One Last Thing ✅

fifty-five things

Downstairs, Grams is curled up with a cup of coffee and a fat novel. The scene is so extremely normal that for a moment I almost believe that nothing has changed, that this is a normal Saturday morning and we'll laze around the house and watch TV and bake muffins and wait for the hours to pass by.

But I know that this is no ordinary Saturday. This is my last weekend of freedom before the arraignment. The thought is enough to seize my gut and kill any appetite I might have had, coming down the stairs.

Grams looks up at me, and her face breaks into a smile. "Well, don't you look nice?"
I blush.

After a long, hot shower, I'd decided to dress up a little. I'm wearing thick black tights with a frilly skirt I picked up from Goodwill two years ago, along with a Violet Crumble t-shirt and jean jacket. It's not the sort of outfit Grams would usually label as "nice," but I guess she considers me brushing my hair and putting on a little mascara a vast improvement over the sweatpants I've been wearing recently.

"I thought I'd go for a walk," I say.

She nods and waves her hand. "Go. The fresh air will do you some good."

I wait for a moment, expecting her to think about all the ways I could get in trouble and change her mind, but she returns to her book, brow furrowed. Relieved, I turn and let myself out the front door.

Once I'm outside, the wind blows my hair across my face. I stand there and stare at the trees, naked against the grey of the sky. In the past few days, they've finally let go of the straggling leaves. They look bare, unprotected. Vulnerable.

I start to walk.

Each step seems like an adventure. My feet could take me anywhere. I mean, not really. I'd have to stop eventually and rest, and I couldn't really go wherever I want because I have to be in court on Monday, but it feels like I could just keep walking forever. Wherever I want.

A little boy plays in his yard. He is only about six, and I wonder if he knows who I am. When I smile at him, he doesn't run away. He smiles back, the sort of smile that you'd give a nice person just passing by, not someone who accidentally killed her English teacher.

The playground is up ahead, the one where I go sometimes to escape reality, and I see a few people enjoying the day, despite the chilly air. A woman catches her toddler at the bottom of a slide. A couple of kids throw rocks into the wading pool, now empty of water.

I stand at the edge of the playground and take it all in—these people, here in the world with me. It's like we have that in common. All our lives are different, yes, but we have this one thing holding us together, even if it's just that we're in the same place at the same moment.

That's something, and it feels real.

A girl pushes herself dejectedly on the swings a few yards away, her back to me. Something about the way she moves seems familiar. She is dressed in a coat much heavier than the other children, and her head is covered by a woolen cap. My heart speeds to twice its normal rate when I realize who it is.

Harper.

Part of me wants to run away. Most of me, if I'm being honest. My eyes are already searching the park for her father, anticipating his accusatory eyes and bitter words. But I don't see him anywhere. And, despite the instinct to leave as quickly as possible, there is a nibbling at my heart to talk to this girl who looks so lonely, so haunted. So like me.

Slowly, cautiously, I take the swing next to her. Push off with my feet, let myself dangle until the momentum runs out, just like she does. Wait for her to notice. Which she does quickly.