trauma does not exist. part 4

if you really think about it, it’s her own fault. I guess that’s why she doesn’t think about it.

she blurts it all out in a frenzy. it wasn’t planned or rehearsed. it’s more than a little undignified.

in hindsight she wishes she’d given it at least a bit of thought. she’d certainly had the time (had it been 20 years or 30?). but instead it all comes out in one dark muddy mess.  cue the tears. is there anything worse than being a stereotype.

he knows enough to hold her. this might be the first time he’s held her since she was a little girl. she’s shaking. she wonders if they’ll believe her. she doesn’t even remember that she’s wondered this before.

no one speaks.

her mother stares at her, speechless. eyes wide, face frozen, jaw dropped, mouth open. for gods sake, she looks like a fucking cartoon character.

they were there in the family room, because of course. old carpet, more beige than it should be. cheap prints adorn the walls. tchotchkes everywhere. a TV the focal point of the room. it’s not what you would call tasteful. it was just a house. a home to no one, to nothing but chaos.

was there really a fire going? she asks herself. how absurd. did they think they were, a fucking rockwell painting? 

she’s said her piece. (did she think she’d find peace?) now it’s just a game of wait and see.

minutes tick by. she only hears the sound of her own sobs, her nose dripping with snot. are they ever going to say anything. so between sobs she asks them if they’re ok. can you imagine. she’s worried that they may not be alright. but it’s a good thing she does ask because they are not, in fact, alright.

there’s talk of getting to the bottom of it. he’s talking like some gumshoe detective. it makes him feel in control.

why does she panic at this?

Don’t tell Him, don’t talk to Him about it, she pleads childishly.

why would she say that? what exactly is it that she’s afraid of?

the answer is so obvious it’s embarrassing. she fears that no one will believe her. then she’ll go back to being the one on the outside. though she can’t remember, something in her knows it’s happened like that before. who’s to say it won’t happen again.

so you see, it is her fault because she already knew how this story would end.

the next day, they say nothing. everything is as before, which is to say it is a lie.

she is confused. did I imagine that conversation? did I imagine the tenderness, the solicitousness, the righteous anger on my behalf?

she watches them, closely. their faces, frozen yesterday in horror, are today as blessedly blank as any other day. they check the mail, they watch the news, they make grocery lists and plan dinner menus for the week.

was it all in my head, she wonders. has it all been in my head all along? 

she approaches them, gently, like baby ducklings in her hand: how are you both doing today?

Great!! they say. just like that. without a hint of irony.

she finds herself in the bizarre position of having to remind them of what they talked about the night before, the whole sordid affair. isn’t she the one who’s supposed to be in denial?

oh that, they sigh together. there are half-hearted murmurings about going to the police. But She Could Be President One Day! her mother exclaims, a pitch so shrill she’s probably unable to fool herself. This Shouldn’t Follow Her Her Whole Life. 

is this what protection looks like? she wonders. a silly question because honestly, how would she know. 

and it’s in that moment, and every other one to follow, that she’ll remind herself yet again: she only has herself to blame because there’s no use in making people remember what they’re dead-set on forgetting.