Allyson In Between ✔︎

Chapter Two

|photo by Eathan Hood from Pexels|

There is a long list of medical reasons why I should consider myself lucky—and I swear I do. But. The reason I wrote them in my journal was so I could remind myself on days like today, when my sister is visiting and it's hard to hold onto that feeling. Especially right now, because I'm having a hard time convincing myself that those few moments of semi-normal behavior back in my room actually happened.

Lindsay takes another bite of her hamburger, and there's barely any interruption to the rhythm of her chewing. She's like a dead-eyed zombie cow. With a glob of mayonnaise clinging to her chin.

Mom must notice it too, because she slides a napkin across the table. The movement catches my sister's eyes. They shift to the paper napkin, to Mom and then back to the wall of windows across the room. But that's the extent of her reaction—if you can even call it that. There's no real acknowledgement, no change of expression. And Mom seems to accept this. Which is even more disturbing because this behavior, this lack of engagement is not acceptable.

Or at least, it wouldn't have been. Three years ago there would've been parental concern. And a barrage of questions. Am I the only person who can see how wrong this is?

"Allyson," Mom says. She waits for my eyes to meet hers so she knows I'm paying attention. "Is there something wrong with your sandwich?"

"Oh, um." I don't know. Because I haven't tried it yet. I reach for one of the halves, shooting Mom an apologetic smile before I take a bite. The food here is always good. And the grilled cheese with tomato is my favorite. But today it tastes like salted cardboard. And so my chewing falls into tempo with my sister's.

"Okay," Mom says. The word comes out like a sigh. Like she's surrendering to a battle she never even tried to fight. "We need to pick up the pace. I have an appointment this afternoon and Allyson, honey, you should be getting ready for your art class."

It's art therapy. And I'd rather spend my afternoon looking through my high school yearbook.

Mom rummages around in her cavernous purse and comes up with her jumble of jangling car keys. Lindsay's hamburger drops to her plate and she stands so abruptly, the legs of her chair grate the polished wood floor. "I have to pee," she says—loud enough to turn heads. And I almost laugh out loud—but not because it's funny. My smile is relief because this is the most Lindsay-like thing I've seen my sister do since the accident.

"Please hurry," Mom says. "I'll get a to-go box for the rest of your lunch and wait for you on the front porch."

Lindsay doesn't hurry. She scuffs off in the direction of the closest bathroom, which is in the tunnel-like hallway that stretches under the grand staircase at the mansion's main entrance. But when Mom and I pass by—after our leftovers are wrapped and the bill is paid—the tiny bathroom is dark and empty.

"Mom," I say, pointing this out.

Her face tenses and she quickens her pace. She opens the extra-tall, hundred-year-old front door and we're blasted with mid-August heat. But the stately brick porch is empty. Mom digs into her purse again. "She must've gone back to your room," she says, hooking a pair of oversized sunglasses on the collar of her shirt. "I have two more appointments tomorrow—both brand new clients." She delivers the new-client addendum with an obligatory smile, like she's forgotten she already told me the truth. Mom's life-long dream of starting her own catering business came true a little over a year ago. But it has grown too big, too fast. She was feeling overwhelmed, even before my accident. "We'll come up Friday morning. Okay?"