Thanksgiving came. I really didn't have anything to be thankful for, but Penny had written up something like "Twenty Five Things I'm Thankful For" in school and rattled off that whole list at dinner. I almost tore the thing out of her hands when she said she was grateful to be there with Great Grandma. When she said she was grateful for the school, I huffed. And when she said she was grateful for the time she'd had with our parents, I left the table. I was grateful only for the fact that nobody came and tried to get me to go back.
That evening, as I laid morosely on my bed reading a sports magazine that was at least a decade old, Penny came into the room. It had begun to occur to me how awkward sharing a room with my little sister was. When we'd first arrived, I hadn't really cared—it had felt more like a short stay than something that would endure, and it had been comforting to be with her. But at this point, I was growing annoyed with her presence.
"I'm sorry I upset you," she said quietly, digging under her pillow for her pajamas.
I didn't answer. I had said a few words to her over the past weeks, but only when I'd had to. When there was something worth saying.
"Rob."
I didn't turn from my book.
"I meant what I said. About mom and dad."
Nothing from me, though I'd stopped reading. The words just blurred together on the page in front of me, leaving my brain to burn on her what she was saying.
She was hesitant, knew I didn't want to hear her, but she went on anyway. "I love them. I am grateful that we had that time with them."
"Shut up."
"Rob—"
"Just shut up, Penny."
Why was my small sister going on about this? She held her turquoise polka-dotted pajamas in her arms along with a stuffed penguin she'd brought from home, that she'd had since she was a baby, and she walked around to my bed and climbed up onto the foot of it.
Obviously, my command had had no effect on her. "You have to stop it, Rob. You have to get better."
My eyes closed. Her noise needed to stop. How could I make her stop?
"You have to know in your heart."
Buzzing rushed between my ears. My body tensed; my shoulders hurt from how tight I held them.
"You have to tell yourself the truth."
My breathing was ragged.
"You have to stop hiding—"
"SHUT UP!" I burst, leaping from the bed, my arms and legs shivering like a spring that had been wound and released. "Just shut up!" The book was no longer in my hands; in my anger I'd thrown it against the wall, where it had smashed a picture of some ugly flowers and an even uglier cat. I hadn't meant to do it, but it had just happened.
Great Grandma was suddenly at the door. "Robert! Penelope!" Her old bespectacled eyes darted around the room and caught sight of the frame hanging sideways on the wall, bits of broken glass still shining in its corners. She took a moment to respond, probably trying to figure out what best to do. I waited for her scolding, her yelling—something—but after several tense seconds, she just turned toward us, keeping her eyes low as if she couldn't stand the sight of us, and said quietly and slowly, "Is everything all right in here?"
Clearly it's not! I wanted to scream at her. But nothing came from my mouth.
"It's fine," Penny responded. "We were just playing a little too much. It was an accident. I'm sorry."
Playing. She'd said we were playing. I didn't play.
Great Grandma nodded curtly. Everything about her told me she knew Penny was lying. But to my surprise, she said, "Right. Well, leave it be for now. Don't touch it. I'll clean up the mess in the morning. Now good night, and get to bed." And she shut the door behind her.