Free Dive by Stacey Donovan

eight-year-old sister. As I swallow whatever rises in my throat, the unreality of the night heaves through me. This scared little child-mother of mine, no matter how much I hate her, needs me. It’s either her innocence that lingers like a clump of cement in my throat as I try to swallow or the disappearance of my own.

What Is and Is Not
     
    Sometimes the night never ends; it just breaks into light and we pretend. I am alive, though I tend to forget that when I’m pretending, and I’m fifteen. I have sweeping dark hair and hazel eyes that turn green when I cry. Sometimes I rub my hands together, maybe just to see if it’s really me. I wear the glasses I’m supposed to wear when I’m in the mood and whenever I remember my sunglasses because the day hurts my eyes. Maybe the pretending has torn the edges of who I am, so the result is a frayed and sensitive me.
     
    If the night never ends, who can see? The day boils down to pretending what is and is not there. Because she does not want me to, I do not see the black eye on my mother’s face as the bruise changes, fades a blotchy red to a tattered purple, then spreads to flat green.
     
    Because he assumes nobody does, I do not see the increasingly bloodshot eyes of my brother as he stares past me at dinner. And I do not see the raised eyebrows on Baby Teeth’s face that settle more frequently into surprise as she watches and helplessly learns this pretending game. I wish I could tell her she doesn’t have to play, though if she’s to survive life in this house, she will.
     
    So I do not notice that on the days that we do not go to the hospital, she spends every afternoon at other people’s houses now. And I especially do not see the absence of my father at dawn when he does not kiss the sleeping Baby Teeth good-bye before he climbs down the stairs in his solid brown shoes and goes to work. And I do not see his absence as I pass his empty chair at night when I walk into the kitchen to feed my dog. The last thing I do not see is my tilting, limping Lucky as he waits by his empty bowl, or the image of the vile green VW that hit him.
     
    So what do I see? That I have learned to pretend so well, I can do it with my eyes open. April has ended, and its cruelty too, I hope, when we weren’t looking, or were busy pretending, or maybe while we slept.
     
    So it’s May. And what does it bring? April showers bring May flowers. Well, really. I try to remember, uncertainly, if there was a lot of rain last month. No. But please flower anyway, all over me. I’ll keep my eyes open. Maybe it won’t happen all at once, the way change seems to. Now that’s something. Change blooms.
     
    | | | | | |
     
    Here at school, everything is the same. Standing by the wall of windows across from the science rooms, watching people fill the hall since the bell just rang, I’m safe. Math is over for one more day.
     
    The brick school building was designed into what are called wings, and each subject has its own. One side of each wing is lined with classrooms, and the other, with windows. Science is located in C wing, down the hall from the administrative offices. Even my feet feel safe as I stand on the worn stone floor. They are warm and pleasing in my shoes. What’s wrong is this bad taste in my mouth. I don’t know what it is.
     
    I cross the hall and glance through the tiny window of the classroom door to see what’s taking Eileen so long. People are grabbing their books and rising from the lab tables; somebody’s pushing the door open. I spot Eileen in the back. Oh, no, Parker paired her with Grant Sullivan for lab. Their Bunsen burner is still burning on the scratched gray table. Sullivan is talking to her, but her back is turned toward me, so I can only imagine the pained expression on her face. Sullivan laughs, amusing himself again, I suppose. Poor Eileen. I lean in, about to call out her name and save her, but I hear her laughing as she bends to pick up her books. When she