RED HOOD

Six

I tiptoed downstairs, hoping to prevent the inevitable confrontation. Entering the living room, I noticed my grandparents in the same pattern as a decade previous. Thurston was on the same tweed couch watching sports on the old TV, and Nana was in the kitchen, cooking my old favorite, bacon and pancakes. It was as if I stepped from one decade of my life into the past, skipping the years between.

As I turned the corner into the kitchen, Nana looked up, surprised. "Up so soon? I figured you'd sleep until past noon," she said, her smile forced.

Thurston gave me an uncomfortable look.

I made a feeble attempt at smiling. "About last night—" I started. I had decided upon waking that I would lie, and admit to drinking. I would forego the truth. It was too unrealistic. Too impossible. I wasn't even sure I trusted what I remembered.

"Stop right there, young lady," Nana said. "You're going to sit down and have a good breakfast before we talk. Lord knows you need to eat, and so do I."

After breakfast, Nana had me help with the dishes before ushering me upstairs to shower and get dressed. She and Thurston were just as nervous as I was for the upcoming conversation.

My twenty-four stitches were painful, but somehow still less painful than my guilt at having scared my grandparents so on my first night back in their home.

I wrapped a plastic bag around the bandages mummified my right forearm, wrist, and hand. I could feel the sutures underneath screaming to be itched. I had to ignore it, and instead focus on my upcoming punishment, whatever it would be.

After showering, I slipped into a fresh t-shirt and jeans. Nana had laundered and folded my clothes, laying them out in the empty dresser with the rest of my things. Nana had placed the few other items I brought around the room and in the empty drawers. She wanted me to feel as at home as possible. I smiled at the thoughtfulness.

"What was I thinking?" I asked myself, surveying the randomness and sparseness of the items I'd brought. An old laptop. My iPod. A few books. And a few basic clothes. Everything else I'd left. Thinking back to the circumstances and the pace of my departure, I stopped stressing. I left my life behind. I had called Salvation Army, given them my address, and told my landlord they could have everything.

I was starting over. For a moment, I thought of a few items I should have kept. A few more shirts. Some movies and CD's. Some random jewelry and trinkets from over the years. Then I thought better of it. If I had to start over, I didn't need anything more than I could carry in a backpack. Everything I owned was just stuff. None of it would do anything more than remind me of the life I had lived before my mother had—

I glanced at the urn sitting on the nightstand between the two beds. The sunlight glinted off of it. I didn't know where my mom found it, but it had sat on our living room mantle for years. I always thought it stood out against our modern décor. Silver but dirtied by years of inattention, the detailing of ornate vines and roses was still exquisite. Intricate. On it, a small crest showed a serpent spiraling into the center of a circle. I had never noticed the details before.

I traced my finger along the sides and to the top. Inside was my mother. Or, what was left of the woman who had given birth to me. Now, she was a memory.

My eyes gazed away, flickering to the only other item on the dresser. A framed photo of four people. There I was, five years old, next to my younger sister Penny, both of us hugged on either side by our parents. We were all laughing and smiling. Of the four, I was the only one still drawing breath. It hardly seemed fair. I returned the framed photo to its place next to the urn, blinking away the tears that threatened to escape.