As I Am

Chapter Eleven

Eleven

          My parents are so taken aback by my words that even though both of their mouths are open, neither of them speak.

            Mom’s at the stove, mid-stir with a wooden spoon in the boiling pot. She’s halfway turned towards me, at first not even bothering to look until she heard my words. Her eyes look vacant, like she’s too shocked to remain here. Dad’s at the kitchen table, reading yesterday’s newspaper. He’s looking up at me from under his glasses, his expression blank.

            A blank expression on him is never a good one.

            A loud burst of thunder breaks everyone from their shock.

            “There’s no way she could be here,” Mom says, her tone dismissive.

            “It does seem very unlikely, Bam,” Dad adds.

            “I saw her,” I repeat. “She smiled at me.”

            Dad looks like he’s thinking of the right word to say while my mother turns back towards the stove, shaking her head. She looks angry, whether that be from earlier or what’s going on right now, I do not know. Maybe both.

            “What?” I ask her, taking a step closer to the oven. I’m dripping water all over the floor from my drenched locks but I don’t care. Mom shakes her head once more but doesn’t say anything, even when she stops. “What, Mom?”

            When she doesn’t respond, Dad clears his throat. “Lilith…” At first I think he’s on her side, trying to get her to tell me something they’ve been talking about while I was gone. But when I see his worried eyes, staring at the back of her head, I know I’m wrong.

            Mom stops stirring her pot physically, but mentally, she’s just started.

            “I think you’re creating problems where there aren’t any, Alabama.”

            The use of my full name makes me freeze. She never calls me that, only unless she’s talking about something very serious or she’s angry. I don’t know what to say so I stand in the doorway, creating a small puddle around my feet that I already refuse to clean up.

            Mom starts stirring again.

            “I’ve arrange for you to go to a counsellor later this week,” she says.

            My lips part but no words come out.

            “Your father and I discussed it earlier and it’s what we think is best.”

            The word we gets to me. My head snaps towards my father, who’s lowered his paper slightly, even though he’s clearly not reading it. When he sees me staring he sets the newspaper on the tabletop and shrugs with his hands in the air, as if he’s trying to say he’s sorry, that my mother wouldn’t take no for an answer.