Free Deadly Little Lessons by Laurie Faria Stolarz

her back?”
    Mom meets my eyes again, but she doesn’t speak.
    “I’ll take that as a yes?” I say, when she hesitates.
    She shrugs, like the call was no big deal, but I can see otherwise. Red splotches appear on her chest. “She said she’d heard that Aunt Alexia was staying with us.”
    “That’s it?” I ask, suspecting a lot more.
    Mom swallows hard, clearly reluctant to tell me. “My mother wanted to make sure that Alexia was all set financially—that your father and I wouldn’t be looking for any monetary help or support, because your grandmother doesn’t want to give any.” Mom studies my face, checking for my reaction. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but there’s power in honesty, right? I need to be mindful of that.”
    “Does that mean you regret not telling me the truth about my birth?”
    “No regrets,” she says, pressing her eyes shut. “I agree with your dad that we did the right thing by not telling you when you were young, especially considering Aunt Alexia’s shaky path. And then this past year, when we were planning to tell you, I wasn’t quite prepared, having almost lost my sister, not to mention everything that you were going through. But, at the same time, I feel that your emotions are valid, and so there must’ve been some other way to handle this—to prepare you for the news, or to give it to you in pieces. In any case, life is about learning lessons, and I obviously needed to learn that one…even if it was the hard way. And so I’m grateful for it—for what I’ve learned.”
    “Wait, what ?” I ask, repelled by her yogaspeak. I don’t want her to feel grateful for betraying my trust, for distorting my world.
    “Tell me more about this summer art program,” she continues. Her Zen attitude makes me want to scream. When did this become about her? About her lesson? About her growth?
    I breathe in the blood orange scent of the candle. Meanwhile, the crying in my head gets louder. “I think I need some air,” I say, hoping she gets the message and leaves.
    But instead, she chatters on about how time and distance can give way to wisdom and perspective. “If all canals are open,” she adds, “and you allow the water to ebb and flow—”
    “Except my water has hit a dam.”
    “Water that flows always finds a way,” she says, refusing to let my bitterness poison her peaceful mood. “Just give it a little time.… Which reminds me… Yikes!” She checks her watch. “I should probably get dinner ready. F-egg-salad sandwiches.” She rubs her palms together as if fake-egg-salad sandwiches (scrambled tofu, mixed with turmeric) were a rare treat.
    I muster a polite grin, relieved when she finally lets me be.

“Do you think I could have a new bandage?” I ask him, referring to the one on my wrist, in the same place where he’s got his mark. I’m pretty sure I asked him about his mark that night, but I’m fairly certain I couldn’t see it clearly. He might’ve had a wristband partially covering it, or maybe it was his sleeve. Or maybe I’m remembering wrong.
    The edges of the bandage are tattered and black. I lift the tape to peek at my wound. Red, raw, and puffy, my skin burns as the air hits it and I wince. It looks as if I’ve been branded, like cattle—as if someone took a burning iron and seared it right into my skin. From one angle the mark appears to be an x . From another angle, it’s more like a plus-sign.
    “Please,” I continue, curious to know how I really got this cut and if it has any significance. “I think it’s infected.” Is this how gangrene sets in? I vaguely recall a lecture in science class, when Mr. Manzo was talking about untreated surface abrasions.
    “I’ll be back,” he says. “Hopefully by that time you’ll know better than to talk unless spoken to.”
    I can see the heel of his work boot through the hole in the wall as he walks away.
    “Please,” I repeat; my voice is hoarse. My wound is throbbing. I venture to the