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Dad doesn’t listen when I insist that I’m not hungry. Finally, I’m so exhausted from arguing with him that I give in, and he pours me a bowl of cereal.
I don’t bother to ask where Mom is. There are so many things I need to figure out.
“I have some work to do,” Dad says. “I’ll be in the office if you need anything.”
It’s the first time he’s mentioned that all-precious job of his, and somehow knowing that he’s still focused on something else outside of whatever trauma’s going on in my brain gives me a sense of relief. If I was in that bad of shape, he wouldn’t be thinking about work at all.
Would he?
Dad walks down the hall, up the stairs past the foyer, and when I hear the door to his home office click shut, I jump up from my chair. After tossing my soggy cereal into the sink, I sprint toward my room. It’s more like a stumble, truth be told, but my body is surging with enough adrenaline that I may as well be racing for my life.
Inside my room, I yank open my drawers. Where is my cell phone? I tear around the place blindly. If I can’t find my phone, what else is there to look for? I’ve never been one to keep a diary. Too risky when you have an older brother who’d love nothing more than to read your most revealing secrets and lord them over you. I scan my bookshelves. Yearbooks? Nothing. Not even the photographs of Chris I had pinned up on my bulletin board. Come to think of it, even my bulletin board is gone now. What’s happening to me?
In a desk drawer, I find the Bible my mom gave me when I started junior high. A Teen Study Bible. I still remember how old and mature I felt, having something with teen written right there on the front cover. I flip open to a random page.
Remember when you’re choosing your friends that the Bible says, “Bad company corrupts good character.”
The short devotional goes on to tell me that if I constantly hang out with kids who make bad decisions, I might end up falling into temptation as well. I slam the book shut. Hard to accept advice on making friends when have no idea where all mine are.
Three months. Dad says I’ve been like this for three months. That means it’s what? The end of August?
What about NYU? What about my scholarship?
I glance down at the Bible again, the little devotional mocking me. Friends? Where are my friends? Has Kelsie gone to Barnard already? Has she left me?
And where is Chris? If he knew how sick I was, if he knew what happened to me, he’d be here.
I need my phone. Kelsie will tell me what happened. She won’t treat me like I’m fragile or broken. She’ll tell me exactly what I need to know. And Chris will comfort me. Promise me that he’s here for me no matter what.
I need to talk to my boyfriend. He must be so worried about me. Where is my stupid phone? If I could just find it, everything could go back to normal ...
I’m banging open drawers, dumping items across the floor.
“What in the world is going on in here?” Dad appears in my doorway, and I immediately feel guilty. I don’t know what to tell him.
“I just wanted to find my phone.” It’s the best I can do, but it does nothing to convey what I’m feeling. What I’m really looking for. Clues. Answers. My identity. I don’t mean to start crying again but I do. Maybe I’m hormonal. Maybe it’s PMS. How would I know when I last had my period if I can’t remember the past three months?
Thinking about all I missed only makes my headache worse. Dad’s holding his office phone. Probably has whoever he’s been talking to on mute. “Listen,” he says, “I’ve got to finish this call, and then we’ll talk, okay?”
I sniff. Knowing my dad, “finishing this call” could take another four hours. At least while he’s engrossed in work, I can try to figure things out on my own. I’ll just have to do it more quietly.
I put on a smile to placate him. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll be ready whenever you are.”