At home, nothing and everything has changed. My list of chores for each person still hangs in the kitchen. The house looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since I left, and the only thing in the fridge is half a liter of milk.
The second we’re in the door, Dad hugs me, tells me how much he missed me, and suggests we go out for dinner. Mom says he should have had supper on the table by now. Dad stomps off into the kitchen, and half an hour later, we’re sitting down to pasta with salmon Alfredo sauce, whipped up with stuff from the pantry and the last of the milk. I smile. No canned soup. No sandwiches. At least in one way, it’s good to be home.
My father and I spend the next two days cleaning the house while Mom’s at work. I weed the bark mulch in the backyard, walk to the library, fill my backpack with novels and walk home.
I think about the paper Jeanette slipped into my hand before we left: the name and phone number of a counselor, a friend of Alison’s who works within a bus ride of my school. “In case you ever want to talk to someone outside the family. Just make an appointment. I’ll pay.” I don’t think I’ll call, but I’ve saved the paper, just in case.
On Saturday, I wake up to the sound of arguing and the growling of my stomach. I ignore my hunger, grab a book from the stack by my bed and try to read. I promised Jeanette I wouldn’t get involved in my parents’ arguments anymore, and if I show up in the kitchen to make breakfast, they’ll want my opinion. It’s safer to stay in my room.
When I was at Jeanette’s, curled up in a deck chair under the cherry tree on my last night there, I felt like I could stand up to anyone. It was two in the morning, Mom was snoring in the living room, and my aunt and I were having a secret farewell picnic in the backyard. She was talking about setting boundaries and said again that my job is to be a kid. She said my parents need to talk to other adults about their problems, not to me, and that I have every right to tell them that. I wrapped my hands tighter around my mug of hot chocolate and pictured myself standing up to Mom. I pictured her tears, but they didn’t hurt me. I felt strong, powerful.
But now, with their shouting ringing in my ears, I’m hiding out in my bedroom, too scared to go out and too hungry to stay. Finally hunger wins out and I go to the kitchen, where Mom is banging dishes in the sink and Dad’s leaning against the counter, arms folded, glowering at the floor.
“Don’t bother,” Mom says when I open the fridge door. “It’s not like your father’s made the effort to shop properly lately.”
“It’s been a busy week, Gloria.” He sounds more tired than angry.
“So we don’t need to eat?” Clank, clatter, crash.
I grit my teeth, open the pantry and pull out a box of crackers. I’ve just found an unopened peanut butter when Mom turns to face me. “Right, Ellie?”
“What?” I bang the jar down on the counter louder than I mean to, and she startles, as if she’s the only one around here with noise privileges.
“Division of labor,” she snaps. “I mean, this is a family issue, right? So what do you think?”
I think nothing has changed. I think I can try all my life to help them, and they’ll keep running in circles, arguing and crying about the same old stuff. My life would be way better with Jeanette, and I wish I’d fought to stay with her. I yank down the page of chores that I’d posted on the fridge and shake it at them. “This is what I think. Why bother asking if you’re not going to listen anyway?” I crumple it into a ball, hurl it at the floor, grab the box of crackers and slam out the front door.
I walk fast, head down. I don’t look up until the rows of identical houses give way to older ones with yards dotted with flowers or vegetables or trees. I pass a llama and what I think is a chicken coop. I feel my jaw relax. I stop white-knuckling my cracker box.
I don’t stop walking until I reach an empty lot. It’s full of blackberry bushes, and if Jeanette were here, we’d change any plans we had and spend the afternoon picking instead.
The fruit is ripe, the bushes are loaded, and I have an empty cracker box. I’m tempted, but I should be getting back. I’ve been gone less than an hour, but my parents have no idea where I am, I don’t have my cell with me, and Mom is no doubt imagining me snatched up by a serial killer or mowed down by a hit-and-run driver.
I sigh. Sometimes I wonder what she’d do for excitement if she actually lived in reality instead of her head.
I place my box in a bush, propping it up the way Jeanette does, so it won’t fall over no matter how full it gets. Then I reach for a blackberry, avoiding the prickles, and pop that first one into my mouth. It’s warm and sweet and tastes of summer.