I’ve regressed.
It’s clear as day.
I was getting somewhere with therapy. But now? I’m back to accusing people. Treating people badly. Blaming everyone else for the circumstances of my life.
It’s funny. I see it unfolding right before me, like a movie on the screen at the cinema.
Regression.
Back to the old Kelly.
Back to Opal.
But I don’t want to be Opal anymore.
And I don’t want to be Kelly either.
Kelly had to learn to fend for herself, to scrape moldy food from the bottoms of containers she found in the trash to ease the ache of hunger.
I know I shouldn’t be acting this way. The whole island situation was Derek Wolfe’s doing, not his children’s. These people are here to help me. Even Aspen is here to help me.
Why do I act this way?
I need to see Macy.
But before then, I need to sit through this meeting and see what they can do for me.
So I listen—but only with one ear.
Because images emerge in my brain, and though I try to wipe them away, I’m not that strong yet.
* * *
The closet is dark.
I don’t know how long I’ve been in here, and my tummy is growling for food. I’m thirsty too, and my mouth is dry. My throat is hurting from the screaming and the crying.
I was a bad girl. And what do bad girls get? They get locked in the dark closet, after they get spanked.
My butt hurts from the spanking, but not like it used to. I’m older now. I just turned ten, and Mama even got me a birthday cake.
She put ten candles on it, lit them, and sang happy birthday to me.
Before she knocked me on the back of my head, pulled me into her lap, spanked me, and then shoved me into the closet.
I sigh in relief when the door opens, and I shield my eyes against the light.
“Come on out now, sweetheart.” Mama’s voice is soft and kind.
This is my mama. Sweet as syrup in one minute, violent and destructive the next.
She never leaves any marks on me that can be seen. Only where my clothes cover them. Or on the top of the head where they’re camouflaged by my orange hair.
The orange hair I hate.
The orange hair that the kids make fun of.
“Come here, sweetheart.”
I run into her arms, just like I always do.
Because I love my mama. And I know my mama loves me. She tells me so every day. Between beatings and locking me in the closet.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. But you know you have to be a good girl. You know Mama has to punish you when you’re bad.”
I nod and choke out a sob against her breast. I know better than to ask what I did. That will only set her off again.
But I don’t know what I did. I never know what I do.
The closet she locks me in is in the spare room. Not my own closet, where at least I’d have the comfort of my clothes. Just an empty space with wood floor and walls.
I follow her out to the kitchen, where a lone gift sits on the table, wrapped in plain red paper. When I look closer, I see that it’s not plain. There’s a slightly darker red snowflake pattern on it. It’s Christmas wrap. But it was nice of Mama to go to the effort. We don’t have a lot of money, so I’m lucky I’m getting a present at all.
I don’t dare touch it, though. I’ve learned to never make assumptions where Mama is concerned.
“Well…” she says. “Go ahead.”
I move toward the gift, but I still don’t touch it.
“Open your present, Kelly. It’s your birthday, after all.”
I grab the present off the table and rip it open. It’s a cardboard shoebox. New shoes, maybe? I remove the lid.
I gasp out loud.
Inside the shoebox is my volleyball. It’s been deflated.
Mama smiles. “Do you like it?”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Why did you take all the air out of my volleyball?”
“I didn’t just let the air out,” Mama says. “I poked holes in it so you can’t use it anymore.”
Tears well in my eyes.
“You’ve been spending too much time playing volleyball after school,” Mama continues. “I need you home. Things don’t get done around here if you’re not here to do them.”
I gulp back the tears. I stopped crying over Mama’s cruelty long ago, but this is beyond callous, even for her.
“But I love playing with the other girls after school.”
Mama’s face twists into a snarl. “Kelly, I went to all the trouble to get you a gift that will help you to be a better person. A better daughter. You might show a bit more appreciation.”
Appreciation? Sadness sweeps through me. I can’t cry. I won’t cry.
Perhaps she’s right. Maybe I’m being selfish. I suppose I don’t need my own ball. All the other girls have their own, and we only need one ball to play.
But I saved up money, collected box tops.
And I went around to all the neighbors, asking if they needed any chores done. I made a few bucks that way.
I gulp again. If I start crying, it may set her off.
And I’ll end up back in the closet.
So I simply set the box down on the table and look up at my mother. “Thank you for the present, Mama. It was very thoughtful of you.”
“You’re very welcome, sweetheart. Happy birthday.”