When I saw the stars, I immediately thought of when Lo and I begged Dad to take us out to watch the night sky. He told us once that he and Mama went stargazing on their first date. Did he put them there to remind me that he thinks about it too? How we all laughed and pointed and made up names for the constellations because none of us knew what they were called?
The room is huge, and almost everything is new. It’s the exact opposite of the one I shared with my sister. Cam said she had a lot of fun decorating it by adding canvas art on the walls with quotes and images—flowers, animals, people. Dad said she always wanted a daughter.
By midday, my body starts aching. It begins in my wrists, a telltale sign for more to come. I struggle holding my book, so I decide to rest after taking some Motrin. An hour nap only settles the pain in my elbows and shoulders, and when I try getting up for some water I cringe at the dull pang in my hips.
Pushing past the feeling, I force myself to walk out to the living room. Both Dad’s and Cam’s cars are in the driveway and I hear them talking from the backyard. When I glance out the window, I notice them in the garden together.
Since when does Dad garden?
Cam laughs and brushes dirt off Dad’s face, only smearing it worse. He smiles and says something before looking up and noticing me. Cam glances too, waving at me with a bulky beige glove covering her hand.
I open the glass door and stand at the doorway. My feet are bare, my legs exposed by my sleep shorts, and my body still sore from the oncoming flare. Instead of showing them, I give a tiny wave back.
Dad helps Cam up and helps brush dirt off her pants. He gives my attire a once-over, clearly wanting to say something. They walk to me, Cam ditching her glove and putting it on the picnic table. When they stop in front of me, Dad lets go of her hand.
He frowns at my pajamas. “Don’t you want to change into actual clothes? It’s a bit late to be wearing those.”
Instead of frowning like I want to, I tug on the hem of my tee. “I’ve just been lounging. Why bother dirtying regular clothes if I’m going to stay in all day?”
Cam pats my arm and I try not to wince at the ache radiating from my joints and muscles as she does it. “Your father and I were thinking about taking the family out to dinner tonight. How about we all get cleaned up and get ready?”
Shifting my weight, I debate on telling them I’d rather stay in. If I do that, they’ll ask questions. Dad will shove pain relievers in my hand, Cam will ask if I need to go to the hospital, and Kaiden will glower like I’m an inconvenience—like his mother’s attention toward me is pathetic.
I wonder what Cam’s eyes look like when she cries.
“Kaiden isn’t here,” is my weak attempt to back out of the dinner. Going out when I don’t feel well is too much of a hassle. Pretending to be okay for the sake of others is a draining act to an already underpaid show.
Cam waves her hand in dismissal. “He’ll meet us there. Let’s go inside. The Cantina isn’t a formal restaurant, so jeans and a blouse will be fine to wear.”
The Cantina sounds an awful lot like it serves Mexican food. Considering Dad said he did some research on my disease, something tells me dietary habits isn’t something he google searched.
I don’t say anything. Cam seems excited and Dad seems happy because Cam is, so I walk into my room and slip into a pair of black leggings and slide on a loose long sleeve shirt. Slipping into the pineapple Toms that Kaiden called ugly, I make my way back out to the living area.
Dad is cleaned up and wearing a new pair of jeans and a black button-down, like his version of casual only half exists. Cam is in a sundress with her dirty blonde hair pulled back and she looks a lot like Kaiden. Same tan complexion, same round eyes, and same plump lips. Their hair and eye color are different though, and where her features are soft and inviting, his are hard and repellant. It makes me wonder if he got his brown hair and eyes and rough personality from his father. Where is he?
Cam grabs her purse from the counter. “I know you’ll love the food, Emery. They have the best nachos. In fact, they make everything from scratch! How many places can say they do that?”
Not many, I admit. Still, the idea of fried, spicy food has my stomach churning already. It doesn’t sound appealing, and I doubt this place has many salad options that aren’t coated in the type of stuff that’ll trigger a bigger flare.
Internally sighing, I get into the back of their car and pull out my cell from where it’s tucked under my leg. No text messages. No calls. Nothing from Mama.
I stare out my window in silence.
Grandma put a lot of money into getting me seen by dieticians to formulate a special diet that would limit any food inflammations. Honestly, it’s not a plan I follow as closely as I should. I limit the amount of dairy and gluten I eat, but cheese pizza is my weakness just like any other person, and carbs are my one true soulmate.
Mama used to make me bland meals with no taste and high iron and protein because that’s what the dietician told her to do. But I know Mama hated the food as much as me, and her on again off again employment made it hard to keep buying the type of foods that were better for me. She lost her fulltime job as a pediatric nurse because she was taking too much time off bringing me to appointments and tending to my every need.
It’s why I told her I didn’t need special organic brands or gluten free snacks or lactose free alternatives. I think she believed me because she was desperate to see the truth in it. She didn’t want to let her unemployment impact me any more than it had, but she didn’t understand my guilt over her situation.
She struggled because of me.
She hurt because of me.
Pain comes in countless forms. The worst is seeing what your suffering does to everyone around you. Mama is my biggest victim.
But I’m also hers.
When we arrive at the restaurant, I paint a bright smile on my face. Maybe I’m an artist after all. The Picasso of the modern era.
The restaurant is dimly lit and playing soft instrumental music from the speakers. It’s a cute little eat-in that’s small and intimate. People talk amongst themselves, some louder than others, and the servers come over donning big smiles and warm welcomes.
Everything is dark wood, like the color of espresso—the chairs, the tables, the booths. There’s no cloth or cushions to soften the seats, which makes my tailbone hurt. Every time I shift, the seat creaks and Dad and Cam stare at me like I’m weird for fidgeting so much.
Kaiden hasn’t shown up yet. Cam insists she knows what he’ll want, so Dad waves over our waitress and they start ordering. I’ve been staring at the menu for fifteen minutes, stalling by ordering water and sending them away to decide between the lightest options. At this point, a taco salad is the best I can do.
A few minutes after we order, Dad and Cam talk about work and school. They ask me how I like my classes, if I made any friends, and if I’ve heard from Mama.
Dad cringes when Cam brings Mama up. I don’t see why, it’s been a decade since he had to deal with her. Maybe he feels bad for me, like digging up my departure will hurt my feelings. I don’t think that’s it though.
Thankfully, Kaiden arrives just before I’m forced to answer. I don’t want to talk about Mama with any of them, especially Dad. He left us and couldn’t even bother to care when Lo got sick. He never checked in when I told him how Mama acted or how bad Lo was getting.