Chapter 54
Poppy
It ’ s Thanksgiving today, and I'm still in the psychiatric hospital even though I've been going through the stages of so-called healing as I sit down and talk with Dr. Peterson. I think they're keeping me here because no one really knows what to do afterward. Do I stay in my hometown and move in with Henry? Do I go back to Texas and move in with Julian?
Where do I belong? Because everyone seems to want a piece of me.
It should make me feel special.
I ’ m not sure what I ’ m feeling. I don ’ t dwell on it anymore.
I've heard Henry and Julian arguing, so I think in the meantime, instead of arguing because everyone is so tired of doing it, they're just keeping me here, and, to be honest, that's okay with me.
I ’ m not ready to play the game of life. I can ’ t imagine going back to work yet.
In the meantime, everyone is playing dollhouse with me. In my small room, they set up a whole makeshift dining room. It is, after all, Thanksgiving—a time for families to unite, even under awkward circumstances.
Henry brought in a pale white collapsible table with extra folding chairs so everyone had a seat. Julian is having the food catered, but brace yourselves; I know we all are. Harper said she wanted to bring the desserts.
I just hope she didn't try to bake them herself. If she did, I'm sure there's a kitchen on fire somewhere.
I put myself to use and set the table, an act that makes Julian and Henry smile. I think they think I ’ m moving on; as Dr. Peterson told them, it ’ s all progress.
Me? Well, I ’ m not sure.
I still see Andrew when I close my eyes. There are odd little things that bring me back to that day. I remember how the grass felt under my knees as he forced me to straddle his lap. I still smell a faint scent of sweat, and it reminds me of my fear when he turned the gun on himself.
One little sound can set me off.
How can someone love a ticking time bomb? Haven ’ t they heard of shrapnel?
The other day, I closed my eyes in the shower, letting the water cascade over my skin. It felt like the droplets of blood that had splattered from Andrew ’ s head— a grim reminder served up via my personal, hellish waterpark. The water ’ s touch, which once soothed, now felt like a thousand tiny echoes of that day, each drop a reminder of what I had seen.
I guess I had a meltdown because the next thing I knew, I was waking up sedated and tucked into bed. They had me swaddled like a burrito, albeit a heavily medicated one. Julian and Henry were there, hovering over me. Through the haze, Harper ’ s sobs reached me from the hallway, a sorrowful soundtrack to my groggy awakening.
Lying there, under their worried gazes, I couldn ’ t help but think about the irony of it all. There I was, trying to wash away the day ’ s problems, only to slip into a flashback that no amount of soap could cleanse.
“ It smells good,” Henry says to Julian.
Oh yeah, back to Thanksgiving and not my nightmares. I reach for the stack of paper plates and begin to count out how many we need.
Henry and Julian are trying to connect, but it ’ s like mixing oil and vinegar.
"It's from the place you suggested," Julian tells Henry. "So if it's terrible, we can all blame you." His eyes soften slightly, like a cracked door letting some light seep in, a gentle warmth breaking through his usual judgment of Henry.
Well, maybe if you shake it hard enough, like salad dressing, you can get them to vibe. You just have to keep forcing it.
I set down the last paper plate and then reached for the plastic utensils. “ Why not metal?” I blurt out, my finger pausing on a fork. Slowly, I trace my index finger up to its pathetic prongs. If we got unlucky and ended up with dry turkey again this year, I seriously doubted this flimsy plastic fork would be up to the task. It ’ d probably snap under the pressure, a perfect metaphor for how I'd been feeling lately: trying to hold together under the weight of everything, only to break at the dinner table. Maybe I could use it as an excuse to skip the turkey and dive straight into the pie—now, that ’ s a utensil malfunction I could get behind.
I feel Henry and Julian still, as if when I speak, I ’ m the word of God—something foreign and shocking.
“ Why can ’ t we have metal utensils?” I question them. I drum my fingers on the tabletop, waiting for a reply.
They both glance at each other.
Are you going to lie to me? Tell me it's not because I'm in some insane person's rehab learning how to function.
Leaning forward, I place the utensils next to the place setting. "I ’ m not going to off myself," I mutter, straightening the fork so it's perfectly aligned with the napkin. The words feel as sharp as the knife I ’ m not allowed to use. "I ’ m not Andrew." I let out a half-laugh, the sound darker than intended. It ’ s morbid, this humor of mine, but it ’ s either laugh or cry, and I ’ m tired of crying.
“ I didn ’ t say you were.”
“ We don ’ t think that.”
They both reply at once.
You know what ’ s strange? Seeing two hardened men, strong both physically and mentally, worry over little old me? It ’ s like I ’ m a bomb they are trying to defuse.
I roll my lips and look at the table. I tug down on the plastic tablecloth, trying to smooth out the creases, “ I ’ m not going to hurt myself,” I stress.
They're both silent.
Does that mean they think I will, or are they shocked I have to say I won ’ t?
“ Dr. Peterson said I should think about what I ’ m grateful for.” I keep my eyes down as I begin to voice what I ’ ve practiced saying. My eyes zone out on the shiny plastic fabric, and then my mind ventures to the moment Andrew shot himself. If we had covered the headstones in these plastic tablecloths, it would have kept them safe. Unstained.
“ Did you clean Peter ’ s grave? How about Mom and Dad? I ’ m not worried about their headstones as much since the blast covered Peter ’ s. Did you get it all off? Clean it thoroughly?”
Oh, fiddle sticks! I just asked that.
See why I shouldn ’ t talk. I meant to tell them what I ’ m thankful for, and then Andrew popped up like Beetlejuice.
“ I um,” Henry clears his throat. I can see Julian ’ s feet step an inch wider.
“ I didn ’ t mean to ask that,” I deadpan. I look down at my clothes. They're not even mine. Harper bought them for me. Cozy Lululemon sweatpants and a matching highlighter yellow sweatshirt.
Why did she get yellow? Was it to make me happy and cheery, or was it to highlight to the world I ’ m a danger?
“ You should ask what you ’ re thinking; we won ’ t judge,” Julian offers. Ever my savior. Seriously, I think he might be Christ reincarnated. No judgment, only forgiveness and hope for a future.
“ It ’ s all cleaned,” Henry mutters in haste. “ I wanted to talk to you about that.”
“ Not now,” Julian hisses under his breath.
“ Just ask,” I sigh. “ Practice what you preach,” I grumble.
That dollhouse I've been living in? It's starting to feel very awkward and cramped right now.
“ I want to move them,” Henry states.
I look up, but he ’ s looking at the table I just set. “ What?” I look around the small space. There ’ s nowhere else it will fit. We can ’ t move the table.
He coughs, “ I want to move Mom, Dad, and Peter. I want a place we can both go and not think about that day. Is that okay?”
Oh.
Oh!
He wants to move their graves.
“ Let ’ s just put it on the back burner and focus on today,” Julian interrupts; his grey eyes look like thunder as they storm Henry. “ Let ’ s think about what we ’ re grateful for, and we can think about this later.”
He ’ s trying to protect me.
“ Yeah, that's okay,” Henry nods. "I just wanted to ask. I thought it might make you feel better. Knowing you never have to go back there again. I didn't mean to," He closes his exhausted eyes, "I didn't mean to fuck up dinner. ”
He looks at his watch. "Harper and Kent should be here any minute.”
“ Where?” The silence after I asked that question was so loud that it had its heartbeat. “ Where would you move them? You live here, and I live in Texas,” I state.
Julian ’ s eyes widen like I just emitted a rainbow from my mouth. It ’ s the first time I ’ ve mentioned something pertaining to after.
I swallow and look at Julian, “ If I can still live with you, that is?”
Julian closes the space and grasps my hand, “ You know that ’ s not even a question, Pumpkin.”
I chew my cheek. “ I am…trying,” I sigh. "And you all are so persistent and annoying that I figured I owed it to you to try, that is.”
“ You owe it to yourself,” Henry responds.
Julian squeezes my hand.
“ I don ’ t know where to move them yet. I just know I don ’ t want them to stay there.” Henry replies.
I nod. I don ’ t want that either.
“ What if…” I think about their graves. It takes an endless stream of nonsensical comments and thoughts not to envision Andrew. “ Well…” Find the words Poppy. “ We never got to pick anything out. Nothing was personal. Harper ’ s parents picked out everything for Mom and Dad, and well, they helped again with Peter. I love them for it, but if we get this second chance, what if we do something different?”
Henry nods; it ’ s slow and confused.
“ What if we set them free?” I offer.
“ What… oh,” Henry ’ s brows inch higher. “ You mean cremate them?” He speaks each word slowly, as if it's a new language he's trying to pronounce correctly.
I nod.
Henry cracks his thumb, “ I never considered that.”
“ If they ’ re not buried, then nothing can corrupt their site. We can spread them in different places. Let them be free.”
The timer dings, alerting Julian that he needs to turn on the heating plates to start warming the food. There ’ s no oven or microwave here—that ’ s too dangerous, I guess. So, our Thanksgiving meal is going to be semi-warm, thanks to the portable heating plates Julian brought with the catered food.
“ I like that idea,” Henry finally replies. I watch his face as meticulous as Sherlock Holmes picking apart a crime scene, carefully looking for signs.
I think Henry means it.
I think he ’ s ready to set the past free.