I watched her fall.
The branches snapping. The leaves shaking. The shriek. She lands. And it all went to fast. And all of a sudden Mum is sobbing, crying out “Summer, Summer” and Dad is staring and my big, brave, bold sister Ciara’s eyes are filling with tears and they are all crying out “Summer, Summer” And I stare. I watch them move forward to the closed eyes. Bright blonde hair fallen neatly, framing her face. Garland of flowers still neatly fitted onto her head. Chest rising and falling. No noise. Not a sound.
The ambulance was loud. Mum and Ciara and Dad were loud. The nurses were loud. Summer and I stayed deadly silent. I sat by her and tears poured out and gushed down my cheeks and dripped onto her pretty pale face but neither of us moved. And neither of us talked.
Then there was the stretcher. The mask fitted to her face and bandages everywhere and shouting doctors and nurses and rushing into the hospital and a teddy bear flung into my arms. The rainbow tye-dye dress whipped off her skinny body and a white hospital gown slapped on. Attached to machines and more bandages. Still I don’t make a sound. Neither does Summer.
Mum and Dad stayed by her side. Ciara threw a screaming fit and wailed, howling for hours that she just had to stay. I sat quietly by the bed and looked at her closed lids and pictured the sparkling blue eyes behind the eyelids. I touched the back of my hand to her cheek and swept her wispy hair out of her face. Later on at night I am lying in a strange, hard hotel bed still holding the teddy bear and listening to brave, strong, Ciara, who never cries, weeping to herself. I don’t make a sound. I pretend the bear is Summer and wrap my arms carefully around its waist, imagining soft rainbow cotton and long hair in my arms.
It all went too fast. I am back at school ,Math is happening and we are doing times tables. Normally, I like it but now I am sitting quietly and thinking about Summer. Mum is broken and sat at the dining table and held her coffee, bringing it up to her mouth, but never taking a sip. Dad is rushing to work and not talking and I hear him whispering her name. Today I will see Summer. We will drive for an hour in Dad’s big black car and I will not talk and Ciara will cry and Mum and Dad will silently think about Summer.
The visit went quickly. Mum and Dad talked to Summer but that’s silly because she can’t hear. Summer could understand me. She knew me. I sat silently by Summer and looked at her pale face and pretty red baby lips and brushed her hair carefully with a comb I brought from home.
My birthday is in a few weeks, and I will be 7, but I won’t get older until Summer gets better. I sit at school and Mrs Robinson and the lady-who-wears-too-much-perfume and the other councillor lady try and make me say things and I don’t, because I don’t like the lady’s perfume and I am too busy thinking about Summer. So I stay silent.
When we visit her today, the doctor and the nice nurse are saying things to Mum and Dad that are not making sense to me. So I sit by Summer, and think about her playing dolls with me and how she would always make up such funny stories and sometimes I laughed and made the dolls dance and twirl around the room. I cry more I think about it. I want to whisper to her, laugh with her again. When it is time to leave, I hold onto her hand, and I don’t want to let go.
Today I do more therapy. The lady-who-wears-too-much-perfume shows me flashcards of things I love, and tells me that if I say the words she will give me some candy. I don’t get any candy. But that doesn’t matter, because on the trip to see Summer I swipe some Mentos off the receptionist’s desk and store them safely away in my pocket. When we get inside, I open a Mentos and put it under Summer’s pillow. I whisper to her that when she wakes up, she can eat it. All that moves is her wispy blonde hair, swaying in the wind of the open window. Mum and Dad aren’t crying anymore but they do bring her presents. I saw a dress she was getting and wanted it but Mum said not unless I talked. So I didn’t get the dress.
I will be 7 soon. 5 years without making a sound. They know I’m not deaf because I can hear myself cry, and hear them beg me to just move my mouth. I think about Summer in class today, and picture the way her long legs would move so swiftly and smoothly up the branches of the trees. I think about how she would spring up and her legs would entwine the branches, and she’d almost walk up the thick wooden trunk. But I stop thinking when I get to the part where the branch is so thin, and she is balancing on her toes, and she squints in concentration, and suddenly, her foot slips and the branch snaps and... Mrs Robinson asks me why I’m crying and I say nothing and leave the room. I hear hushed voices saying that next year I will be in the “special class” Special is nice when you think of Summer. Special is not nice when you think of me.
Today when we saw Summer, it was the same as usual. It’s funny that you can’t see the pain that was painted on her face when she was falling. She can’t see the pain that is painted on my heart. Today we read Geronimo Stilton in class, and it was easy and boring but Mrs Robinson doesn’t know that. When it was my turn to read I dropped the book and walked back to the carpet, and sat down and wiped tears out of my eyes. Mum is drinking her coffee, but she is still broken. Ciara said Summer was a bad baby in her tummy and made her hurt a lot, and when she came out Summer wasn’t living very well. Ciara said that all Summer ever caused was pain. But that’s not true, because Summer is warm and friendly and inviting, and Winter is what gives you pain and sadness and makes you cold.
We did a worksheet where we described what the 4 seasons felt like. I thought Summer was nice, but she still won’t wake up so she is cold. When the receptionist said hello to me today, I wanted to scream because she still doesn’t understand that I won’t say it back.
When we saw Summer today, I told her in my head that I am praying for her and that God will save her. Mum says Summer is not dead. Mum says Summer is in a coma. They seem the same to me. All I want to do is say her name but I can’t. Everyone is talking, whispering, laughing, shouting, yelling, giggling, screaming, and I am silent. Silent like night-time when it is me and the stars. But if I look at them for too long they fall and Summer’s face appears on them and instead of warning her that the branch is too small, I watch her fall. I watch the stars fall. I watch Mum fall, onto the bed, into the chair, deeper into herself. Withdrawn into her own miserable face. Thinking about Summer.
I got mad when we got home. I threw my dolls across the room and I didn’t eat dinner and I scribbled on the walls with all my coloured textas. I made a rainbow with them. And at the end of the rainbow was me. Screaming. Shouting. Yelling. Summer. Summer. Summer. When you come back Mum will come back and Dad will come back and Ciara will come back and Summer I will talk for you if that’s what you want.
Today in hospital Summer was on life support. Dad got a coffee and Mum got a painkiller and Ciara and I got a juice and I threw it on the floor but wouldn’t say why. Mum will not cuddle me or keep me safe like she used to. Dad will not laugh at my funny faces. Ciara will not look at me with friendly adoring eyes and Summer will not wake up. I will talk for Summer. I want to talk for Summer. All I can think about it Summer. In bed I cry because I can’t say a word.
In school the people say “Crybaby” to me again and it makes me cry harder. They whisper it in my ear and they write it on my books and they etch it onto the side of the red plastic slide. The-lady-who-wears-too-much-perfume shouts at them when I silently show her the words written in messy handwriting on my books. She “did not realise such young innocent minds could commit such acts of cruelty to a poor child like me” Cry baby isn’t cruelty. Cry baby is true. I think about Mum the whole day and imagine her soft white arms wrapping around me, her long dark hair falling neatly over my head and shrouding me in a safe warm cocoon of nothing-ever-matters.
When I get home I open my arms to Mum but she sags onto a couch and says that we are getting into the car to see Summer. I silently struggle with her and try to wrap my arms around her waist but Mum is broken and I am broken and mad and I want to make noise for Summer but instead I throw my arms in the air and scratch the car windows and doors and this time when I see Summer I don’t cry for her cold body I stare at it and wish that she’d just. Wake. Up.
I’m a crybaby but I don’t talk
I love Summer so much that she hurts me.
The only thing in my twisted mind is Mad.
Angry at Summer and Mum and Dad and Ciara and all the ladies and Mrs Robinson and the people and the tree and the math and the tears and me and my stupid mouth and in my head it replays over and over and over again as I watch her fall.
We see Summer again today. It has been 3 weeks. 3 weeks since she climbed the tree. 3 weeks since I watched her fall. Just another 3 weeks of silence. Unbearable silence. If I could sing, laugh out loud, talk, even whisper for her it would be anything. The-lady-who-wears-too-much-perfume has given up on me. I won’t talk for anyone. I am too busy thinking about Summer, frozen, her hair getting lighter. Forgetting the sound of her voice. I stroke Summer’s cheek and softly brush her hair and watch as Ciara whispers to her. I cry like a baby because I watched her fall.
“Cry baby Cry baby” Is the taunting jeer that greets me when I enter school. “Summer, Summer” Is the awful whisper that greets me when I get home. If I could drag Mum and Dad out of their own skins they would see Ciara and I, struggling through each day. But no. All they see is Summer. All I see is Summer. Falling. In the back of my mind. And all of a sudden I can’t stand it. The silence makes me sick. If I could talk. If I could say a word for her. Anything. Anything. She won’t be able to hear. It will be silly. And I am Mad. Mad everyday. Textas and Barbies and Teddies and clothes thrown across the room with despair.
Mad walks into school everyday and glares and the people. Mad walks home and straight past unloving parents. Mad stares at Summer and despises her. Mad stares at Summer and loves her too much.
Today when we see her Mum and Dad cry for the first time in a long time. The nurses say things I can’t understand. Something triggers Ciara’s tears and I can’t understand it. I glare at the nurse in frustration. Next week is my birthday. I stay silent. 5 years in silence.
Everyday is the same. Mad follows the routine and watches Ciara beg Mum to go out to the store and buy us dinner. Mad watches Summer drop from the tree and Mad goes to therapy and Mad feels tears welling up in her eyes. Mad feels sick when Mad thinks of the silence. Mad remembers her birthday. 2 days. Mad visits Summer. Mad numbs the pain. Mad wishes for love.
1 day. The-lady-who-wears-too-much-perfume tells Mum that I am not getting enough attention. Mum is dreaming, floating through her mind with Summer, a dreamland where she is awake and everything is back to normal. I am not turning 7 until Summer wakes up. I am not doing work until Summer wakes up. I will talk for Summer, I tell myself every time I see her. Everytime I see her, I watch the branches snapping and her arms flailing and her hair whirling and every time I see her I stay silent. I am angry. I throw things across the hospital ward. The nurses struggle with my flailing arms and legs, trying to get a hold of me before I hurt people. But watching Mum and Dad so lovingly care for Summer sends me into a spiral of fury. I can’t stop it. I keep shoving Summer out of my mind as a fire burns in the bottom of my tummy. I don’t know why. I can’t tell why. The anger makes me sick and exhausted and tomorrow is my birthday and Mum and Dad are holding Summer so carefully and I am Hungry and Sad and Mad and Angry and there is nothing they can do to stop me. My insides rage, monster, caged, fire, terror. Mad is a monster and Mad feels sick and Angry and is so tired and a little string of vomit spurts out of Mad’s mouth but still Mad stays silent when all Mad wants to do is wail and Mad has lost control and can’t feel Mad’s legs. and.
Name: Sarah Allen Drew
Maiden name: Christie
Age: 46
History of medical issues: Yes
Psychological: Yes
Post Traumatic Anxiety Disorder
Anorexia Nervosa
Physical: No
Medication: tricyclic antidepressants
Type: trazodonetrazodone, venlafaxine, lorazepam
Name: Flynn Maximilian Drew
Age: 47
History of medical issues: Yes
Psychological: Yes
Bipolar 2 disorder
Physical: No
Medication: Mood stabilizers
Type: divalproex sodium, lamotrigine
“Parents with problems make kids with problems” They made me sit on this dirty yellow couch. They pushed me down when I stood up. They whisper to themselves. Something on the paper. I was thrown into an x-ray. They said they looked at my head. The man with the white coat counted down from 10. The man in the white coat told me to think of ice-cream. I don’t like ice-cream. I think about Summer. Lying there. Where is Mum? Where is Dad?
“Anorexia”
“No wonder she’s so skinny”
“That doesn’t make sense”
“No not the kid, it’s the mum that’s got it”
“A wonder they’re not divorced”
“She’s not in a special school?”
“What medication?”
“Hasn’t been taken”
“They’re unstable”
“Accountant”
“Lawyer”
“Unfit parents”
“Poor kid and awful for a teenager to have to go through.”
“So why doesn’t she talk?”
Snippets of conversation are all I hear. I don’t feel anything. Again and again. Summer falls. Dropping. Terror.
Summer could make me laugh. Summer was all I trusted. I promised her I would speak for her.
“Come on, just one word. Pleeeease.”
I shake my head.
“I know you can talk”
I smile.
She smiles.
“You can’t be 7 without talking.”
I shake my head.
“On your birthday, you will speak.”
I shake my head.
“Do it for me. Please. On your birthday. It will be amazing. One word. Pleeease.”
I nod. I’ll try.
She smiles. I want more of that smile. I’ll do it for her. I’ll talk. I’ll say so many things. As long as I get to see Summer smile.
Tomorrow is my birthday. The doctors are still talking. Mum and Dad are not there. Ciara is not there. I am thinking about what Summer said and I am a crybaby again with tears dripping from my eyes. I hear them saying that a normal family wouldn’t be so deeply affected by this. They would be worried, of course. But they would go to work, stay hopeful. They would talk normally. I want to tell them about Mum. About her Sister. If they knew they wouldn’t be so mean. I want to tell them what Dad said about his Dad. He said he doesn’t drink beer like the other Dads do because of Grandpa. Grandpa I’ve never met. I bet they’re talking about that he doesn’t drink beer. Summer always asked him why he didn’t. I have to talk. I have to explain. Mouth opens. Mouth closes. Talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk.
The man in the white coat comes up to me. He opens his mouth. Words come out. Deep, slow voice. Thinks i’m stupid. He grabs my hand, still talking. The words blow over me. Mad was a person who went to school and came home and wanted to scream. Crybaby was the girl who had a handle in her eyes, one touch and the tears would fall out. Summer’s girl was happy and wanted so desperately to talk for her. But I am not Summer’s girl and I am not Crybaby and I am not Mad. My heart is skipping beats. The man in the white coat is taking me to find Mum and Dad. Mum and Dad who I will hug and they will kiss me. Dad’s strong hairy arms will wrap around me and keep me close. Mum’s soft red lips will brush the top of my head. Mum and Dad who don’t care about me. The man in the white coat is steering me through a door. In a disgusting grey walled lift. Bright blue floor. Pale yellow walls. Youth ward. Summer. Summer. They’re taking me to Summer.
They’re taking me to Summer. To see Summer. I have to talk to her I have to I have to. The words are tumbling around in my head. Ranting raging screaming shouting. Swirling through my blood. Turning it from blue to the pale blonde of Summer’s hair. Tingling my bones. Snapping my veins. Bursting from my heart. It hurts. The pain. Summer is there. Her eyes are shut. Her hair is lying around her. Ugly white hospital gown. Ghostly pale. Veins and arteries sticking out from her veins. Chest rising and falling.
Beep. Beep. Beep. The life support machine shows her heart is steady. The X-ray shows my heart is steady. My head isn’t. If she leaves I have no one. Mad will come out and take over. Cry baby will come out and invade. Summer’s girl will slowly wither away. I will be trapped. In the centre of my heart. Sinking away into nothing. It’s all too much. Mad and Cry baby will not take over. I will. I will. I can. I can for Summer. My heart beat is mounting, climbing. Mum and dad are talking, Ciara is talking. The man in the white coat and the nurses are tending to Summer. Something inside of me is climbing up my throat. Grasping at the flesh. Stinging and stinging. I have to keep my mouth shut. Shut. Shut. Scratching at my teeth. It’s screaming in my ears. My skin is burning up. I am burning alive. The fire. Something is hurting me. There is a monster. Help. I need help. Help. The swim teacher said to cry for help. My mouth opens.
“Summer” The words explode from my mouth with the force of a tornado.
“Summer. Summer. Summer” Suddenly I can’t stop. She has to hear. Mum and Dad are staring. I am screaming her name. My lungs exploding from the effort. My voice is ringing in my ears. Violet’s voice. Violet. Violet. I am Violet. I am Violet and Violet can talk.
“Summer.” The longest scream. The loudest shout.
I am paralysed. Summer’s eyes are open. Staring. Staring at me. Her mouth is moving.
“Violet.” Summer says.
And I explode.
The branches snapping. The leaves shaking. The shriek. She lands. And it all went to fast. And all of a sudden Mum is sobbing, crying out “Summer, Summer” and Dad is staring and my big, brave, bold sister Ciara’s eyes are filling with tears and they are all crying out “Summer, Summer” And I stare. I watch them move forward to the closed eyes. Bright blonde hair fallen neatly, framing her face. Garland of flowers still neatly fitted onto her head. Chest rising and falling. No noise. Not a sound.
The ambulance was loud. Mum and Ciara and Dad were loud. The nurses were loud. Summer and I stayed deadly silent. I sat by her and tears poured out and gushed down my cheeks and dripped onto her pretty pale face but neither of us moved. And neither of us talked.
Then there was the stretcher. The mask fitted to her face and bandages everywhere and shouting doctors and nurses and rushing into the hospital and a teddy bear flung into my arms. The rainbow tye-dye dress whipped off her skinny body and a white hospital gown slapped on. Attached to machines and more bandages. Still I don’t make a sound. Neither does Summer.
Mum and Dad stayed by her side. Ciara threw a screaming fit and wailed, howling for hours that she just had to stay. I sat quietly by the bed and looked at her closed lids and pictured the sparkling blue eyes behind the eyelids. I touched the back of my hand to her cheek and swept her wispy hair out of her face. Later on at night I am lying in a strange, hard hotel bed still holding the teddy bear and listening to brave, strong, Ciara, who never cries, weeping to herself. I don’t make a sound. I pretend the bear is Summer and wrap my arms carefully around its waist, imagining soft rainbow cotton and long hair in my arms.
It all went too fast. I am back at school ,Math is happening and we are doing times tables. Normally, I like it but now I am sitting quietly and thinking about Summer. Mum is broken and sat at the dining table and held her coffee, bringing it up to her mouth, but never taking a sip. Dad is rushing to work and not talking and I hear him whispering her name. Today I will see Summer. We will drive for an hour in Dad’s big black car and I will not talk and Ciara will cry and Mum and Dad will silently think about Summer.
The visit went quickly. Mum and Dad talked to Summer but that’s silly because she can’t hear. Summer could understand me. She knew me. I sat silently by Summer and looked at her pale face and pretty red baby lips and brushed her hair carefully with a comb I brought from home.
My birthday is in a few weeks, and I will be 7, but I won’t get older until Summer gets better. I sit at school and Mrs Robinson and the lady-who-wears-too-much-perfume and the other councillor lady try and make me say things and I don’t, because I don’t like the lady’s perfume and I am too busy thinking about Summer. So I stay silent.
When we visit her today, the doctor and the nice nurse are saying things to Mum and Dad that are not making sense to me. So I sit by Summer, and think about her playing dolls with me and how she would always make up such funny stories and sometimes I laughed and made the dolls dance and twirl around the room. I cry more I think about it. I want to whisper to her, laugh with her again. When it is time to leave, I hold onto her hand, and I don’t want to let go.
Today I do more therapy. The lady-who-wears-too-much-perfume shows me flashcards of things I love, and tells me that if I say the words she will give me some candy. I don’t get any candy. But that doesn’t matter, because on the trip to see Summer I swipe some Mentos off the receptionist’s desk and store them safely away in my pocket. When we get inside, I open a Mentos and put it under Summer’s pillow. I whisper to her that when she wakes up, she can eat it. All that moves is her wispy blonde hair, swaying in the wind of the open window. Mum and Dad aren’t crying anymore but they do bring her presents. I saw a dress she was getting and wanted it but Mum said not unless I talked. So I didn’t get the dress.
I will be 7 soon. 5 years without making a sound. They know I’m not deaf because I can hear myself cry, and hear them beg me to just move my mouth. I think about Summer in class today, and picture the way her long legs would move so swiftly and smoothly up the branches of the trees. I think about how she would spring up and her legs would entwine the branches, and she’d almost walk up the thick wooden trunk. But I stop thinking when I get to the part where the branch is so thin, and she is balancing on her toes, and she squints in concentration, and suddenly, her foot slips and the branch snaps and... Mrs Robinson asks me why I’m crying and I say nothing and leave the room. I hear hushed voices saying that next year I will be in the “special class” Special is nice when you think of Summer. Special is not nice when you think of me.
Today when we saw Summer, it was the same as usual. It’s funny that you can’t see the pain that was painted on her face when she was falling. She can’t see the pain that is painted on my heart. Today we read Geronimo Stilton in class, and it was easy and boring but Mrs Robinson doesn’t know that. When it was my turn to read I dropped the book and walked back to the carpet, and sat down and wiped tears out of my eyes. Mum is drinking her coffee, but she is still broken. Ciara said Summer was a bad baby in her tummy and made her hurt a lot, and when she came out Summer wasn’t living very well. Ciara said that all Summer ever caused was pain. But that’s not true, because Summer is warm and friendly and inviting, and Winter is what gives you pain and sadness and makes you cold.
We did a worksheet where we described what the 4 seasons felt like. I thought Summer was nice, but she still won’t wake up so she is cold. When the receptionist said hello to me today, I wanted to scream because she still doesn’t understand that I won’t say it back.
When we saw Summer today, I told her in my head that I am praying for her and that God will save her. Mum says Summer is not dead. Mum says Summer is in a coma. They seem the same to me. All I want to do is say her name but I can’t. Everyone is talking, whispering, laughing, shouting, yelling, giggling, screaming, and I am silent. Silent like night-time when it is me and the stars. But if I look at them for too long they fall and Summer’s face appears on them and instead of warning her that the branch is too small, I watch her fall. I watch the stars fall. I watch Mum fall, onto the bed, into the chair, deeper into herself. Withdrawn into her own miserable face. Thinking about Summer.
I got mad when we got home. I threw my dolls across the room and I didn’t eat dinner and I scribbled on the walls with all my coloured textas. I made a rainbow with them. And at the end of the rainbow was me. Screaming. Shouting. Yelling. Summer. Summer. Summer. When you come back Mum will come back and Dad will come back and Ciara will come back and Summer I will talk for you if that’s what you want.
Today in hospital Summer was on life support. Dad got a coffee and Mum got a painkiller and Ciara and I got a juice and I threw it on the floor but wouldn’t say why. Mum will not cuddle me or keep me safe like she used to. Dad will not laugh at my funny faces. Ciara will not look at me with friendly adoring eyes and Summer will not wake up. I will talk for Summer. I want to talk for Summer. All I can think about it Summer. In bed I cry because I can’t say a word.
In school the people say “Crybaby” to me again and it makes me cry harder. They whisper it in my ear and they write it on my books and they etch it onto the side of the red plastic slide. The-lady-who-wears-too-much-perfume shouts at them when I silently show her the words written in messy handwriting on my books. She “did not realise such young innocent minds could commit such acts of cruelty to a poor child like me” Cry baby isn’t cruelty. Cry baby is true. I think about Mum the whole day and imagine her soft white arms wrapping around me, her long dark hair falling neatly over my head and shrouding me in a safe warm cocoon of nothing-ever-matters.
When I get home I open my arms to Mum but she sags onto a couch and says that we are getting into the car to see Summer. I silently struggle with her and try to wrap my arms around her waist but Mum is broken and I am broken and mad and I want to make noise for Summer but instead I throw my arms in the air and scratch the car windows and doors and this time when I see Summer I don’t cry for her cold body I stare at it and wish that she’d just. Wake. Up.
I’m a crybaby but I don’t talk
I love Summer so much that she hurts me.
The only thing in my twisted mind is Mad.
Angry at Summer and Mum and Dad and Ciara and all the ladies and Mrs Robinson and the people and the tree and the math and the tears and me and my stupid mouth and in my head it replays over and over and over again as I watch her fall.
We see Summer again today. It has been 3 weeks. 3 weeks since she climbed the tree. 3 weeks since I watched her fall. Just another 3 weeks of silence. Unbearable silence. If I could sing, laugh out loud, talk, even whisper for her it would be anything. The-lady-who-wears-too-much-perfume has given up on me. I won’t talk for anyone. I am too busy thinking about Summer, frozen, her hair getting lighter. Forgetting the sound of her voice. I stroke Summer’s cheek and softly brush her hair and watch as Ciara whispers to her. I cry like a baby because I watched her fall.
“Cry baby Cry baby” Is the taunting jeer that greets me when I enter school. “Summer, Summer” Is the awful whisper that greets me when I get home. If I could drag Mum and Dad out of their own skins they would see Ciara and I, struggling through each day. But no. All they see is Summer. All I see is Summer. Falling. In the back of my mind. And all of a sudden I can’t stand it. The silence makes me sick. If I could talk. If I could say a word for her. Anything. Anything. She won’t be able to hear. It will be silly. And I am Mad. Mad everyday. Textas and Barbies and Teddies and clothes thrown across the room with despair.
Mad walks into school everyday and glares and the people. Mad walks home and straight past unloving parents. Mad stares at Summer and despises her. Mad stares at Summer and loves her too much.
Today when we see her Mum and Dad cry for the first time in a long time. The nurses say things I can’t understand. Something triggers Ciara’s tears and I can’t understand it. I glare at the nurse in frustration. Next week is my birthday. I stay silent. 5 years in silence.
Everyday is the same. Mad follows the routine and watches Ciara beg Mum to go out to the store and buy us dinner. Mad watches Summer drop from the tree and Mad goes to therapy and Mad feels tears welling up in her eyes. Mad feels sick when Mad thinks of the silence. Mad remembers her birthday. 2 days. Mad visits Summer. Mad numbs the pain. Mad wishes for love.
1 day. The-lady-who-wears-too-much-perfume tells Mum that I am not getting enough attention. Mum is dreaming, floating through her mind with Summer, a dreamland where she is awake and everything is back to normal. I am not turning 7 until Summer wakes up. I am not doing work until Summer wakes up. I will talk for Summer, I tell myself every time I see her. Everytime I see her, I watch the branches snapping and her arms flailing and her hair whirling and every time I see her I stay silent. I am angry. I throw things across the hospital ward. The nurses struggle with my flailing arms and legs, trying to get a hold of me before I hurt people. But watching Mum and Dad so lovingly care for Summer sends me into a spiral of fury. I can’t stop it. I keep shoving Summer out of my mind as a fire burns in the bottom of my tummy. I don’t know why. I can’t tell why. The anger makes me sick and exhausted and tomorrow is my birthday and Mum and Dad are holding Summer so carefully and I am Hungry and Sad and Mad and Angry and there is nothing they can do to stop me. My insides rage, monster, caged, fire, terror. Mad is a monster and Mad feels sick and Angry and is so tired and a little string of vomit spurts out of Mad’s mouth but still Mad stays silent when all Mad wants to do is wail and Mad has lost control and can’t feel Mad’s legs. and.
Name: Sarah Allen Drew
Maiden name: Christie
Age: 46
History of medical issues: Yes
Psychological: Yes
Post Traumatic Anxiety Disorder
Anorexia Nervosa
Physical: No
Medication: tricyclic antidepressants
Type: trazodonetrazodone, venlafaxine, lorazepam
Name: Flynn Maximilian Drew
Age: 47
History of medical issues: Yes
Psychological: Yes
Bipolar 2 disorder
Physical: No
Medication: Mood stabilizers
Type: divalproex sodium, lamotrigine
“Parents with problems make kids with problems” They made me sit on this dirty yellow couch. They pushed me down when I stood up. They whisper to themselves. Something on the paper. I was thrown into an x-ray. They said they looked at my head. The man with the white coat counted down from 10. The man in the white coat told me to think of ice-cream. I don’t like ice-cream. I think about Summer. Lying there. Where is Mum? Where is Dad?
“Anorexia”
“No wonder she’s so skinny”
“That doesn’t make sense”
“No not the kid, it’s the mum that’s got it”
“A wonder they’re not divorced”
“She’s not in a special school?”
“What medication?”
“Hasn’t been taken”
“They’re unstable”
“Accountant”
“Lawyer”
“Unfit parents”
“Poor kid and awful for a teenager to have to go through.”
“So why doesn’t she talk?”
Snippets of conversation are all I hear. I don’t feel anything. Again and again. Summer falls. Dropping. Terror.
Summer could make me laugh. Summer was all I trusted. I promised her I would speak for her.
“Come on, just one word. Pleeeease.”
I shake my head.
“I know you can talk”
I smile.
She smiles.
“You can’t be 7 without talking.”
I shake my head.
“On your birthday, you will speak.”
I shake my head.
“Do it for me. Please. On your birthday. It will be amazing. One word. Pleeease.”
I nod. I’ll try.
She smiles. I want more of that smile. I’ll do it for her. I’ll talk. I’ll say so many things. As long as I get to see Summer smile.
Tomorrow is my birthday. The doctors are still talking. Mum and Dad are not there. Ciara is not there. I am thinking about what Summer said and I am a crybaby again with tears dripping from my eyes. I hear them saying that a normal family wouldn’t be so deeply affected by this. They would be worried, of course. But they would go to work, stay hopeful. They would talk normally. I want to tell them about Mum. About her Sister. If they knew they wouldn’t be so mean. I want to tell them what Dad said about his Dad. He said he doesn’t drink beer like the other Dads do because of Grandpa. Grandpa I’ve never met. I bet they’re talking about that he doesn’t drink beer. Summer always asked him why he didn’t. I have to talk. I have to explain. Mouth opens. Mouth closes. Talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk.
The man in the white coat comes up to me. He opens his mouth. Words come out. Deep, slow voice. Thinks i’m stupid. He grabs my hand, still talking. The words blow over me. Mad was a person who went to school and came home and wanted to scream. Crybaby was the girl who had a handle in her eyes, one touch and the tears would fall out. Summer’s girl was happy and wanted so desperately to talk for her. But I am not Summer’s girl and I am not Crybaby and I am not Mad. My heart is skipping beats. The man in the white coat is taking me to find Mum and Dad. Mum and Dad who I will hug and they will kiss me. Dad’s strong hairy arms will wrap around me and keep me close. Mum’s soft red lips will brush the top of my head. Mum and Dad who don’t care about me. The man in the white coat is steering me through a door. In a disgusting grey walled lift. Bright blue floor. Pale yellow walls. Youth ward. Summer. Summer. They’re taking me to Summer.
They’re taking me to Summer. To see Summer. I have to talk to her I have to I have to. The words are tumbling around in my head. Ranting raging screaming shouting. Swirling through my blood. Turning it from blue to the pale blonde of Summer’s hair. Tingling my bones. Snapping my veins. Bursting from my heart. It hurts. The pain. Summer is there. Her eyes are shut. Her hair is lying around her. Ugly white hospital gown. Ghostly pale. Veins and arteries sticking out from her veins. Chest rising and falling.
Beep. Beep. Beep. The life support machine shows her heart is steady. The X-ray shows my heart is steady. My head isn’t. If she leaves I have no one. Mad will come out and take over. Cry baby will come out and invade. Summer’s girl will slowly wither away. I will be trapped. In the centre of my heart. Sinking away into nothing. It’s all too much. Mad and Cry baby will not take over. I will. I will. I can. I can for Summer. My heart beat is mounting, climbing. Mum and dad are talking, Ciara is talking. The man in the white coat and the nurses are tending to Summer. Something inside of me is climbing up my throat. Grasping at the flesh. Stinging and stinging. I have to keep my mouth shut. Shut. Shut. Scratching at my teeth. It’s screaming in my ears. My skin is burning up. I am burning alive. The fire. Something is hurting me. There is a monster. Help. I need help. Help. The swim teacher said to cry for help. My mouth opens.
“Summer” The words explode from my mouth with the force of a tornado.
“Summer. Summer. Summer” Suddenly I can’t stop. She has to hear. Mum and Dad are staring. I am screaming her name. My lungs exploding from the effort. My voice is ringing in my ears. Violet’s voice. Violet. Violet. I am Violet. I am Violet and Violet can talk.
“Summer.” The longest scream. The loudest shout.
I am paralysed. Summer’s eyes are open. Staring. Staring at me. Her mouth is moving.
“Violet.” Summer says.
And I explode.
by: Heidi Foster
Love the end
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