CHAPTER TWO | NANCY THOMPSON

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          Mom's presence isn't the issue. The reason behind it is.

          My parents parted on good terms, having simply fallen out of love with each other, and there's still a strong friendship bond between the two of them, so it's not like I have to put up with arguments whenever they're in the same room. I did spend plenty of time blaming myself for the divorce, though, in spite of their greatest effort to convince me otherwise, because surely I could have been a better daughter. I couldn't ever be the prodigal child—that honor belongs to Xavier, even though he hasn't stepped inside this house in years—but I tried so hard to be the glue holding them together.

          I don't think they've ever expected me to be like Xavier, with everyone in this family having completely different interests and plans for the future, but I still find it hard not to compare myself to him, even after all these years. I have my own accomplishments and he has his, yet it feels like mine always fall short next to his, a result of my poorly measured expectations.

           When Mom moved out following the divorce, I found out about her vow to only return if it was an emergency or of extreme importance, as she thought it would be too awkward for me and Dad ("Sharon, don't be ridiculous," he told her once, over Sunday brunch. "And there you are again, Cooper, gaslighting me," she retorted, pouring herself a generous glass of white wine. "These are my feelings!") if she comes and goes as she pleases. I don't know why she's here today, but I can't shake off the feeling that I've done something wrong.

          "What now?" Dad sighs, stuffing his empty coffee cup into the dishwasher without even rinsing it. "Did you call your mother?"

          "Why would I call her?"

          "Because she's your mother. There are . . . many things I don't understand about you." He sheepishly rubs the nape of his neck. "Your mother is more equipped to deal with certain things than I am. Girls tend to need their mothers."

          "I'm okay."

          In reality, I'm the furthest thing from okay, which he's well aware of, but neither of us makes any additional comments regarding the state of my mental health.

          I take advantage of our momentary silence to sneak out of the kitchen and head back upstairs to make myself look minimally presentable and brush my teeth. The less opportunities I give my mom to point out how much I've let myself go, the better. It's not like she's wrong by any means, as I've definitely seen better days, but taking care of my appearance has turned into a boring chore I find myself ignoring until I finally feel like handling it—except I never do.

          A month ago, I would have cringed the second I saw my reflection looking like it currently does: unkempt hair, messily chopped to try and hide the bald spots left by Him after he dragged me by my ponytail, color still TBD. Emma always said she envied my hair color, how it looked strawberry blonde, dirty blonde, light brown all at once, while now I just find it boring and inconsistent.

          My skin is as dry as a desert, paper-thin around my lips, and the circles underneath my eyes—lifeless, empty now, as opposed to the 'vivacious blue' Mom described them as to everyone who listened—are so dark and pronounced I can't hide them under foundation and concealer even if I bother to put on any makeup.

          I don't see the point. I really don't. I don't go anywhere these days and I'm not seeing anyone besides my parents—Mom on occasion, though she has been making an effort to be more present—and the therapist. I haven't updated my social media, refusing to look at the last pictures I ever posted on Instagram, frozen in time, in a time where everything was okay.

          In the first photo, Emma has an arm laced around my shoulders, standing on her toes because I towered over her by, at least, seven inches. Most of my face is hidden thanks to the shadow cast by my baseball cap—a sport I've never been interested in—but both our grins are pearly white, almost brighter than the sun above our heads. I'm standing straight, one hand on my hip, the other on Emma's head, and, behind us, the entrance to Camp Comet looms tall.

          The following photo on the post is of me and Zach, me sitting on his shoulder, him holding me with the strong arm of a quarterback. He's taller than me, over a head taller, and looks at me with such adoration, curls being blown aside by the gentle breeze, that I never doubted for a second that he was the boy I was going to marry someday.

          Hours after I posted those photos, they were dead.

          I had to turn off the comments on that particular post, finding it flooded with nasty content that shouldn't be allowed anywhere on the Internet, including messages from people blaming me for the whole ordeal. I survived and no one else had, so naturally that makes me deserving of those comments, but it's not something I haven't thought about myself, too. The harassment got to the point where I had to private my accounts, all the ones that I could, but I still don't want to part with the photographic evidence of my memories. As long as I hold on to that, they're still alive, still with me somehow.

          Times like these make me wish I could be less of a skeptic and more accepting of the supernatural, like believing in the whole 'there's life after death' theory. If I believed in ghosts, I could be feeling a lot better instead of aching for the absence of people who won't ever know how much I miss them, how them not being here feels like a constant punch to the gut.

          Missing them won't bring them back. Wallowing in self-pity won't, either, but I don't know how not to miss all of them. Most of all, I miss how things used to be, back when we were all happy and only cared about making it past finals season. Even after the worst has passed, even when in theory I know I'm safe inside my house, even when my parents still get to have a daughter and all those families don't get to say the same, it's still all about me. It's still about me and my pain and my grief and all the complicated feelings that come with being the only one who's left to tell the story.

          The only people who could understand what I went through are buried six feet under, and they don't get to complain about what's happened to them. They don't get to move on, either, so I suppose we're all lucky we've all stagnated in the recovery process for different reasons. Their stagnation comes from the inability to do anything else; mine just comes from the refusal to do so.

          I huff, brushing my hair away from my face and tying it up into a loose ponytail. It's the best I can do with what I have, especially after rejecting all my mom's attempts to take me to her hairstylist to get it fixed, and I know I can't avoid her for much longer.

          Unlike the ghosts, unlike Emma, unlike Zach, unlike my friends, Mom comes back. She always does.

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          There's a dog in my living room.

          Usually, I'm not opposed to animals—my first dream career was to be a veterinarian—but Zach was severely allergic to both cats and dogs, the poor thing, so I tended to steer away from them whenever I knew I'd be spending time with him. Now, it's just weird to have an animal in the house, especially since neither of my parents ever considered owning one, being out and about way too often.

          This dog looks young, although surprisingly big, even for a Golden Retriever. She eyes me with curiosity, wagging her tail when she realizes I'm staring right back at her, but makes no move to try and jump on top of me or even trot towards me like normal Golden Retrievers. She stays perfectly still next to Mom, obedient, like she was trained.

          My saliva is acidic when I swallow it.

          "Wendy, darling," Mom greets, reaching out both her hands my way. I wrinkle my nose at the joke, as it's never been funny, but that hasn't ever stopped her from making it. "How are you?"

          "Doing great."

          She scowls, stepping back from the hug. "Now, I think we both know that's not true."

          Dad clears his throat, still standing inside the kitchen. "Sharon, can we please acknowledge the elephant in the room?" He gestures towards the dog, who cheerfully turns her head to look at him, but doesn't get up. The tail still wags, like she's having the experience of a lifetime like a child's first trip to Disney World. "What's that?"

          Mom sighs. "Cooper, please. You'll hurt her feelings."

          "She's a dog. I don't think she has feelings that can be hurt."

          "Great job. Now you're gaslighting the dog."

          I clear my throat. So much for getting along after the divorce. "What's up with the dog? She's very well behaved."

          Mom's face could brighten up the entirety of Chicago during a blackout. "I'm so glad you asked, dear." Dad scoffs and returns to the kitchen, probably to pour himself another cup of coffee—stronger this time. I can't blame him, though; although I absolutely adore my mom and do anything under the sun for her, even I have to admit she can be a bit grating at times. "She's a psychiatric service dog."

          Dad's head peeks out of the kitchen. "Sharon."

          Mom raises a hand, ignoring him. "I talked to my friends from work about how to actually get you some proper help, since that disgrace of a therapist of yours can't be bothered putting in any effort into doing their job." Mom is an influencer—a Momfluencer, as she puts it, though she makes little to no posts about parenting; it's just because she's an influencer who happens to be a mother—so I take every piece of advice from her 'work friends' with a grain of salt. It's not a green smoothie or a morning routine that starts at 5 in the morning that will make me feel better. "They advised me to look into psychiatric service dogs. You've always liked animals, so I thought 'hey, why not?', and tried to talk some sense into your therapist. At least you'd have some company around."

          Silence falls in the living room. I retreat to the couch that served as my bed for the night and the dog trots towards me, slowly bopping her nose against my knee. The gesture earns her a scratch behind the ears, bless her soul.

          I don't mind keeping the dog. I'm more worried about the implications of being a pet owner—if a service dog can even be considered a pet, which is something I have yet to discover—when I can barely take care of myself, let alone another living being. She's not a cat, self-sufficient enough to live with someone in my current circumstances, and would need devoted attention.

          Granted, she's also a service dog, trained to help me more than I can help her, and, even if she has priorities a regular pet wouldn't have, she still has physical necessities—food, water, going out for walks, hygiene—that I fear I wouldn't be able to help her satisfy. Even with a reduced workload, Dad's still out of the house most of the time and I'm left to my own devices, so all responsibilities would fall on me.

          When she looks up at me with those big, gentle brown eyes of hers, she knows she has me whipped. I can't resist the pleading look of a dog—a puppy, really—and I've read about the benefits of service dogs.

          "You're treating her like a soldier, Sharon," Dad argues. "She's just a kid. Don't you think this is too much?"

          Mom huffs. "She's traumatized, Cooper."

          "You can't treat her like one of your personal projects. You're not using our daughter as the poster child for 'influencer treatments'."

          "You're a detective. Why don't you tell me all about how helpful dogs can be?"

          The bickering is fine. It certainly beats them being at each other's throats whenever they're in the same room and I'm lucky that my parents get along—generally speaking—but it's the way they talk about me like I'm not even present that irks me. I've earned the right to be an active participant in these conversations, especially considering they're about me, my life, my health, my trauma, yet, somehow, I'm constantly cast aside so the adults can make decisions about me in my place.

          I clench my hands into fists, carving my nails into the soft flesh of my palms. I'm good at pretending to be invisible when it matters, but something inside me is building, bubbling like scorching lava, and it takes everything in me to stay in control of my emotions before I explode. I don't want to be immature, stomp my foot, and complain no one is listening to me or asking me what I want, but it's infuriating to always be the one left behind.

          The irony of that isn't lost on me. It's yet another situation where it's just me, fighting to be heard, fighting to live, and all the odds are stacked against me.

          "—neglecting advice given by a professional—"

          "—a professional that's not helping—"

          "I'd like to keep the dog," I chime in, before the argument can escalate. Like she understands English, the dog jumps on me, paws set on my knees, and nearly knocks me back against the cushions. "I think she'll help. At least I won't be alone all the time. You don't need to take time off work," I quickly add, as soon as Dad opens his mouth to suggest exactly that. "I'll be okay."

           "Well, actually," Mom continues, with a hand on her hip. It's never a good sign when she poses like that, and I can feel Dad's patience running out with every word that comes out of her mouth. "I don't think this is the right place for you to be. It has way too many memories attached and—"

          "Absolutely not. You are not taking her with you," Dad protests. "We agreed Wendy needs stability, now more than ever, and you never stay in one place for too long—"

          "Cooper, please."

          "We agreed on this last month. It has painful memories attached, sure, but it has good memories attached to it, too. Why doesn't that matter? This is where she was born, where she grew up—"

          "If it's so good, then why did Xavier leave?" Dad instantly shudders at the mention of Xavier, his pride and joy, and, honestly, I can't blame him for it. Xavier packing his bags and leaving is still a memory no one likes to revisit, but it's better than pretending he doesn't exist. His name has almost turned into a taboo topic in this house, with Dad having been a lot more affected by his departure than anyone else, even me, which makes using him as a way to drive a point home so much nastier. "I never said I wanted Wendy to travel with me now. I understand how much she needs stability and quiet, thank you very much."

          He drops his hands. "What are you suggesting? Are you saying we need to move?"

          "No, Cooper." She flips her hair over her shoulder. She dyes it platinum blonde, a color I'd never be able to pull off, but she has a dedicated team to take proper care of her hair for her. "I think we should fly Wendy to Alaska. To Xavier."

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the dog will get a name next chapter. you know who else you'll meet next chapter? mr. xavier collier himself, that's who.

tho do keep in mind: they're all mean and petty. xavier is no different. mwah