Page 83 of Grown

But also secretly wishing a prince would kiss you and wake you from this terrible nightmare.

Only to do it all over again, for the next four days.

“Well, there she is! Sleeping beauty! Was wondering when you were gonna wake up.”

Mom is in the kitchen, which I’m sure the whole neighborhood knows since the juicer has been going off for the last hour.

“Hi,” I croak and sit at the table. My throat is sore and achy. The wreckage of puking for days. After this week, I wonder what will be left of my voice.

“Here you go,” she says, setting a glass of something thick and red on the table.

“What’s this?”

“Beet juice!”

“Ew. Gross.”

“I saw it on Dr. Oz. Supposed to balance oxygen and increase stamina. And you need all the energy to fight off this... flu you got.”

Mom turns quick so I can’t see her face crumble, but I’ve never been happier to see our beat-up sofa, the weeping pine trees, and empty streets. Never want to see another hotel as long as I live.

On the sofa, the bedsheets are still laid out.

“Shea slept out here again?”

“Yes,” Mom says. “You’ve been, um, having nightmares. Screaming in your sleep and such.”

The psychiatrist warned of nightmares. Warned of flashbacks, difficulty sleeping, jumpiness, and distrust. All I can say is, I can’t take closed doors. Not even to use the bathroom.

Mom sets a tray in front of me: soup, water crackers, fresh orange juice, and two Zoloft pills.

“Where is everyone?”

“The Littles are at school. Well, they’ll be out soon. And Daddy is on the picket line. He’ll grab them on the way home.”

Mom nods at the tray and I take the pills obediently.

“What day is it?

“Tuesday.”

“I... don’t know why I asked that.” I sigh. “Not that it matters.”

“It matters. It all matters.” Mom winces a sympathetic smile. “You think you’re up to talking today?”

She means with the therapist. I shake my head so violently the house trembles.

“OK OK! It’s all good! No rush but you know it’s a must. So, how about some fresh air?”

Mom speaks to me as if I’m alien. Wide-eyed, hesitant, and timid of her footing. I imagine this is what it’s like for parents of a recently kidnapped child who has been returned. After just a few short months, I’m a stranger in my own house.

“Mom, aren’t you missing a lot of work taking care of me?”

With a crooked smile, she wipes a counter she’s already wiped twice. “Stop worrying about me. I have plenty of days saved up.”

I’m not sure how true that is, but I’m too exhausted to press her further.

“So? How about that walk?” she asks again, another fake smile.