Free Trigger by Susan Vaught Page A

yourself. Is it real, or are you just… just … needling us, or something?”
    “Sonya!” Dad covered Mom’s hand with his. “The therapists all told us …”
    He was trying hard to get her to look at him, but she wouldn’t.
    “We need to call Carter,” she said. “See if they can get hold of that outpatient therapist and move up our counseling sessions. Jersey needs more help.”
    “Help. Carter. Needling. Brain cells.” I wanted to figure out what she meant, what she needed, but all my stupid mouth did was fire back what she said. “Arroyo. Talking. Outpatient.”
    “Stop it.” Mom jerked her hand out of Dad’s and stood up so fast the table bucked. My oatmeal sloshed on the Kool-Aid glue toast. “Focus and try, and just stop it!”
    Stop. Stop it. Stop what? Or was it Dad—the way he was holding her hand? Harder to think in the real world. Harder to think under pressure. Lots of pressure.
    “I’m sorry,” I said, just in case it was me that made her mad.
    Pragmatics.
    Wrong pragmatics.
    Mom froze into that ice statue with moving lips. I sucked at pragmatics. Dad’s toast sucked. His oatmeal sucked, too.
    “Sucky ice statues.” I couldn’t hold my mouth tight enough to keep the words inside. When was I going to remember that sock? I really, really needed a sock.
    “Why don’t we go talk?” Dad said as he stood up and put his arm around Mom’s shoulder. She shrugged him off, then got up and walked away, saying something about banks or hospitals or both. I couldn’t make it out.
    Dad gave me a silly look. “She’s—ah—she’s a woman. You know?”
    “Um, yeah.” I nodded, but I didn’t know. I didn’t know at all. Something was wrong with Mom. At least I thought something was wrong, but I had no idea what, and no idea what to do.
    Something was wrong with Dad, too. He looked torn in half, like he wanted to stay with me and go after Mom at the same time.
    “I have a list to do,” I blurted. My tongue felt heavy and all sticky with Kool-Aid glue. “I’ve got to go, so you should take care of the ice. I mean, Mom. I so need a sock.”
    “Okay, Jersey.” Dad backed away from me. He couldn’t smile right. As he left the kitchen, he said, “Stay away fromthe Rush house. I don’t think they want … well, they still aren’t very comfortable with—with what happened, okay?”
    Not okay. I clenched my jaw.
    I wasn’t comfortable, either. I needed to get some answers, didn’t I? Before J.B. found a way to get far enough into my head to kill me again. Before I went off on my mom for being totally weird. Before Mama Rush poked a finger into my stupid-mark because I wasn’t getting the list done fast enough.
    Whatever.
    Breathing hard, I stood up and lurched over to the sink to run water into my oatmeal bowl. Then I hitched back to the table, got Mom’s bowl and did the same. Dad’s bowl came last. Oatmeal really did turn into glue if it didn’t soak. That much I learned for sure at Carter.
    “Oatmeal Kool-Aid glue.”
    The toast, I just threw away. It seemed the kindest thing to do.
    In the background, I picked out bits and pieces of my parents yelling at each other.
    “… On purpose … he never thinks about anybody’s feelings but his own… .” This from Mom.
    “Carter … brain injury … tolerate … support….” This from Dad.
    Mom: “… Do any good at all.”
    Dad: “Don’t think like …”
    Wiping the table took the longest because I couldn’t really wipe with one hand and catch crumbs with the other. I ended up using my shirt as a catch-all, like I did when I was cleaning up in the hospital.
    Dad: “Do things new … hope.”
    Mom: “Go to hell.”
    Or maybe she said, “Go to work.” I wasn’t sure.
    After I got the crumbs dumped, I had to wash grease spots off my shirt with hot water, but overall, it wasn’t so bad. At least my parents finally got quiet. I didn’t understand the big deal, like I didn’t understand a lot of big deals.
    That’s an