Welcome Home

by Eric Smith

  Mr. Stohler dismisses us, and as I trek down the hallway toward creative writing class, I decide that I have only one real option: to totally make this shit up. If I don’t know anything about my real tree, I will adorn my paper tree with lovely leaves that don’t exist. I’ll hand it in, then feign sick for the discussion so I can go to the nurse for the class period. Mr. Stohler has seen my parents during parent-teacher conferences, but he sees hundreds of parents every year; he won’t remember.

  I take a deep breath. This will be fun, I tell myself. It will just be like another creative writing assignment—an exercise of the imagination. I try to put it out of my mind as I walk into creative writing, my last class of the day, and sit next to Trish, my best friend.

  “Hey, girl!” she exclaims, grinning happily at me. “You look beautiful, as usual.”

  Trish is the human embodiment of a ray of sunshine. It’s one of the many things I love about her, but right now, I just can’t match myself to her energy. I give her a half-hearted smile as I toss my backpack on the floor next to the desk.

  “Eves,” she says, nudging me, “What’s wrong?”

  Normally, Trish would be the one person I’d confide in, but as I watch her pull her straight blonde hair into a perfect ponytail, I can’t bring myself to explain it to her. “It’s nothing. Didn’t sleep well last night.”

  Just then, Ms. Thatcher hushes the class to begin the lesson. Trish makes a pouty face and writes something on her notebook, pushing it toward me. “Let me know if you need anything!” it reads. I nod and make a heart with my hands.

  Sometimes I paint my imaginary biological parents in my mind. It’s addicting; I can’t stop myself.

  My mother has eyes that are so dark they look almost black, but they’re warm and kind, and have the uncanny ability to make anyone feel understood. She isn’t double-jointed, but she does have a widow’s peak where her hairline begins, her big black curls cascading down her shoulders just like mine. In fact, everyone says she and I look just alike, except for the eyes. I have my father’s eyes—big, wide, a deep rich brown. He’s not double-jointed, nor does he have a widow’s peak, but he does have a big, luminous smile that can brighten even the most frigid of rooms.

  They aren’t millionaires or celebrities or secret government officials with complicated backstories regarding why they had to give me up.

  They love each other so much, I think to myself as I stare out the school bus window on the way home. And I love them.

  Even if they’re not real.

  When I get home from school, my parents—who are real—are still at work. But my grandma is home. She moved in with us after my grandpa passed away from lung cancer a few years ago. I miss him dearly, but at least we have Gran around 24/7. Her awesomeness is unparalleled.

  Gran has her frizzy gray hair tied up in a bun on top of her head, her bedazzled reading glasses on the tip of her nose as she studies what looks like a magazine laid out in front of her on the kitchen table.

  “Whatcha reading?” I ask as I toss my backpack on the table and sit in the chair facing her.

  Gran places a bookmark in the magazine and closes it. “A fascinating study,” she responds brightly, pushing her reading glasses on top of her head. “It’s about the genetic variation of Galax urceolata.”

  “Cool, cool. And that is?”

  “A lovely evergreen perennial plant, my dear. White flowers, glossy leaves that are shaped like hearts. Not a very flashy specimen, but beautiful in its simplicity.” She winks at me. “Beauty is everywhere, if you know where to look.”

  I smile weakly. Gran was once a researcher, quite renowned in her day. Though she retired when my grandpa got sick, she still subscribes to several journals to keep up to date. She is always regaling me with trivia on the latest and greatest in the botany world, which I’m normally interested in. Well, maybe I’m more interested in the way she describes it; she could make watching paint dry seem like a grand adventure. I love hearing about all the plants she adores (as long as it isn’t that one). But now, seeing the way her bright blue eyes shine in the daylight streaming from the kitchen window, I’m suddenly overcome with that same exhaustion I felt earlier.

  And, like Trish, she can immediately tell. “Eva, honey. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m just . . . ah, hung up on a creative writing assignment,” I blurt out. “You know how I get before I come up with an idea. It’s very frustrating.” My stomach twists with guilt, the profoundly uncomfortable sensation that can come only from lying to my grandmother. I can probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve done it.

  “Hmmm, yes,” she muses, chewing on her pen. “Well, do you have a general theme? Perhaps a vague concept? We can spitball from there, yes?”

  Great. This is why I never lie, I think. “Er, yeah. I thought I could write about . . . um, trees.”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place. What about trees? Any particular species?”

  “No, no. About all trees. Trees in general. Maybe . . . about what they stand for. As a symbol. In writing.”

  “Ah, yes.” Gran furrows her brow and chews on her pen some more. “Well, that extends beyond my area of expertise, but there’s the biblical meaning—temptation of the forbidden fruit. Also, trees can stand for self-growth. And they’re often planted to mark a turn of events . . . a creation of something new, such as the birth of a child. Ah, and of course, family trees.”

  “Yes—that. That’s what I was thinking. Family.” Lying or not, I’m starting to think this could be a really good side project for my writing endeavors.

  Meanwhile, Gran’s expression has changed. She’s studying my face fervently. After about thirty seconds of this, she says carefully, “What do you want to write about trees and family?”

  “About . . . I don’t know. I don’t know, Gran.” Well, at least that isn’t a lie.

  She nods, then places her hand on mine and gently squeezes. Her fingers are covered in rings, which feel cool against my skin. We stay like this for another thirty seconds in total silence; then, in her abrupt Gran fashion, she suddenly stands up and briskly walks over to the kettle on the counter.

  “You know, Eva, as much as I love trees, I’ve never found them to be a good representation of a family.” She fills the kettle with hot water from the sink and flicks on the switch. “And I would know, kiddo. Because I know all. Tea?”

  “Yes, please,” I respond, staring at the flowering dogwood in our backyard, its pink flowers waving at me in the spring breeze. “And why do you say that?”

  She grabs two mugs from the cabinet and places them on the counter; they make a little clink noise against the granite. “Well, if you consider a tree as a metaphor for genetics, sure, it makes sense.”

  My heart sinks in my chest. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.”

  “But that’s the only thing the metaphor takes into account,” Gran continues, grabbing various boxes of tea from the cabinet. “Chamomile again?”

  “Yes, please. And that’s not true. Trees can be really old—some going back thousands of years. Like family legacies. And they’re strong—it takes a lot to knock down a tree, just like a family. It all makes sense.”

  Gran rips open two packets of chamomile and places the teabags in the empty mugs. “Plenty of things in the universe are old, my dear. That’s like saying Florida is a metaphor for hell because they’re both hot—though your grandfather would agree wholeheartedly with that, I suppose.”

  I giggle. When we went on vacation to Florida back when I was in middle school, my grandpa hated the heat so much that he stayed in and worked on a puzzle all day while the rest of us had a blast at Disney World. “It’s not a vacation if you break a sweat!” he insisted.

  My grandmother smiles, and I can tell she’s thinking about him. “Anyway, yes, trees are strong. Stronger, perhaps, than families.”

  “Wai
t—what?” Gran has always been a vocal advocate for family loyalty and togetherness; “stronger than families” is the last thing I’d expect to come out of her mouth.

  She laughs as she fills up the mugs with the water from the kettle. “Eva, families aren’t naturally strong. How many families do you know that are broken? Cousins no longer talking because of some fight they can barely remember, brothers and sisters arguing over an inheritance, children separated from a parent after a nasty divorce.”

  She walks back over and sets my tea mug in front of me. It’s covered with little blue and brown hearts. Gran puts her hand on mine and squeezes again, a bit tighter this time.

  “Genetics may link two people together, and that link will always exist, but that link is made of fishing line, not bark and wood,” she says. “Genetics are not the definition of a strong family, and that’s why trees as a metaphor don’t work—because it’s love that’s the true bonding material between a group of people. Love, and love alone. And love is work. But it’s the best kind of work there is.”

  I look at Gran, her face swimming a little bit in my vision as my eyes begin to water. She reaches over and wipes away the tear as soon as it falls onto my cheek.

  “Shhh, dear. Take a sip of your tea.”

  I blow on it first, then take a sip. She takes a sip of hers as well, then looks at me over the rim with those vivid blue eyes. “Trees are beautiful, Eva. I’ve spent most of my life adoring them, studying them, poring over them. But a tree is not a family. Plants are one of my deepest passions, but they cannot love me back. Not like you can.”

  “But that’s not the point, Gran. It’s just a metaphor.”

  “Metaphors can only go so far. And the reason they’re used so often is because it’s tempting to try to find meaning in the complexities of life by comparing them to what’s around us. But that can be dangerous. Families come in all shapes and sizes, and we cannot define them with such cookie-cutter terms.” She looks at me for a few seconds, her eyes softening as if she’s remembering something. “You know what is family?”

  I shake my head. She cups my face with her hands, gently brushing away my tears with her thumbs. “This. This is family, my beautiful girl. You are this family. You have been ever since the day your parents took you home. Lord above, you were such a beautiful baby, which is why your mother has covered every damn inch of this house with your baby pictures.”

  I laugh through my tears and wipe my eyes. “I love you, Gran.”

  “I love you too. Don’t forget that. Our family is stronger than anything in this world. And it’s all because of love—we sure have a lot of that going around.” She grins at me and puts on her reading glasses, flipping the botany journal back open.

  We sit in silence. As she reads and jots notes, I think about telling her that she should be a teacher, because she’s taught me more than biology class ever can. But instead, I glance over at my backpack, then stare at the dogwood’s flowers outside. I’ll email Mr. Stohler and explain why I can’t do the assignment.

  One day, I’ll try to find my biological parents and see if they’re anything like my imaginary ones. But at this moment in time, all I need is this family. Not one I made up inside my head.

  My real family.

  Most important, my family.

  Sammy Nickalls was born and raised in Lebanon, Pennsylvania, though she currently resides in Brooklyn. She has worked as a writer and editor for numerous publications, including HelloGiggles and Esquire. Sammy is a mental health advocate and started #TalkingAboutIt, a Twitter movement that encourages users to talk about their mental health as openly as they would their physical health. Follow her on Twitter

  @sammynickalls.

  Tunneling Through

  by Shannon M. Parker

  My therapist’s office is in a cave.

  Okay, not exactly. But his office is the closest you can get to a cave and still be in an actual building, so that’s cool. One wall is solid rock. Like the dude who designed this building two hundred years ago didn’t want to excavate the huge stone outcropping, so he built around it instead. Dr. Richard painted the granite wall institution-white, maybe to make it look like a regular wall. But his paint can’t hide the rock’s rough surface, the way water and time carved grooves into its face. I see the stone underneath.

  Dr. Richard welcomes me in with his smile. I hang up my masks on the coatrack. Not all of my masks, but I shed a few:

  The Attentive Student

  The Good Daughter

  The Peace Seeker

  Okay, that last one isn’t really a mask. I am a peace seeker. It’s pretty much all I am. Dr. Richard tells me my peaceful disposition is rare for a trauma survivor. He says I have to go to the “hard places” underneath. He still doesn’t get that all my underneath places are hard. Harder than that boulder face.

  I sink into the deep couch and face the rock wall. Pieces of me are tattooed there. I mean, not literally, obviously. Still, I see the words I leave behind, the ones I let only Dr. Richard hear. I imagine some of my words scrawl themselves across the white granite face; I admit fear, and the word paints itself in thick, black strokes.

  I say other words, too.

  Only here.

  When the knock sounds, my spine straightens. Mom pokes her head through the door and I stretch on the mask made for her: Daughter.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hey, kiddo.” She sits at the opposite end of the couch, but not before giving my knee a quick squeeze. She tugs her workbag from her shoulder, asks me how my day at school was. All typical Mom stuff.

  “I’m glad you could join us today,” Dr. Richard says.

  “I’m always happy to be invited.”

  And I know this is true. Mom does like to come here.

  I move one hand under my thigh so I can feel the rip of my hangnail catch against the rough couch fabric. Pain sears the tender skin, and I scratch again, hungry for this slice of hurt.

  “I think we’ve been making some great progress lately.” Dr. Richard is trying to prepare my mom, even though there is exactly no preparing a person for what we’ve been talking about. It takes all the strength I have not to run out the door, high-fiving the rock wall on my way past. Dr. Richard must sense my escape plans because he asks, “Are you feeling scared?”

  I nod.

  “Maybe you could start by telling your mom about another time you felt deeply afraid.”

  I know exactly what he’s talking about. That first time with Mom, the dark closet. Sometimes this story is the only thing I can see clearly. Sometimes it’s what helps me fall asleep at night. Okay, most nights. I don’t even pretend like I’m trying to call the memory up. I owe Mom that much. “Do you remember when I was five? When I first came to live with you?” The quiver in my voice betrays me.

  Mom smiles softly, and the memory presses its weight down, sits on the couch between us. “I do.”

  “Do you remember the first time you got mad at me?”

  Mom smiles again, though this time her eyes squint with suspicion, which she doesn’t try to hide. “I do.”

  “I don’t remember what I did but you sent me to my room.” The reason I got punished has never mattered.

  Mom nods. Waits.

  “You sent me to my room and went outside to rake leaves in the front yard.” I twist a lock of my long, painstakingly straightened hair around my finger. “I watched you from my bedroom window. I was so mad.”

  “You were pounding on the glass. Screaming at me.” Mom’s being kind. I was throwing a full-on tantrum.

  “I beat the window so hard the pane shattered.”

  Mom’s hand moves to her heart. I don’t think she knows it’s even happening. “I never ran up a set of stairs so fast. I was petrified of what I’d find.”

  “What did you find?” It’s Dr. Richard. I’d almost forgotten he
was here.

  “Nothing,” Mom says. “The room was empty.”

  The air stills for a beat of time, long enough for the office to morph into a closet. My bedroom closet. Dark and hidden away. I am tucked in tight, cowering and hiding again.

  “But your closet door was open a couple of inches,” Mom says.

  “Do you remember what you did?” I want her to remember. I need this to be the most important moment in her life too.

  “I sat outside of the door and asked if you were okay.”

  “You reached your hand in.”

  “I did.”

  “You held my hand.”

  “I did.”

  “I was breathing so hard.”

  “You were.”

  A tear starts in my eye now, threatening to ruin my makeup, my most trusted mask. “I was so afraid you were going to hate me for breaking your window. I thought you’d send me back. Ask for a new kid.”

  “I know,” Mom says.

  “But you didn’t.”

  “I didn’t. I told you that my love was like a train. That it could never stop. It traveled on a loop of track with no beginning or ending. It would continue on forever.”

  The plates inside me shift then. Readjust. Because she remembers it perfectly. I steel my insides. Prepare. “That minute. That very second was the first time I believed maybe I could love someone. You know? Trust them.”

  “I know,” Mom says, her voice hiccups.

  I look down and realize she’s holding my hand. Just like that day. Her skin still so warm and soft. Her grip so dependable.

  “I think it’s important that you hear what your daughter is saying here.”

  I hear the word daughter, louder than all the rest.

  “I hear her,” Mom says.

  And I know she does. My mom hears how impossible it was for me to trust. She remembers how hard she had to work to soothe me, settle me during those first years. Even now, if I’m being honest. Mom’s still working to overcome the damage another woman did to me. I hate that. I hate that my mom has to pay for someone else’s cruelty.