We Are Us

“Be home by midnight,” Mom yells, although whether Sadie heard, or intends to abide by her curfew, is anyone’s guess.

Mom comes back into the kitchen, empty wineglass in hand. “Thanks, hon. It’s nice having you back home.”

I fold the towel Sadie haphazardly tossed onto the counter. “Even when I fight with Sadie?”

A crooked smile wobbles on her lips as she leans back against the cabinets, swaying slightly. “Even then,” she says, refilling her glass. “So, now that she’s gone… Tell me about the boy.”

My mom is usually more interested in reality TV than actual reality. But every once in a while, she is cheerful and animated. An almost perfect replica of a sitcom mom, actively interested in her children.

I frown, not trusting this version of her. “What boy?” I never told her about Gavin, and I’m definitely not telling her about Tucker.

“I overheard you and Sadie.” Her voice is light, almost teasing.

“She’s wrong, Mom. There’s no boy.”

My mother huffs. “Well, hopefully you’ll find someone soon. It would be nice for you to leave there with more than just a degree.”

I think she means a ring on my finger. Or, at the very least, a serious boyfriend.

What I’ll take from Worthington isn’t a pretty bauble or a handsome guy. It’s not something to be envied or admired. It’s an experience I never expected to have, an invisible wound I don’t know how to heal.

Sometimes it takes a while to process trauma like this, and you don’t have to do it alone.

My resolve to keep everything bottled up inside me weakens. What if my mother is strong enough to lift me up, for once? “Well, there is something I wanted to ask you about…”

If I tell my mom what happened to me, if I explain the mess I’ve made of my life—what would happen?

“Yes?”

“Actually, never mind. It’s nothing.”

“Poppy, just say it.”

I’m squeezing the damp dish towel like a stress ball. “I guess… when you were… I mean, years ago, before we came to Sackett—”

She looks up sharply. “You know I don’t like to talk about the past, Poppy.”

“I know, Mom.” The food in my stomach has become a roiling vat of acid. “But, maybe when you were drinking or… Did anything ever happen that you regret?”

My mother stiffens, wineglass halfway to her now pursed lips. “What do you mean by regret?”

“I don’t know exactly,” I lie. Because I do know. Exactly. I just don’t know how to say it.

Setting her glass down on the table, she reaches for my hand. “Well, then—”

I suck in a breath and force the jammed words through my throat and out of my mouth. “I can’t remember, Mom. That’s the problem. I drank too much and I think something happened. Actually, I know something happened. But I just—I can’t remember it. Except that I can’t forget it either.”

“What are you trying to tell me? That you— That he…”

I swallow the heavy lump of shame rising up my throat. “Yes.”

“And something happened. Something you now regret.”

“Yes.”

She levels her gaze at me, lips puckering in distaste. “Blaming someone else for your problems is a dangerous thing. What did you expect, Poppy?”

I shouldn’t have brought this up. My mother has the same opinion now as she did two years ago, when our entire state was in an uproar about a football player and the girl behind the bleachers. A judge found him guilty of rape, but he only served a few months.

Gavin had been disgusted, I remember. But my mother, like most people in town, was upset that the boy’s bright future had been tarnished by a “ridiculous” accusation. She blamed the girl for “making a fuss.”

Was it really so ridiculous? Just because she drank too much, did that give anyone the right to lead her into the shadows, to touch her? Didn’t she have every right to “make a fuss”?

I want to argue with my mother now. To defend a girl I don’t know. To defend myself.

But my brain flashes a warning. Abort, abort, abort. “Y-yeah. I’m sure you’re right.”

Relief sweeps over her features, smoothing out the surface of her skin. In the Whitman household, a certain amount of sibling bickering might be tolerated, but difficult truths are to be avoided at all costs. Her shoulders lower a notch and she begins backing out of the kitchen. “Good, I’m glad that’s settled.”

“Yeah, me too.” Another lie. Nothing is settled.