Page 83 of Run Home

“No. You just . . . started doing it, didn’t you?”

“Do you remember that you and Ian had head lice the day you arrived here?” Mom asks.

Now that, I do remember. More than anything, I remember the relief when my scalp and neck finally stopped itching after weeks of torture.

“We buzzed Ian’s hair real short,” Mom says. “He didn’t care at all. He was only five and thought it made him look cool. But you had real long hair, remember? And when I asked if you wanted to cut it shorter, you froze. A second later you said it would be okay, that if getting rid of the lice was easier with short hair then we could cut it. But I saw that freeze in your eyes first. You wanted to keep your long hair.”

I chew the inside of my cheek before answering, “I needed it. It helped me hide.”

Mom’s fingers still momentarily, but she continues. “I know. So we spent hours every night for two weeks combing through your hair for nits. Picking them out, massaging tea tree oil into your scalp after the initial lice treatment. It became our nightly routine.”

A smile springs to my lips, and I say, “I do remember that. Gosh, that must have been miserable for you.”

She chuckles. “The nit-picking was tedious, but I wasn’t miserable. Those hours gave me my first chance to get to know you. It let me prove to you that I would take care of your needs. But then after the lice were definitely completely gone, you kept asking me to check each night. At first, I thought you were still paranoid about the nits. But then I saw between the lines. You needed that continued point of connection, that safe physical contact. You craved it, even though you wouldn’t—or couldn’t—tell me that. One night, I suggested we sit on the couch so you could lie down while I looked through your hair so your neck didn’t get tired. And that became our new nightly routine.”

Memories of those nights illuminate in my mind. Years of those nights. Of reaching a breaking point by the end of the day because I was so overwhelmed by school and classmates and caseworkers and supervised visits—then experiencing my mind calm as Mom would play with my hair and scratch my head.

“I’ve never made that connection before,” I muse. Sitting up, I face my mom. “I’m sorry that I made you work so hard to figure out what I needed.”

She clucks her tongue. “Sammi, this is not something for you to apologize for. It was my privilege to study the puzzle pieces and figure out how you felt loved. Because I’ve loved you from the second you first stepped through that door.”

“I love you too, Mom.” Sighing, I add, “But apparently I still suck at communicating what I need.”

“How do you wish today would have gone, sweetie?”

Looking down at my crossed legs, I fidget with the elastic in one of my socks. “I don’t know.”

“Sammi, try. I learned to take the side door into your thoughts to figure out what you needed, but if you’re gonna have a healthy relationship for the long haul, you’re gonna need to find the key to unlock the front door. Try to think about what you needed today,” Mom gently challenges. “Did you want to go out on that picnic?”

Pulling my knees to my chest, I wrap my arms tightly around them. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . .” I sigh. “I know that Adrian was trying to distract me. He’s always making sure people are having a good time, and I love that about him. But today . . . I’ve tried distracting my thoughts before. Of course I’ve tried. But I can never . . . I can never get past the feelings.”

“Your body remembers, hon. You’ve talked about that with Amber,” Mom says.

“Yeah. I guess it’s exactly that. It doesn’t matter how much I try to think about other things—the rest of my body still feels the weight. So the whole time I was with Adrian at the park, my brain was working overtime trying to fake being okay when I wanted to be curled up in a dark room like I usually do here at home. It’s exhausting trying to convince my body it should be feeling something different.”

Mom nods. “Would you have liked Adrian to sit in the dark room with you?”

Blowing out a breath, I answer, “Of course I would.”

“Then why didn’t you tell him that, Sammi?”

“Because he had planned this whole thing, and I didn’t want to make him feel like I didn’t appreciate it!” I exclaim. Mom eyes me. “And . . . maybe because I was scared to let him see me in that dark place. I didn’t even tell him about today being hard. Griffin did. That’s why Adrian showed up in the first place. And look what happened. I completely freaked out.”

“You had a trauma response to a trigger of past abuse, Sammi,” my mom says, her voice no-nonsense yet warm. “Explain to Adrian. Help him understand. Because if you really do love him and want to spend your life together, you have to tell him how to help you. August twelfth is never gonna go away.”

Flopping back down on the couch, I lay my head on my mom’s lap again, allowing her to resume scratching my scalp. She sits silently, allowing me to process. I stare with unfocused eyes until they blur with tears again.

“I wish it would go away. Why can’t I get over it? I love you, Mom. I love being a part of this family. I’m so grateful for you. But I hate—” Choking on a sob, I ride out the heaves of my chest until I can continue. “I hate before. I hate that I still have to deal with this. I hate that my mess splatters all over people I love. You guys love me so much, and that should be enough. But I hate my life sometimes.”

Mom continues caressing my scalp as she says, “You are allowed to grieve the life you should have had, Sammi. There’s nothing wrong or ungrateful about that. Being very loved now doesn’t erase the love you missed out on when you were young. You’re allowed to grieve the way things should have been all along.”

Closing my eyes, I stop trying to stem the slow tears that trickle out, sliding down my cheek, my nose. I let myself feel overwhelming sadness about all the things I can’t control and can’t change about my story.

And I allow my mom’s gentle, loving touch to soothe me.