by Melissa Paulsen<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n Four song sparrows distract her as they dart in and out of our junipers in the backyard. Her thin frame pauses by the sink full of last night\u2019s dishes while I line four frozen sausage links on a plate. Next to the microwave, the slices of nine-grain bread emerge from the toaster in all their charred glory. I only know it\u2019s nine-grain because there\u2019s a picture of a leaping orca on the plastic bag; it\u2019s the same bread I\u2019ve grown up with. The cold jar of raspberry jelly feels nice in my sweaty hands as I smother the two pieces of bread. I hum along to the microwave and glance around the kitchen. My heart races when I realize she has wandered outside. Again.<\/p>\n Sunlight illuminates her auburn hair and wide emerald eyes. Her pale neck swivels back and forth as she watches two petite sparrows soar from the junipers to our ancient red maple, Margaret. I grasp her cold hands, and she narrows her eyes at me until they soften with recognition. My shoulders reach her chest now, but I can\u2019t tell if I grew or if she shrank over the past three years.<\/p>\n I pull her into an embrace. Her chest shakes, and I wipe the tears from her eyes. \u201cIt\u2019s going to be okay.\u201d I rely on the words she once used to calm me. \u201cI\u2019m here.\u201d I fiddle with the purple bracelet my best friend, Jasmine, made for my birthday last year. The beads clack against each other. \u201cLet\u2019s go inside and eat some breakfast, okay?\u201d<\/p>\n She nods, and I make sure to flip the lock on the sliding glass door behind me. I gag as I open the microwave. Steam emerges to reveal shriveled sausages\u2014I was supposed to stop them at the one-minute mark. She doesn\u2019t complain, though, just nibbles at her toast and the one salvageable sausage while I scarf my toast down like I\u2019m in an eating contest.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry about last night,\u201d she says. Her eyes flicker between me and the birds outside. \u201cI didn\u2019t mean to burn our dinner.\u201d<\/p>\n I swallow the last piece of burnt toast and feel a lump in my throat. Last night she had wandered away from the frying pan filled with garlic cloves and chicken.<\/p>\n I chase the crumbs down with expired orange juice. \u201cAccidents happen.\u201d<\/p>\n She doesn\u2019t seem convinced and instead reaches up to play with her messy bun.<\/p>\n I attempt a weak smile and say again, \u201cAccidents happen. Cooking is difficult. You taught me that, remember?\u201d The wooden chair scrapes against the tile as I collect our dishes. She used to yell at me for scratching the tile, but now she just stares at the marks on the floor like they\u2019re a secret code she\u2019s supposed to decipher.<\/p>\n \u201cBesides,\u201d I call over my shoulder, \u201cwe got to order pizza last night.\u201d The warm water feels good as it streams from the rusty faucet. The dishes clank in the sink. A plate slips out of my soapy hands and breaks in half. The jagged edge cuts my thumb as I retrieve the plate from the sink. My thumb throbs as it bleeds, turning the water pink like when an artist mixes paints.<\/p>\n She flinches. \u201cWhat was that? Are you okay?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cA dish broke, but I\u2019m fine.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe first aid kit should be\u2026I think it\u2019s\u2026.\u201d She rifles through the cracked plastic three-bin organizer. Loose scrap paper flutters to the floor, and a pen drops. She hurries out of the kitchen and returns a moment later. \u201cI can\u2019t find it.\u201d Her face contorts, and her eyes water. She stomps. \u201cWhy can\u2019t\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m fine,\u201d I say. \u201cI found a Band-Aid in the junk drawer, see?\u201d I stick out my thumb. It\u2019s an old Scooby-Doo Band-Aid. Scooby\u2019s face covers my thumb like a finger puppet.<\/p>\n She breathes a sigh of relief. \u201cWhat were we talking about again?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe pizza we ordered last night.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWe had pizza last night?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes, we did.\u201d I watch her stand by the TV and flip through the channels.<\/p>\n \u201cWe did what?\u201d she asks, fixated on an advertisement for Tums where a dude fights an army of life-sized burritos.<\/p>\n I take a deep breath, inhaling through my nose and exhaling out my mouth. \u201cWhy don\u2019t we watch Savannah and Hoda for a bit on The Today Show<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t want to watch that.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, what do you want to watch?\u201d<\/p>\n She shrugs and sets the remote on the coffee table. She thumbs through the glossy pages of a People<\/em> magazine. I don\u2019t know any of the celebrities. While she\u2019s distracted, I type thirteen on the remote; she\u2019ll want to watch The Today Show<\/em>.<\/p>\n \u201cI told you, I don\u2019t want to watch this.\u201d The doorbell rings and startles her. She drops the magazine, and the pages bend at weird angles on the carpet. \u201cWho\u2019s here?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll go see,\u201d I say, even though I\u2019m ninety-nine percent sure I know. I take a running start and slide in my striped socks down the hallway\u2019s wood floor. Resting my forehead against the door, I check the peephole before swinging it open. The cool autumn breeze rushes inside.<\/p>\n \u201cMornin\u2019, Jordynn.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGood morning, Z.\u201d I step aside as Aunt Jordynn shrugs off her puffy coat to hang by the door. Her tan arms are warm and strong as she stoops to give me a hug. She smells like peppermint.<\/p>\n \u201cHow is she this morning?\u201d Jordynn whispers. Her eyes are the color of syrup, and I\u2019ve always thought they were the prettiest eyes I\u2019ve ever seen.<\/p>\n I sigh. \u201cThe usual.\u201d<\/p>\n Jordynn nods and pulls a notepad from her purse. It\u2019s hot pink (my favorite color) and spiral-bound on the top. She scribbles a few notes in cursive and asks, \u201cHow are you<\/em> doing?\u201d<\/p>\n Tears prickle in my eyes, and I don\u2019t want them there, so I swipe them away. \u201cIt\u2019s hard. Really hard. I miss the old days when she took care of me. Is that selfish?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, Z, not at all.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI miss her memory.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMe too,\u201d Jordynn says. \u201cBut you\u2019re doing a phenomenal job. Especially for all that\u2019s being asked of you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cZ, where did you go?\u201d she calls from the living room.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m right here,\u201d I say. Jordynn follows me into the living room. A handful of my childhood picture books lies scattered across the ivory carpet. Jordynn and I watch her in silence. She picks up each book to examine its cover before returning it to the dusty shelf. She clutches The Very Hungry Caterpillar <\/em>in her hand: my favorite. \u201cWe forgot to organize these last night,\u201d she says. She pats her hair bun again.<\/p>\n My gaze lingers on her wrinkled Airforce t-shirt: the one she has worn for three days straight. \u201cThe books weren\u2019t on the ground last night,\u201d I say out of the side of my mouth to Jordynn.<\/p>\n Jordynn nods and walks around the leather recliner, running a plump finger along the armrest. \u201cHey Sarah,\u201d she says, \u201cit\u2019s me, Jordynn.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI know who you are.\u201d<\/p>\n Jordynn takes her grumpiness in stride like she does every morning. \u201cI\u2019ve come to check in and see how you\u2019re doing today.\u201d<\/p>\n I glance at my phone. 8:05. I\u2019m going to be late<\/em>. Shoot, I\u2019ve never been late for anything in my life.<\/em><\/p>\n I tuck the phone back into my jean pocket. \u201cI\u2019m going to leave you with Jordynn for a bit,\u201d I say as she puts The Very Hungry Caterpillar <\/em>upside down on the shelf. \u201cBut I\u2019ll see you this evening, okay, Mom?\u201d<\/p>\n I hug her, but her eyes stay glued to the TV as Savannah and Hoda read today\u2019s headlines. Rushing back into the kitchen, I grab my lunchbox from the fridge. I toss it into my backpack that we bought at TJ Maxx last month during one of her good days. It\u2019s a pretty lavender color, and it came with a pack of scented pencils. The root beer one is my favorite.<\/p>\n \u201cThanks again, Jordynn,\u201d I say, yanking on my bright red Nikes. My navy-blue track jacket swishes as I pull my arms through. For good luck, I pat the logo of the eagle with \u201cWashington Middle School\u201d etched beneath its outspread wings in red letters. Today, my team and I are qualifying for State. Coach Emerson told me I had a good chance of being eligible since I\u2019m the fastest girl on our eighth-grade team. The overgrown grass tickles my ankles as I dash across the yard toward the school bus flashing its red lights.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Melissa Paulsen is an undergraduate majoring in Creative Writing at the University of Montana. Born in Reno, Nevada, Melissa has spent the past ten years living in the gorgeous Flathead Valley. Some of her hobbies include reading, writing, golfing, cheering on the Pittsburgh Steelers, and playing Nintendo games because she has the heart of a nerd. Melissa aspires to write YA novels and children\u2019s books in the future; she believes that her writing helps her explore her relationships with her family, closest friends, and her fellow writers and readers. She hopes her work encourages others to write and reminds them that they are not alone.<\/p>\n
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