Hollow

by Rhonda Parrish

AMY IS WATCHING Dad from her seat at the kitchen table. Her feet don’t quite reach the floor and she’s kicking them absently. There is no conversation, so when I walk in they both turn quickly to face me, surprise on their faces.

  “Don’t you usually eat with Sevren?” Dad asks, peering at me from across the room. He’s standing by the stove, flipper in hand, waiting to turn the grilled cheese in the cast iron frying pan.

  “Yeah, but he has a thing today,” I say. “So I came home to hang out with you two.”

  “Looks like you had a run first,” Amy says. I guess I didn’t walk home slowly enough, my face must still be pink. I wave dismissively. “Little one,” I say and slip into my usual spot across from Amy.

  I have to turn in my seat to be able to see Dad from there, but I don’t mind. It’s nice to see him during daylight hours. Ever since the accident he’s been picking up every extra shift at work he can, which means we see evidence of his existence—the dinners he prepares in advance and leaves on the stove for us to heat up, his snores coming from Aric’s bedroom during the day, even the occasional empty beer bottle left on the counter come morning—but getting actual, real face time with him is something else.

  He flips the sandwich, flips it again, then apparently satisfied with its colour, he turns it onto the cutting board. He cuts the crusts off, quarters it, and slides it onto a plate that he puts in front of Amy.

  “Onions on yours too, Morgan?” he asks.

  “Ew, gross!” I make a face. Amy and Dad both laugh.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing,” he says.

  I look over at Amy’s sandwich. A bit of onion has fallen out and it sits on her plate looking like a piece of bloated maggot. “I have a fairly good idea.”

  Amy catches where I’m looking, picks up the onion, and plops it into her mouth. She makes an exaggerated chewing motion and adds lots of slobbery sounds. I grimace and duck away as though I’m repulsed. I’m not, not really, but it’s what is expected of me so I do my part. Then she picks up a section of her sandwich and begins to nibble around the edges like a mouse. “Why do you eat like that?” I ask her for at least the dozenth time.

  “Why do you care?” Dad asks.

  “Yeah,” Amy echoes, “why do you care?”

  “It’s just—whatever.” I look to the wall the kitchen shares with Mom’s bedroom. “Is Mom going to join us?”

  Dad’s face falls. He shakes his head and turns his back to us to put another sandwich together in the frying pan. “Your mother isn’t having a good day today.”

  “She never has a good day,” I mumble, and across the table, Amy nods in agreement with me.

  “Now, that’s not fair,” Dad says. “She’s been through a lot. With Aric dying and her being paralyzed—”

  “I know,” I say, careful to keep my voice low enough Mom won’t hear it through the walls if she happens to be awake and listening. “I know, but . . .”

  “But what?” he says.

  But we still need her. But even when she’s here she’s not. But I miss her. But it’s all my fault.

  I think the answers, I don’t say them, and after the silence lingers a moment longer, Dad continues. “Please, girls, I know it’s hard, but we need to try and be compassionate. It’s not Mom’s fault. She’s depressed—”

  Damn it. I’ve done it again. The conversation had been nice and light, cheerful even, and I ruined it by bringing up Mom and the accident. I always do that. When will I learn to leave things well enough alone?

  Guilt sits heavy in my gut as Dad goes on, repeating all the things we’ve heard him say a million times. When he passes me my grilled cheese sandwich, I know it is going to taste like sawdust, but I bite into it anyway to avoid having to respond. What he is saying is true, but sometimes that doesn’t help. Sometimes even my guilt doesn’t help excuse Mom’s absence from my life. Sometimes, I want to tell Dad, sometimes I feel like it wasn’t only Aric who died in that accident. Sometimes I feel like it took Mom, too, and just left a mother-shaped hole behind.

  I don’t though.

  I don’t say a word. I chew and swallow, then chew and swallow again. Dad eventually gets to the end of his speech, and the room is silent but for the overly-loud ticking of the clock above the doorway. The lack of conversation becomes heavier and heavier as it drags on, but I don’t know how to fix it. By the time Dad has made his own sandwich and sat down to join us, Amy has finished her lunch and I’m halfway there. Every bite has gone down like a stone, and tasted about as good.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” I say. “It’s tough on us too.”

  Amy nods, “Yeah.”

  “I know,” he says, looking down at his hands and the sandwich clasped between them. Then he looks back up. He holds Amy’s gaze first, then mine.

  He looks old, I think, older than he has any right to. He is only in his early forties—he shouldn’t have so much grey in his hair, such big bags under his eyes. “I know.”

  I reach over to pat his hand, then stop myself midway and fold my hands in my lap, and Amy picks up the conversation about onions where we’d left off. She rambles on and on about onions, how tasty they are and how much I’m missing out by not having them on my sandwich. Eventually her chatter evolves to include all sorts of other tasty things I don’t have in my grilled cheese. Dad joins in, but not me. I haven’t got it in me to even try. I eat what’s left of my lunch in silence, and when I’m done, I shove my and Amy’s plates into the dishwasher.

  “You walking to school with me, Amy? We need to be going or we’ll be late.”

  Dad turns his cheek up to me for a kiss goodbye, and I comply. His whiskers are rough and poke at me, but I don’t mind. Not much. I toss my backpack strap over one shoulder and hitch it up to a comfortable position while Amy kisses Dad and pulls on her jacket. “Thanks for lunch, Dad,” I say.

  “My pleasure. You should come home for lunch more often.”

  “Maybe I will,” I lie. I’m only here today because I couldn’t stand being at school for one more second, but I can’t tell him that. He wouldn’t understand. I look back at him once more as I head out the door. He’s got his back to me, shoulders hunched, head down, with the fluorescent light from the kitchen gleaming on the bits of scalp that are visible through his thinning hair. He’s never looked more tired, more sad, more used up. For a second, I want to sit on his lap like when I was a little kid, wrap my arms around his neck, and hug him until we both feel better. Instead, I pull the door closed behind me and follow Amy down the walk toward school. I’m in no hurry—I’d be happy to never have to go back there again—but Amy’s legs are short and I’ve caught up to her in no time. Maybe she’s in no rush to get back to school either.

  “What you said about Mom . . .” Amy says.

  “What?” I pause to look at her, and she stops too, watching me in turn, then we both begin to walk again. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “No, you’re right.” Amy sounds much older than seven. “You should. It’s like . . . she never left the hospital either.”

  The sandwich in my stomach feels like a greasy blob sloshing around and making me ill. I don’t want to talk about this. Can’t we talk about little kid somethings? Anything but all the stuff I try so hard to outrun. The stuff I can’t believe I said at lunch. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Amy shrugs. “I don’t either, I just—I wanted you to know I think you’re right.”

  I look down at her. At the way she chews on her lower lip, the movement in the pocket I know is her worrying the button she keeps there. “Thanks, Goober,” I say, and muss her hair.

  Amy ducks away, laughing, and I feel a wave of affection for her swell inside my chest. “Hey, you and I should do something together,” I say. “What would you like to do?”

  Amy’s laugh disappears and she looks at me out of the corner of her eyes. Suspiciously. Like how Boris watches strangers in his house. “For real?”

  “Yeah, of course for real.”

  “I�
��uh . . .”

  “Would you like to go see a movie?”

  “That would be great!” The suspicion evaporates from her like water on a hot frying pan. “I would love to see the new Pixar movie. Dad said he’d try to take me but—”

  “But he’s always too busy,” I finish for her.

  “And Mom says she doesn’t want to drive there . . .” They’d bought a new minivan, one retrofitted with a ramp and hand controls so Mom can get in and out and eventually even drive if she wants. Dad had adapted to the new controls in no time, but it seemed like Mom didn’t want to be in the driver’s seat ever again. So far she hadn’t even tried.

  “Okay, well, let’s go on Saturday. It’ll be like a date.”

  Amy’s grin is like headlights at midnight. Even as we approach the school and my dread at having to face everyone creeps over me, my sister’s smile helps keep it from completely enveloping me.

  The schoolyard is filled with little groups of students. The emo kids are clustered together beside the parking lot, technically off school grounds, sharing a cigarette. The cheerleaders and their boyfriends are in the parking lot hanging in and around modded out cars with blaring stereos. Further along the lawn, a group of math geeks have their heads together looking at a book beneath the big ash tree. Little groups, cliques, like lily pads in a stream. Each group is independent of the others and only bumped up against each other unintentionally under forces they couldn’t control. I think of Sevren. The two of us, we’re a lily pad all our own. Friendly with other students, but not friends. I’d thought I was branching out a bit when I started dating Keith, but the way that turned out taught me otherwise.

  As I approach, people look up to see me, then immediately look away again. Their conversations freeze only to resume in whispers. I feel something in me shrivel and wrap my arms around my belly, hands grasping elbows.

  “Don’t let them—”

  “Go to class, Amy,” I say, much more harshly than I meant to. Amy’s eyes drop to the ground and her smile wilts, but what could a seven-year-old know about what it is like to be in high school? Amy sulks off toward the little kid end of the school. I feel bad but an extra-large bucket of popcorn at Saturday’s movie ought to help bandage that wound.

  “Morgan,” Marcus’ voice cuts through the white noise buzz of conversations and competing musical choices around me. My mouth feels suddenly dry and my belly even queasier than a moment ago, but I take a deep breath and turn to face him.

  “Marcus, I—”

  “I . . . I felt bad about what Keith said,” he says, cutting me off. “I thought we could, you know, talk about it?”

  I blink, clear my throat then blink again. Am I hearing this right? “You—”

  “We don’t actually have to talk about it. Keith is a jerk. I’m sorry he said that in class and upset you.” Marcus looks down at his watch. He’s the only boy I know who wears a wristwatch. I think it’s charming. “Can I walk you home after school?”

  “I—yes. Yes, of course you can.”

  “Good,” his smile is dazzling and my knees melt. “Good. I’ll meet you at your locker.”

  He knows where my locker is! He’s going to walk me home!

  “Okay, that would be great.”

  The bell announcing the start of classes sounds. “I hate to do this, but I have to run. I need to hand in some stuff to Ms. Graham right now and then get to gym class. At your locker after school though, okay?”

  I nod, my smile stretching my cheeks so far they hurt. “Okay.”

  Chapter Six

  THE AFTERNOON DRAGGED on, torturously long. Everywhere I went I heard whispers behind me, saw people looking at me with curiosity, sympathy, or even, for reasons I can’t fathom, outright hostility. I’m used to a fair amount of unwanted attention. Keith’s spread all sorts of rumours about me lately, and everyone seems to take the lies he says and add onto them, making them bigger, and badder, and more hurtful with every telling. But this is worse than usual. Far worse. I guess my flight from Math class was a popular topic of conversation over lunch hour. Though my face occasionally burns, I make a deliberate decision to keep my head up and shoulders back, and not walk any faster through the halls than I normally would. It’s an immense test of my willpower, but I don’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing how they are affecting me.

  I.

  Will.

  Not.

  So I keep my gaze focused on the empty space in front of me each time I’m in the hallway and at random points on my desk while I’m in class. For the most part, it works.

  But what is even worse than the people whispering and looking at me, worse even than the machine gun-like bursts of laughter which often erupt once my back is turned, are those people who go out of their way to see if I am okay. When the teachers do it, that’s one thing. It brings tears to my eyes that I have to blink away because, again, I can’t afford to show any weakness. Not even to them. When students do it that is another thing altogether. First it’s Teresa, then Stacy, and then Xia come over and ask conspiratorially if I am all right, and I nearly lose it.

  Stacy had been my friend once, but not the other girls. We’d never been rivals of any sort or anything, but we were definitely on different lily pads. Why are they suddenly being so nice now? In fact, sitting in Biology class I realise Stacy and Xia have both dated Keith in the past. I don’t remember how their relationships ended; I didn’t track gossip well, especially since the accident. That crash narrowed my world down to only a handful of people, which means as far as I know, Keith and each of them had broken up amicably and maybe they are spying on me for him. That seems like something he would do. Send in spies.

  I’m being paranoid. That’s what I tell myself, but I only halfway believe it. I duck my head lower down, staring at the worksheets Mr. Hutton had passed out as if they are the most interesting things I’ve ever seen. If I show any sign I’m upset, someone will notice. With my luck it will be the teacher. I imagine him calling, in his squeaky little voice, “Morgan? Morgan, is everything all right?” and then the whole classroom would turn to look at me like I was some kind of freak.

  That isn’t going to happen.

  Revelling in the righteous anger my imagined scenario has lit in my belly, as fierce as if it had happened in reality and not in my mind, I am able to shift from self-pity to anger.

  I look furtively around the room to see if anyone is watching me. It doesn’t look like it. There’s the usual murmured conversations going on, but mostly everyone seems to be paying attention to their work. That in itself is sort of a minor miracle but possibly explained by the fact Mr. Hutton lets us all listen to music on our phones once his lesson is done, as long as we’re quiet and productive.

  I turn up my own music and put my head down. This schoolwork isn’t going to do itself and I actually like biology. Maybe it will take my mind off all the other crap that’s going on.

  It works, for a time, but soon it isn’t thoughts of Keith and what he’s done to my life that are distracting me, but thoughts of Marcus.

  Marcus moved to our school this year and I was attracted to him the first moment I saw him. I’d been on a run when I spotted him inside the schoolyard, running the track. I don’t usually run on the track, preferring the shade offered by the trees around the neighbourhood, but when I saw him I decided to make an exception. I thought I’d been clever, to start running in the direction opposite him, because that way even if I couldn’t match his pace he’d be sure to see me. Unfortunately, as Dad would say, I’d outsmarted myself. Since we were running in opposite directions we only saw each other as we approached and passed one another. It wasn’t exactly an ideal way to meet him.

  The first time Marcus spotted me he widened his eyes and smiled, nodding as I went by. I did the same, grinning like a fool the whole time. He was gorgeous when he smiled, like someone out of a movie.

  On our second circuit of the track, as we approached each other, Marcus made a funny face, crossi
ng his eyes, sticking out his tongue and waggling his fingers on either side of his head. It was very silly, in a way that didn’t usually appeal to me, but when he did it, it was funny. I laughed out loud and tried to think of what I could do to match him the next time we passed one another. I tried a silly face of my own but I was completely undone and unable to keep it up when Marcus passed me, skipping as though he was off to see the wizard and humming the song to accompany the motion.

  I was bent over with laughter while I tried to run, and then I made a U-turn and caught up to Marcus, running in the lane beside him. Our conversation had been light, a little flirty, and easy. So easy. I hadn’t ever found talking to a boy that easy, well, except for Sevren, but he didn’t count.

  That had been the day before school started. That night I’d looked forward to school in a way I hadn’t since kindergarten. I couldn’t wait to see Marcus again, and I’d decided I was going to be brave and ask him to go to the movies with me.

  I called Sevren and told him all about Marcus and my plan to ask him out. Sevren had been super supportive and said Marcus would be bonkers to say no to me, then, when I freaked out, reassured me that wouldn’t happen.

  The next day I took extra care with my appearance, and even put on some makeup. I didn’t see Marcus until lunch time, and by then he’d already found himself a group of friends. The cool kids. Of course.

  All the pep talks from Sevren in the world weren’t going to entice me into asking him out while he was standing in a circle with all the most idolized kids in the school. Instead, I’d taken my bag lunch and gone to sit under the ash tree with Sevren like I always did. He’d taken one look at me, glanced over at Marcus, and known what had happened. Known too I wouldn’t want to talk about it.

  We’d had lunch like always, isolated together in a sea of cliques, groups, and fandoms. We’d talked about The Conjuring which we’d watched the week before, played with grass trying to make it squeak, and sat in silence together, lost in our own thoughts. Eventually mine had moved on from Marcus and to the accident. I’d done that a lot then.