Losing Leah Page 5
“I’m home,” I said, rapping on the door before moving on. If they wanted to know anything about me, they could ask. I was sick of trying to force them to be parents. I paused at Jacob’s room as I passed. When he got home I could finally fess up and confide in him. Even if he didn’t believe me, he would listen. Somewhere along the way Jacob had stepped into the role my parents abandoned. Losing my twin sister was hard enough, but without the comfort of Mom and Dad, it was unbearable. Without Jacob, I honestly feel like I would never have made it. Loneliness would have swallowed me whole.
6
LEAH
SWEAT TRICKLED along the curve of my neck, past the collar of my nightshirt, down each bump and rivet of my spine, and finally into my pajama pants. I was breathing heavy, but it was invigorating. It signified that I was doing something right.
I could only do twenty jumping jacks before tiring out, but I was still pleased with my effort. Five days ago, I’d barely been able to do five without collapsing. I was getting stronger. I could feel the difference in my limbs. In barely a week my body was already changing.
Once I finished a round of jumping jacks, I picked up the two stacks of books I’d bound with strips of cloth. With a set in each hand, I lifted my arms as many times as I could before my muscles quivered and I had to stop. Arms should not feel like cooked spaghetti. They should be strong and capable. Mine would have to be both for my plan to work. I had to keep going.
A couple of sets was all I could handle. I dropped the books at my feet and worked to undo the knots on the first stack. My fingers worked nimbly, going by touch alone in my pitch-black room. Thankfully, after my bout of “sickness,” Mother decided not to continue giving me the little white pills. I seized the opportunity, vowing to be more careful this time.
The knots on my stacks of books eventually loosened and I made my way cautiously to my bookshelves and stowed the books where they belonged. I shoved the strips of cloth into the couch cushions, giving Daisy a light pat before extracting my hand. I would have liked to carry Daisy back to my bed. I had so much to share with her. So much I yearned to tell someone. Daisy was a risk though. A risk I could not take at the moment.
I made my way to my bed and lay down. My eyes remained open, even though seeing was impossible. I wondered if this is what it felt like for a blind person. Did they adjust to their surroundings as much I had? They had to. Like me, they were probably able to navigate their living spaces with ease.
Eventually, I forced my eyes closed, willing myself to go to sleep. I couldn’t wake up tired two mornings in a row. Mother would start to suspect something. The sickness card could only be played for so long and I didn’t want to take the chance of seeing the little white pills again.
As much as I tried, my mind refused to shut down enough to fall asleep. I was too excited about my accomplishments, anticipating a time when I could put them to use. A feeling of happiness spread through my body. I felt in control. It was a heady feeling and one I couldn’t remember having before. I wasn’t sure how to accept it. I fell asleep with a smile on my face, something that hadn’t happened in years.
* * *
My smile was gone the next day. Mornings were when control was taken from me again. I could not dictate the moods of Mother. Even when I was good there were days when she seemed to find fault with the very air I breathed. Any number of insignificant things could set her off. Today would be one of those days.
I woke to her shrieking at me to get up. The first hit came by her hand when I accidentally bumped into her in my haste to make my bed. It was different from the leather strap. Her hand slapped across my face, jerking my head backward from the impact. The flesh of my cheek was on fire, but past experience taught me that if I reacted in any way it would only enrage her further. I had to act like nothing happened.
Breakfast started as a quiet affair after that. Neither of us spoke and I kept my head down, trying to chew my food although my cheek was swelling. I almost made it through without another infraction but because I was on edge, afraid of angering her further, I knocked over my glass and spilled juice all over Mother’s lap.
“What is with you today? Laziness!” she screamed, jumping from her chair. I immediately curled into a ball in anticipation of being hit. That was a mistake. “How dare you treat me like some kind of monster. Is that what I am to you? After everything I’ve done to protect you, to keep you safe?” Her fists rained down on my body in a fit of rage. Time and time again she connected on my back, shoulders, and legs. “Maybe you enjoy being punished, is that it? Do you know how much it hurts me to punish you? Why do you do this to me?”
There would be no protection from the physical pain, but I closed my eyes and my mind retreated to a place of shelter. A place where I could ride out the storm until she had worked out her aggression. I knew she had finished when I heard her grab a roll of paper towels from the small sink and throw them to the floor next to me before retreating up the staircase.
It felt like an eternity before I moved. I opened my eyes again, allowing my mind to ease back into reality and take stock of my pain. Pain was tricky. At times it was glaringly obvious, like from abrasions and contusions. Other times the pain lay in wait, striking just when you thought all was well. I’d become an expert at what the body could endure. I used to spend hours sobbing after one of Mother’s punishments, cursing myself for causing it to happen. Tears would leak from my eyes until I had none left, then exhaustion would set in and take me. That never happened anymore. I just accepted my fate and moved on.
Today the pain was about a six out of ten. Six was tolerable. I’d had worse. When I was little all Mother’s punishments felt like a ten, but over the years I’d developed a scale of severity of sorts. If one of her punishments reached a ten now it was excruciating, like the time she broke my leg. Tens shook me to the very core and made me want to give up which is why I never liked to think about them.
After a few minutes, I finally managed to pull myself up into a seated position. I didn’t think I sat up too quickly, but my head spun slightly, threatening mutiny. I inched myself backward, cringing from a kink in my back. I had to use my right arm to propel myself along because my left arm felt bruised and sore to the touch. It was a long tedious trip across the floor. By the time I made it to my bed, I wondered if scooting to the bathroom would have been a wiser choice since my stomach was churning nauseously. I swallowed back the lump in my throat, hoping my breakfast would stay put. Puking would only add insult to injury.
Eventually I was able to hoist myself up on my bed. Several minutes passed as I tried to regain the air in my lungs and keep the contents of my stomach in check. I closed my eyes to keep the room from spinning. I knew I’d have to get up soon and clean the mess. There was no telling how long Mother would leave me alone. It could be all day and night or she could come back down at any moment. One thing I was certain of: Whatever had set Mother off earlier had nothing to do with me. Something at work had pissed her off and I became the target for her frustration.
I woke up realizing I had dozed for a short time, clearly remaining in one position for too long, judging by the stiffness in my joints. I inched up on my pillows, thankful that the room had stopped spinning. My head still throbbed, but tossing my cookies was no longer an issue. Now that I could take stock of my injuries, I tallied my throbbing head, a sore back, tender ear, and a bruise imprint of a shoe on my left arm, which explained the tenderness I felt while trying to scoot across the floor.
It could have been worse, so much worse. The bruise on my arm upset me the most since it would make it hard to continue my book-lifting exercises at night. The fleeting thought that she somehow knew what I’d been up to crossed my mind. Maybe my sore arm wasn’t just a casualty of the fallout. I had to be wrong. It was a coincidence. A sore coincidence, but nothing more. As soon as my body wasn’t so stiff, I would continue with my regimen, using only my right arm until my left could do its share again. For the time being, I suffered th
rough my injuries to clean up the mess left behind from breakfast that morning.
Mother skipped bringing me dinner that evening, and breakfast the following morning. My stomach growled in protest, so I drank water to keep it satisfied. Finally I ended up scavenging through the trash for the few remaining scraps from our breakfast the previous day. Each hour ticked by at a snail’s pace as I wondered if she would decide to forgive me by dinnertime. I tried whittling the hours away by reading, but every book I seemed to pick up had a mention of food in it and only made me hungrier. I decided after that to clean my room instead. Really it was just moving things from one spot to the next since my room was already spotless. It was a futile exercise, but served to keep my mind off my growling stomach.
By the time I heard the dumbwaiter being lowered at dinnertime I’d almost given up hope that Mother would return. I figured my final punishment would be starvation. I could hardly believe it when I heard the lock opening on the door, followed by Mother appearing at the bottom of the stairs with a smile and a bag of books. It was her form of an apology. I smiled back, eagerly waiting for her to unlock the dumbwaiter. I was so hungry I could have gnawed off my arm.
Mother actually helped me set the table while she chattered away the entire time. She was happy. Whatever demon had claimed her the day before was gone. I lapped it up like a dog, thankful to have her back.
“I think you’ll like the new books I picked out for you,” Mother said, offering me another roll.
I paused for a moment. She was offering me seconds. She had to be really sorry. “Thank you,” I said.
“I told the sales clerk some of the titles you’d already read and she recommended a new fantasy series. She couldn’t believe it when I told her you read almost two books a day,” Mother said, beaming at me.
A smile stretched across my face. It felt good to please her. I just hoped I wouldn’t make a mistake and ruin it. “I can’t wait to read them,” I said genuinely. “Thank you so much for buying me more. I’m such a lucky girl.”
She reached over and patted my hand. “You’re my little girl. I’d do anything for you,” she said, giving my hand a squeeze. “Anything,” she repeated. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Mother.” It felt like betrayal. I sometimes thought about my real mother, wondering why she had allowed someone else to raise me despite my sickness. Mothers were supposed to care more than that.
Mother’s eyes got misty at my words. “That’s my sweet girl. Now, I have another surprise,” she said, returning to the dumbwaiter and removing another dish. “Dessert.”
I couldn’t believe my luck. Dessert was usually saved for special occasions. I fleetingly wondered if today was my birthday. It couldn’t be. It was too soon. I knew it wasn’t Mother’s either.
“Chocolate chip,” I said, gasping when she lifted the lid to reveal a plate of cookies. I remembered chocolate chip cookies from before Mother had saved me. The smell would fill our house every week when my other mom used to bake them for Jacob, Mia, and me. I hadn’t had them since. It made me wonder if they were still a weekly ritual in my old home. Did Jacob and Mia still help Mom bake them?
I never allowed myself to feel jealous over Jacob or especially Mia. Life had dealt us our cards and it was not up to me to question how they were laid out. I was sure Mia thought of me also from time to time. Maybe even more often than that. Was it possible she had an illness like me? We were twins after all. How would our lives have been different had we stayed together? These were questions I would likely never know the answers to.
Mother and I ate the cookies in front of the television. Surprisingly, she let me have as many as I wanted. My eyes were bigger than my stomach and I ate until I felt sick. It was the best night I could ever remember having together. It was a night to be treasured.
That night I went to bed without exercising. Instead I lay there wondering if my recent rebellion had been misplaced. Mother loved me. Our relationship may not represent what I read in books or even what we’d watched earlier on TV, but I had to respect her for taking on the burden of caring for me.
My sleep was dreamless that night and I woke up the next day feeling at peace. I ate breakfast with Mother, worked on schoolwork, ate lunch, read, and then ate dinner. It was the same comfortable schedule I’d been following for years.
Lights went out at nine and ten minutes later I heard Mother leave for work. I climbed from bed and started my jumping jacks. I worked out for an hour, until sweat dripped down my neck.
I fell into bed in an exhausted heap.
7
MIA
MY ROOM was pitch-black when I pushed my door open. I fumbled quickly around the wall for the light switch, not wanting to deal with the dark a second longer. My eyes skirted over my bed, past my desk, and across my window seat before finally settling on my closet. The door was still open the way I had left it that morning. Most of my shirts were hanging haphazardly, ready to fall, while the others were already in a heap on my closet floor. Still more clothes were tossed over my desk chair and the foot of my bed. It looked like a tornado had swooped in and strewn my clothes across the room. All was normal.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Normal was good. My room was always a bit messy since I wasn’t exactly the most organized person. I stepped over my favorite pair of sandals and kicked a dirty pair of jeans off the bed. It was only a short-term solution, but I would clean in the morning. I fluffed up my pillows before climbing on the bed and switching on the TV for a little background noise. My real plan was to write in my journal stuffed under my mattress.
It really wasn’t so much a journal as it was an open letter to Leah. Each page was filled with thought after thought in penmanship that had gradually changed over the years. It was a continuous flow of conversation that never ended. I didn’t write in it every day, and sometimes I would only write a few words at a time. It was the only thing that kept me connected to her and made me feel like she was still a part of my life. Somewhere deep inside I wanted to believe that one day I would give her the journal and she could read about everything she had missed. The good and the ugly. Tonight’s entry would be the ugly. I wrote with a fury, pressing hard on the page with my pen. The thin paper nearly tore as the ink bled into the slightly yellowed parchment. Thankfully I caught myself. I couldn’t afford to tear the last remaining pages in the journal. There were only nine left. I had thought a lot over the years about the significance of reaching the end. Now that it was close, I wouldn’t allow myself to dwell on it. The mere thought made my lungs shrivel and my throat close. My penmanship had become smaller and smaller in an effort to avoid it. It was hard to explain. Some people would consider reaching the end to be closure. For me, closure meant complete, never to be thought about again, and I couldn’t go there. Psychologically I couldn’t even wrap my brain around starting a second journal. The journal represented mine and Leah’s lives. A person only gets one life. It sounded sadistic, but I couldn’t help the way I felt.
The flow of words would not stop, filling two precious pages front and back and practically requiring a magnifying glass to decipher. Every detail from the past week found its way into the journal. My fears were transferred onto the page. It was easy to share with Leah. All my fears, dreams, and pain would be hers also. I told her everything about the ominous dark cloud that I had been seeing over the last week. My fear was tangible as I described it in detail. How it felt like a living, breathing creature. That it showed up in the shadows more frequently than not as the days progressed. I knew if she were here she wouldn’t judge me. She would calm me. Convince me I wasn’t losing my mind like I feared was happening. All my turbulent emotions poured out. My pain became Leah’s as the pages absorbed everything I was feeling.
When I finally finished writing for the evening, I closed the journal and stowed it safely back in its place under the mattress. Sliding down to a more comfortable position, I settled in with my lights on and my television droning on in the background l
ike I preferred. It was easier to fall asleep that way. I wasn’t much of a dreamer while I slept and had a tendency to wake up in the middle of the night, so the TV provided some comfort.
I took a deep breath and exhaled, content that my thoughts had once again been purged. Maybe the darkness would be gone tomorrow now that I had confided in Leah. It was a silly thought, but one that gave me peace. Certainly no more silly than believing I was being taunted by something sinister.
The darkness wasn’t gone the next day, or the day after that, or all the days that came later. It remained. Always there. In every shadow I passed. Lurking any place with the smallest absence of light. Haunting only me. The fact that no one else could see it made me question if it was real. Deep down I suspected I was unraveling.
8
LEAH
“WIDER, PLEASE.”
I obediently opened my mouth as Mother poked around at my teeth. Every six months she would give me a complete head-to-toe physical, charting all my stats and measurements. I hated physical day. I’m forced to stand still for an hour and a half while I get probed and pinched, and anytime my numbers weren’t to Mother’s liking, her displeasure was evident.
I’d come to tolerate the physical pain of punishment. At times I think I even looked forward to it in a morbid kind of way, knowing I deserved it. Mother’s physicals were a similar exercise of disciplined endurance. Despite hating the poking and prodding, at least I had her attention during the entire process. If I was good, I was awarded with a treat. Last time it was a chocolate bar. I was so excited when she gave it to me and yet I waited three days to open the wrapper. I was afraid I would devour it in one bite. When I finally opened it, the first thing I did was inhale deeply. The aroma of the rich dark chocolate was almost intoxicating. I wanted the treat to last as long as possible, so I would only eat small sections at a time before carefully rewrapping the sinfully good candy again. I managed to make it last almost two weeks.