Young Writers Society

The next morning, one day before I met Her and my first morning "out of it all," I was hesitant to open my eyes. It felt like if I did, I would be pulled back into that never-ending nightmare. Still lying on that uncomfortable cot in the cramped women's shelter. The snores of unfamiliar women filling the room, and the air stagnant and musty.

I opened my eyes reluctantly, half-expecting it all to be a dream. But no, everything was as tangible and solid as ever. It had been weeks, maybe even months, since I had woken up without a bottomless pit in my stomach. I thanked God for finally being useful. Just in case I was wrong about him.

Before settling into bed the night before, I made sure the CD player was on repeat and selected Pearl Jam's Ten to lull me to sleep. It had become a comforting part of my nightly routine for over a year. I loved how the music would ceaselessly work its way into my dreams, no matter how beautiful or tragic.

I blinked away the remnants of sleep. Sunlight was nonexistent, and it was already pouring rain outside. Just how I liked it.

A wooden media dresser stood a few feet across from the bed, subtly commanding attention. Its top left and right were occupied by two open shelves. From the right shelf, the CD player softly played Why Go. On the left side rested an old DVD player. In the center of the polished wooden surface, a dusty TV sat idle.

Along with a few carefully chosen outfits and necessary belongings, I also packed my favorite CDs. Ten was amongst the lucky five, alongside Little Earthquakes by Tori Amos, Back to Black by Amy Winehouse, Dirt by Alice in Chains, and Souvlaki by Slowdive.

Downstairs, my Aunt Tracy's voice drifted up as she talked on the phone. Not quite ready to join her, I reached under my thigh and grabbed my iPhone 4S. It was the first birthday gift I'd received since turning thirteen, when I got my portable CD player.

The luminous white display highlighted the time: nine-thirty-three on the dot. Later than usual. I was usually wide awake by five-thirty, thanks to my school schedule.

A slight feeling of apprehension crept over me when I saw that my mother had messaged me several lengthy paragraphs. I felt like a paranoid first-grader riding the school bus home after their teacher had called their parents. Rolling onto my back, I mentally braced myself.

I was well aware of my mother's lingering resentment towards me for leaving, and how she believed I had betrayed her. Part of me didn't want to even bother opening her messages. I had barely woken up, and the last thing I wanted to read were text messages of my mother reprimanding me for being a "terrible daughter" who had "abandoned her in her time of need."

To my surprise, it wasn't as terrible as I had expected.

The first thing she did was apologize for the chaos she caused in front of everyone when I told her I was leaving and she couldn't stop me. The way she treated me that night was the most mortifying moment of my life. The things that were said almost made me feel worse than the situation itself. Even if she had gone back to Ray for two decades, I still wouldn't have been as hurt as I was when she called me an "ungrateful, conniving little bitch."

Secondly, she declared, once more, that she was "done for good" with alcohol. I had lost count of how many times I had heard this promise, and having seen enough episodes of Intervention, I completely understood that she couldn't quit without seeking professional help. Matter of fact, it would've been a miracle if she returned to rehab, considering she couldn't even fully admit that she had a problem.

In the final messages, she made sure to tell me that she "wasn't angry with me." I appreciated the gesture, but it was insincere. She was definitely mad at me, but trying to suppress it because she felt guilty for being upset with me over something that was completely justified.

I didn't mention any of that to her, though. I chose to enjoy her kindness for as long as it would be.

thx mom. i forgive u and thank u for messaging me. i love u.

For my own sake, I left it at that.

I always found it hilarious and slightly insulting whenever Mom tried to talk to me like I didn't know her at all. Just like when I was in third grade, and she was deep in her alcoholism again. Every time I asked her if she'd been drinking, even though I already knew the answer, she lied and said no. I told her I believed her anyway. I wanted to.

Why Go wrapped up its final verse, and Jeremy began to play.

Finally, I sat up and stretched my arms above my head. The only pair of pajama pants I had packed were the ones I slept in, and Aunt Tracy kindly offered me an oversized white t-shirt that once belonged to her youngest son, Jude, who had left for college ten years prior. Along with a few pairs of socks and boxers, his shirt had been patiently waiting in the dresser for someone to wear it again.

The shag carpet beneath my feet was a plush, weathered brown. Sticky, dark stains from spilled juice marred a few select places on its surface, evidence of long-forgotten spills that had seeped into the fibers over time. Next to the bed, the bedside table sat covered in a thick layer of dust, as if a blanket of neglect had settled upon it.

I slipped on the socks I had worn the day before and sluggishly made my way down the stairs.

𖥔

Just as I uttered the final "amen," I could hear Aunt Tracy taking the seat opposite me and mindfully wrapping up her conversation with a few quick sentences.

Yes, I know I insinuated that I didn't believe in God, and I didn't. When I was twelve, I decided I wanted to "strengthen my relationship with Christ," so I started going to church and reading scriptures. It didn't go how I wanted it to. I realized I didn't agree with seventy-five percent of what was in the Bible, and concluded it was easier to avoid religion altogether. Telling Aunt Tracy wasn't worth the argument so I never did.

"Who was that on the phone?" I asked between bites of perfectly toasted bread. "Camilla?"

"No. Lena," she replied, taking a sip of her coffee. "She's the one who runs that support group I mentioned before. She wants you to go to their meeting tomorrow."

I took a drink of orange juice. "Okay. What time?"

"Eleven," she answered. "And while you're there, I'll go to the Board of Education and see what needs to be done to get you back into the school system here."

I was starting to feel slightly better about the whole school situation, particularly when it came to the loneliness factor. Even without Tori by my side, there would still be familiar faces around. Maybe it wouldn't be as awful as I thought it would be, even with it being my first year of high school.

"I think it should be easy to get me enrolled again. I attended school here for over seven years."

Aunt Tracy took a small nibble of her banana. "I hope you're right. I haven't done this in so long. My kids graduated over a decade ago. Now that you're in high school, they'll be all over me with their paperwork and such." She messed with the silver finger ring Camilla gifted her on Mother's Day.

"How long is that support group supposed to be?" I asked, changing the subject. "Like, how many hours?"

"Probably an hour or two. I don't know, I've never been to a support group. But I want you to stay for at least half an hour."

I wondered what the hell a support group could do with two hours of time.

"You might make some new friends there," she added. "They'll all be around your age and have similar interests. It'll be great when you start school again."

I wasn't so sure about that.

She had said the same thing when she signed Nadia and I up for Girl Scouts to get us away from my mother. We were eight and five. I was in the Juniors group, and those girls were unbearable. They all had money and perfect families. It wasn't their fault, but I couldn't stand it. None of them wanted anything to do with me, or talk about books or movies.

Nonetheless, I was hopeful about this support group thing. Even if they were rich, at least we still had one thing in common: unhappiness.

"That's not always true," I reminded her, pushing my eggs around on my plate.

Aunt Tracy frowned at me, tapping her left thumb on the off-white glass of her coffee mug.

"I can't keep making excuses for you, Donna," she finally huffed. "Can I be honest with you?"

I looked up at her. "I'd rather you were."

"I don't think that the issue is that you don't fit in. I think you just..." her hands gestured vaguely as she struggled to find the right words. "I think you just don't try. You're not very talkative or outgoing. That can make people uncomfortable. It's not that they don't want to be your friend, it's just that you intimidate them."

I couldn't tell if calling me intimidating was supposed to be a compliment or not, but there was nothing flattering about being intimidating at nine years old.

My fork clinked as I dropped it onto the plate. "Let's pretend I am the most extroverted person on Earth. Hypothetically. Because I used to be. Do you know the kinds of things people say to an extroverted kid with autism? Things like 'you're so obnoxious' or 'shut up, nobody wants to hear you talk' or 'can you stop smiling and talking so much, you're annoying.' I just can't win. Ever. In anything."

As expected, she rolled her eyes indifferently at the mention of my autism. I knew she was going to do that. I wouldn't have expected anything less from someone as conservative and, frankly, close-minded as Aunt Tracy.

"When you were with me, you got an ADHD diagnosis, and I've known you your whole life. That's all I know, so that's what I'm going with. Putting that aside, there are many people with ADHD who are perfectly social." She took another drink of her coffee. "I just don't think you're being reasonable about this."

My eyebrows furrowed together. "I was nine years old having people tell me to shut the eff up. When I was eleven, my teacher told Mom that she thinks I'm retarded and need an IEP. I know you remember that." I was careful not to sound disrespectful or aggressive. "Aunt Tracy."

She finished her banana without even glancing in my direction, as if everything I was saying wasn't worth her attention.

I kept talking. I had too much to say, even if it didn't mean anything to her. "I don't think there's any amount of socialization that will make people less uncomfortable with me. All I've wanted since elementary school is to be liked. I've never been a mean girl, I've never been rude. Then the only girl who's ever understood me moved away. I don't think I'll ever have another friendship like that."

"I think you're smart enough to know that you don't have to let your 'disorder,'" in air quotes, "or whatever the hell you would call it, control your life." She stood from her seat. "And that's all I'm going to say about it."

Fine. That's all I wanted to hear, anyway.

Feeling defeated, I propped my chin up with my hand and continued picking at my breakfast. The taste of toasted bread crumbs persisted in my mouth as Aunt Tracy casually tossed her banana peel into the trash.

"Put on your clothes from yesterday when you're done eating," she instructed me, now preparing to load the dishwasher. "We're going to Walmart."

𖥔

I watched my reflection in the side-view mirror of Aunt Tracy's red Honda Civic as I tightened the low afro puff in the back of my head. It was all I could do; I didn't have any hair products.

"Oh, look," Aunt Tracy pointed out. "They're building a new CVS."

As I glanced to my right, I noticed a massive building under construction. A group of workers were busy inside the metal framework, while others were toiling away on the pavement outside.

"I can't imagine living next to that."

The mere thought of being engulfed in a sea of construction noise made my stomach churn with unease.

Aunt Tracy turned the car to the left of Walmart's entrance and parked in the lot.

"Let's hope the Walmart workers are more helpful than the CVS ones," she muttered, turning off the engine.

"What do you mean?"

She shook her head. "The one in Elizabeth is the worst. I went in there one day when they were having a sale and I needed something, and all the workers were standing around laughing and goofing off instead of doing their job."

Imagining Aunt Tracy shouting at a bunch of underpaid college students brought a mischievous smirk to my face.

"Well, I guess you know who not to go to."

𖥔

The two of us strolled into the store, the automatic doors sliding open.

Inside of Walmart, it was busy and crowded, shelves lined with endless rows of products and people rushing about with shopping carts.

Aunt Tracy weaved through the congested aisles, and I trailed after her. It had been a long time since my last visit to Walmart. The previous trip had been with Ray, and he was in a sour mood, nitpicking every little thing. It felt like tagging along with a grumpy toddler.

"Okay, so let's get you some clothes. Today, we'll just do a week's worth of sweaters and jeans. Then you need hair products and underwear, and we can get you some pads, too. You track your period?"

"No," I answered, my eyes darting back and forth between the clothing racks. "I usually get my first day around the twenty-fifth, then my last on the twenty-ninth."

"Camilla and I's used to sync up," Aunt Tracy chuckled. "We were in pain together."

"Mom's were long, but irregular," I said, scanning the racks for a sweater I liked. "And it didn't start until she was thirteen."

"That's normal," Aunt Tracy remarked. "What size is your waist? Shit, I should've measured it."

I concealed a rude chuckle. Hearing her swear was akin to finding a saint's prayer book filled with profanity. Just fucking ironic.

"Twenty seven inches," I told her. "I've measured it."

"Okay. I'm gonna look for jeans. Go pick out four sweaters. Any style."

She strode past me and wandered toward the pants section, leaving me alone in the middle of the sweater aisle.

This was the first time anyone had bought me new clothes in a long time. The only times I ever got new clothes was during tax return season or right before the new school year. Mom had gotten me some stuff at Goodwill for Christmas a few years ago, but nothing brand-new.

The first sweater I grabbed was a soft, knitted green pullover.It felt soft and plush under the fingers, like a newborn lamb's wool. Next, I chose a black cardigan that looked like it would be great for layering. It was made of a soft, fine knit fabric, with elegant buttons running down the front. It hung loosely on the figure and fell just above the hips.

Afterwards, I picked a cream-colored woolen number with long sleeves. The color was a soft off-white, its fabric thick and cozy with a slight sheen. It had long sleeves that reached past the wrists and was adorned with intricate carved buttons in a matching color.

My final choice was a white neutral sweater. The fabric was a blend of cotton and wool, soft to the touch and smooth against the skin. It felt lightweight and airy, yet still cozy and warm.

I walked over to join Aunt Tracy by the jeans, carrying the sweaters I had picked out. She was carefully inspecting several pairs of jeans in different styles, holding them up to the light to examine the fabric.

"What kind do you like?" She asked. "Slim? Bootcut? Stretch?"

"Any will work," I answered. "But I love bootcut jeans."

"Perfect." She placed the stack of jeans in our cart, then gestured for me to follow her.

Just as we were getting ready to leave, I caught a glimpse of someone I knew looking through the discounted items on the rack.

Holy fucking shit.

It was Michael Kennedy. Tori's father.

I couldn't contain my eagerness as I called out, "Mike?!"

Mike, donning a heavy, brown wool coat and worn out jeans, shifted his gaze towards us.

Aunt Tracy gave me a gentle prod, reminding me to address him as Mr. Kennedy. I ignored her. He told me multiple times as a kid to call him Mike.

"It's Donna!"

"Donna Haley?" He began walking to us, pushing a small cart. "And Tracy? God, it's been so long."

Aunt Tracy greeted him with a polite, slightly forced smile. "It's been a while, Mr. Kennedy," she said cordially.

"How's Tori?!" I asked, practically jumping up and down. "Is she doing well?"

"Great." He adjusted the baseball cap on his caramel-toned, bald head. "She's back with me, now, actually."

All my birthdays must've come at once.

"Really?! How is she? Why is she back? Is she going to Union County High?!"

Aunt Tracy rested a hand on my back and said in a low voice, "One at a time, Donna."

Mike cleared his throat. "Yeah, she's... she's at Union County." His words were cloaked in exhaustion, as if he were navigating through a weary fog. "She's really thriving there. She was terrified of starting high school, but she's loving it so far. And, we're doing much better."

A wave of relief washed over me, so intense that any lingering doubts about leaving my mother behind vanished in an instant.

"I'm sure she'll be happy to hear you're back," he added. "I'm glad you're staying with Tracy."

I responded with a closed smile. "Me, too."

"Are you coming back to the county, or are you gonna stay in the city? I saw your mother making all those posts on Facebook."

Of course he had. My mother posted every single inconvenience on Facebook for the entire world to see.

Aunt Tracy answered before I could even open my mouth. "She's staying with me. It'll be nice to have her around."

He nodded. "I'm sure Tori will be happy to see you, Donna."

"We should arrange a day for the girls to hang out." Her tone was slightly impatient. "Maybe for Thanksgiving break. They're both in high school now, after all."

Mike nodded again, shifting his weight. "Right. Well, I better get back to it. Nice seeing you both."

"Yeah, you too." Aunt Tracy looked at him like a part of her heart was breaking. "Take care of yourself, Mike."

𖥔

"God, I can't believe that was Mike," Aunt Tracy bemoaned as we went about our way, walking towards the bra and underwear section. "He looks terrible."

I watched as Mike maneuvered his cart to the aisle adjacent to ours and frowned sympathetically.

"He's probably just going through a lot."

She scoffed dismissively. "Yeah, we all 'go through a lot,' you're not supposed to let it show when you have kids. I hope Tori isn't watching him mope around like a sad puppy dog all day. She'll end up like him."

We stopped at the underwear section. I walked a few steps ahead of the shopping cart to browse the selection.

Then, I crouched down in front of the display of Fruit of the Loom products and wondered aloud, "Maybe he doesn't know how to talk about what he's going through."

Aunt Tracy leaned against the cart, arms crossed, her disapproval written plainly across her face.

"Not an excuse," she said sternly. "You know how many times I had to suck it up for my kids' sake? He needs to do the same. I know how it feels to have a parent that's constantly depressed. I mean, Jesus, get a therapist. Their job is to listen. I get depression and stuff, but at a certain point, you have to do something about it."

I felt more uncomfortable with every word, like I was unraveling a delicate thread.

"Yeah, I know."

"I can't tell you how many times I had to pretend like everything was fine. Camilla had a lot of friends that would invite her places and tell me all about it, while I just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up. I sucked it up because I never wanted her to feel like she had to keep things from me because I was 'too depressed,' or whatever."

Don't tell me that I should've said something. All it would've done was cause an argument that I didn't want to have.

"I can't tell you how many times I would come home from work, take off my shoes, and cry myself to sleep because of how much stress I was under," she went on. "Sometimes, Camilla would come and ask if I was okay. I couldn't even tell her what was wrong."

I stood up and swiftly grabbed two packs of neutral-colored underwear before dropping them into the shopping cart.

"So, yes, Mike needs to do the same." Aunt Tracy repositioned the cart to make room for another customer who was walking towards the aisle. "No matter how bad things are."

"Yeah," I responded noncommittally. "I get that."

No, I didn't. Not in the slightest.

Adults know exactly how hard life can get, is all I remember thinking, yet still have no idea at all.