walked past. My gaze dropped to the food surrounding her like a wall.

  She doesn’t care, came the thought. She doesn’t care about anything but food and television.

  No, countered another thought. I’m reframing. She does care. She did care. She does care about things.

  But that thought sputtered. I couldn’t bring myself to believe it. If Mom cared about anything, I had no idea what it was. Food, maybe. The television schedule. Herself, too. Janine would say that Mom was hiding. That the pain she felt interacting with life on any level was too great. When did Mom ever speak about herself? Happy memories? Good times? Her parents? Her childhood?

  Never.

  I couldn’t help but wonder what my grandparents had been like. Then I wondered if I wanted to know.

  While I scrambled an egg, the dream-not-dream replayed through my mind. It hadn’t been a dream. That had really happened. Every scary, frightening, real detail. The temptation to ask Mom about it filled me, but I forced it to pass. Not now. It wouldn’t be fair to her.

  Wild thoughts filled my head until I grabbed my car keys and my purse. Relieved for a break from my own mind, I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed for the door. Once there, I stopped, hesitated, then called, “Bye, Mom. I hope you have a good day.”

  She paused, a sausage link halfway to her mouth. Then she chomped off the end, lifted a hand, and kept watching television.

  Chapter 14

  A Long Time

  The movie theater dimmed into near darkness.

  An ad for a free diabetic screening popped up first, cloaking the theater in pale shadows. Bitsy and I were the only ones in the room, so I propped my ankle up on the chair in front of me and reclined back. Getting away from the Frosting Cottage—and the numerous failures on our new recipes—felt almost as delicious as the smell of buttery popcorn in the air. Bitsy had insisted on bringing snacks for us instead of buying. Much cheaper, she said. Healthier, too. A tub of that popcorn would set your heart health back eighty years.

  Bags of kettle corn, carrot sticks, and frozen grapes were tucked inside her purse.

  “Channing. Tatum.” I whistled. “Hello, old friend. Cannot wait to see you again!”

  The wolf cry felt pitiful without Lexie giggling at my side. I glanced at the empty seat next to me with a sigh, reassured that she was watching with her sister-in-law in a different theater but at the same time.

  It keeps us connected, she had said. Through Channing Tatum. This is important stuff, Rachelle.

  Bitsy snorted. “Channing Tatum isn’t that cute.”

  “You lie!”

  She sucked in a drink of water through a straw and set it in the armrest. “He’s overrated.”

  “Let me guess, you’re a Rhett Butler type?”

  “Definitely.”

  “You prefer older men?”

  “Preferably sterilized older men. Two kids is plenty, thanks.” I laughed as she wiggled deeper into the seat. “Mira said the debut on the new flavors is coming up in a couple of days,” she said. “You nervous?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Ready?”

  I shook my head. “Not even close. We’ve perfected the easy recipes, but we’re still trying to find a unique version of the soda cupcakes. She’s putting most of her hope in those, though I think the cookie bar will dominate. At least we have a plan for the cookie bar. It’s not easy thinking of a dozen variations of cookies. Just saying.”

  “I plan on bringing the girls.”

  “Thanks. We’ll take whoever will come. Sophia’s optimistic for a lot of people, but I’m not.”

  Bitsy’s gaze darted around. Her nose wrinkled. I counted under my breath.

  “Three … two … one…”

  Right on cue, Bitsy leaned down, pulled an antibacterial wipe out of her purse, and started to sanitize the chair. She cast me a sidelong glance promising steep retribution if I teased her. I held up two hands in surrender.

  “So.” She scrubbed the arm rest at her side. “How are things?”

  Weeks had passed since we’d had a chance to connect with just the two of us. In some ways, I’d appreciated the space. The last three days, though, I’d been desperate to talk to her about the dream and what I’d seen in my mom afterward. A whole new world had started to unroll around me, littered with memories, photos, and long nights spent with my eyes closed while I imagined pockets of yellow pain bursting when I squeezed them in my fist.

  “Intense,” I finally said.

  “You’re obviously going to Janine still. Good.”

  “Yes, still going. Feel like I’m finally making some progress, but it’s hard to tell. Listen, I had this dream, and I wanted to see what you thought of it.”

  Finally satisfied that her environment wasn’t fostering contagions, she sat back, tucked the wipe in her bag, and nodded once.

  “Ready. Spill.”

  While a movie trailer for a romantic comedy flickered across the screen, I caught her up. Having to review the dream out loud made me feel like I’d finally processed it. By the time I finished, the opening credits had started.

  “And then I went to work. The dream was so real, Bitsy. I just … I didn’t even know what to think at first.”

  “You did the right thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You comforted little Rachelle. Did Janine tell you how that works? That our subconscious doesn’t know time?”

  I frowned. Janine had told me many things.

  “No?”

  “When we have a traumatic memory, it gets stored in our brain.”

  “Right. Pockets of pain.”

  Bitsy nodded once. “Yes, but our subconscious doesn’t recognize time. Little Rachelle needed someone to tell her it wasn’t her fault. You did that. Now your subconscious just knows that you received what you needed. Pocket of pain destroyed. If you ask me, it’ll probably change something. They often say that inner-child work can heal almost instantaneously.”

  My thoughts sank into that as the lights dimmed, coating the room in darkness. So that was inner-child work? Comforting little Rachelle had been a natural reaction. What else would I have done? Perhaps it had shifted something, though. I felt different. Less … frantic, perhaps.

  Bitsy leaned closer. “It definitely gives you some insight on your mom, though.”

 
; “How?”

  “The whole food thing. Sounds like she’s had a food addiction for a long time. Not only that, but little Rachelle said that she was afraid Dad would hide the food just like Grandpa did and they wouldn’t be able to eat. Now there’s a fear that originated in your mom. Wonder what she’s been through.”

  Despite saying it out loud, I’d missed that little detail. Mom loved her food. There had always been a strong argument for an addiction, but I’d always assumed it was television. Overeating seemed like a natural byproduct of sitting around all day. But perhaps it was the other way around. Or maybe they both affected each other.

  “Look at it from both sides,” Bitsy said as Channing Tatum flashed across the screen for the first time. I ignored him. “Your father probably felt intense frustration that his wife wouldn’t listen to his concerns about your health. Your mother sought connection through food, and he was critical of it. Maybe food is the only way your mom feels safe. Explains why she never leaves and always has food with her, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  I’d faced Mom’s issues every day of my life but never thought of them that way. Until the dream, I hadn’t remembered the source of their anger at each other. Now, I couldn’t imagine it being anything else. If I had been Dad, I would have been worried, too.

  But I wouldn’t have just left.

  “He couldn’t have left only because of how much ice cream my mom gave me,” I said, leaning toward her. “Right? That’s just stupid.”

  “I’d wager there was more going on. A lot more.” Bitsy shook her head with a frown. “I worry about your mom. She breaks my heart.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s hiding from the world. And me. Which, you know, I can’t blame her. I’d probably hide from me, too. It seems like she spends most of her energy fighting herself. Denying her problems instead of facing them. She lives a half life. She’s blind to her problems. She never leaves the house. She medicates with food. Heartbreaking, isn’t it?”

  That my mom had issues was nothing I’d contest; she clearly had her demons. But I’d never thought she lived in denial. Nor had I found it heartbreaking. It was her choice. No one forced her in front of the television and no one forced corn chips in her mouth. Even now, I had a hard time conjuring up pity. Everything just felt hollow inside.