Page 9 of All of You
“This is home! Isn’t it?”
“No,” she grunts quietly. “This was barely ever a home. Home is that way.” She jabs her finger in the direction of the camper. I’m confused, tired and overwhelmed. My body is tightly coiled with enough tension that if you plucked me like a string I might snap.
I march silently, down the last step, past my mother and toward the camper fighting back tears of frustration.
August 2022
I refuse to speak to her. I have burning questions that I deserve answers to but I am too angry to hold a conversation and so I am reduced to angry scribbling on paper instead. How could she? How could he?! They both withheld themselves and their stories from me. He knew I existed. He knew mom was pregnant? He never once reached out or sent a card or asked for a visit? And mom…she flat out lied to me for seventeen years. No family, just you and me kiddo. Thelma and Louise. What a crock of shit.
And why now? Why implode my world now? What is happening? I want to throw a tantrum. Rip my hair out and scream every dirty curse word I can muster. I want to sob dramatically and throw myself on the ground in a pool of tears and mucus.
But I will not. I will brood and stuff it all down while mom sits in her stupid fucking camping chair outside the van—alone.
She knocks on the door again. I still refuse to talk to her.
My words are a jumbled mess in my brain. My thoughts are chaotic. A swirling vat of contrasting emotions.
And where is my grandmother? This means that my grandparents know who my father is. I can’t take it. I can’t.
I toss my journal on the bed and stuff my feet into my flip-flops. Aggressively throwing open the van door I hop out. Mom jumps to her feet.
“Delia, let me explain,” she starts. I hold my hands up andmarch past her. “Where are you going?” I keep marching.
Past the house and the blueberry bushes and all the way down the dirt road until I’m at the main road. I look left, then right. I have no idea where I am or where I’m going but I don’t care. Tears stream down my face. I shove them away with the back of my hand.This whole thing is bullshit.
I go straight across the road, into a field. There’s a house way off to the left. It’s probably their yard, but I don’t care. I stomp through the tall grass, not even thinking about ticks and keep on stomping until I’m in the woods, and then, I stop.
Because I have too. I’m on the bank of a river. Wide enough for three lanes of traffic. Sandy with smooth rocks poking their heads above the water like curious seals. I kick off my flip-flops and jab a toe into the water. It’s warm. So warm. I walk in about fifty feet until the water reaches my shorts. Tilting my face to the dusky sky I open my mouth and scream before letting myself sink underwater.
It feels like hours have passed by the time I tromp back through the field, across the street, and up the dirt drive.
“Delia!” Mom’s voice comes from the porch steps of the house. With a quick glance I see she’s sitting with Heath. I ignore them both and head for the van. I can hear Mom pop up and follow. Her footsteps light and fast on the grassy path.
Whipping around, I face her. “I have no words for you. No nice words anyway.”
She reaches out but I deflect her touch. “I mean it, Mom.I’m not ready.”
“Delia.” My name hangs in the air in a deep baritone. Blinking, I look beyond my mother and see Heath, a worried crease in his forehead. “You’re soaking wet. Come to the house to wash up and dry off.”
“I’ll bring clothes for you,” Mom says and walks toward the van.
I stand rooted in my spot, staring.
“I don’t bite, girl.”
I can’t make my feet budge, or my mouth speak.
Heath sighs and tosses his hands in the air. “It’s just a hot shower and dry clothes.” He turns and heads back toward the house.
It’s the hot shower that gets me.
Five
Delia
My head throbs when I wake. This happens whenever I have a good crying jag. Not even a steaming hot shower can wrangle my body’s response to sobbing. My sinuses join the party and wreak havoc on my face. I’m puffy and swollen and I haven’t even opened my eyes yet to look at myself.
“There’s cereal on the table for you.” I don’t respond to my mom but my stomach does. I’m hungry. Pushing the covers off me I crawl out of bed and stretch. The morning air is already humid. The kind of humidity where you don’t want to touch yourself let alone anyone else lest you might stick together and never be able to separate. I step out into the sun-dolloped shade and droplets of dew and inhale. I love to smell the morning air.
