“Phoebe”
A gray Honda minivan pulls up in front of the small girl, Phoebe, with eyes of a thunderstorm. Sunshine backpack on both shoulders and the peach hair of her ragdoll barely peeking out of the side where the zipper hadn’t quite closed shut. Standing in front of the large oak tree where a younger, happier version of Phoebe used to dance with the wooden swing that now rots on the damp earth. Her feet are now planted firmly on the ground. Her back faces a house on a crumbling foundation. The white paint peeling. The once magical yard—where a little and big sister would play outside until the sun went down—now quiet. The childhood that used to be painted with rosey colors and soft hues of gold glitter from birthdays. Gone. The scraped knees and dirty hands. The whispered secrets. colorful paint. plants. fairy dust. All of it erased with the chaotic scribbles of cornflower and manatee crayons.
Her older sister steps out of the car pursuing an embrace that Phoebe hasn’t felt in four years. As Ramsey hesitantly steps closer, Phoebe slips away and shoves past her open arms. Expecting a concerned inquiry about her belongings but before it even comes, Phoebe whispers that her backpack is all that she has left and all that she is taking with. Her vision narrows in on the car and the number of stomps towards it. So focused that she trips on the cobblestone path and smacks the slippery ground, the impact making her bite down on her tongue, the metallic tang of blood in her mouth. Only light scrapes and aching, but a sure promise of bruises to her knees and dignity. Her backpack spills open. A bottle of Lexapro rolls out beside her doll. Phoebe’s face flames and fingers tremble as she stuffs it back in a panic. So much hurt and drowning, but the tears have run dry. She escapes Ramsey’s attempt to help her back up. She tries to escape the thoughts that bring her back to her momma’s red, vacant eyes staring out the window, back to the now empty recliner where their father used to live, back to the pain. All the pain of leaving a home that already abandoned her.
Ramsey had been aware of it all, her being so much older and her being the shield surrounding their childhood. She was also the first to leave. The first to leave eight year old Phoebe after their dad died. The only visible bruises from her family now are the ones left on her heart and mind. Their momma tried to stay. But she too, eventually withered away. Gone along with the house and Phoebe’s childhood. The food ran out and the bills piled up. The calls went unanswered and the guests offering their company for a single night came and went. The happy pills and the beer bottles grew in number each day… Momma falling into Daddy’s old habits. Phoebe
became a forced observer of a life no longer being lived, left behind with broken shards of memory frames. Only twelve now and no longer trying to piece it together but still desperately clinging on to the pieces of a lost childhood and a broken reality. Holding on so tight that it is cutting her palms and yet no one notices the blood.
Phoebe slides in next to a carseat with a toddler who is supposed to be her niece. Her hands slip and fumble as she tries to buckle the seatbelt. After a few moments of struggle, it clicks into place. She releases a breath of momentary relief. As Ramsey drives the car away, Phoebe stares intently at the back of her sister’s head. She looks away only for a moment, sharing a distant and awkward glance with Ramsey’s husband.
She pulls her backpack closer to her chest and searches within its contents. Only three things, but three things that Phoebe has memorized. The familiar rattling of pills in a bottle. The soft, stained body of her ragdoll that has absorbed so many tears. She pulls out the last item and clutches it tightly in a fist. A friendship bracelet, worn and fraying. So dirty that you can’t even see the green and yellow of the strings that were braided together. The exact colors of dad’s once favorite team. Recalling the Green Bay Packers playing on a Sunday with dad in the cloudy recliner cemented in front of the television, empty beer cans, crushed, collecting beside him. Phoebe always wondered why her sister chose those colors. The friendship bracelet wasn’t even given to her but it was the only thing her sister left behind four years ago in the cigar box on the stained carpet of their now empty childhood room.
They drive down the Oregon coast and the car moves further away from home. Foggy water droplets on the outside of the car window, blurring Phoebe’s reflection. The humidity an electrical socket that had shocked her raw linen hair, creating a golden halo of frizz. The car already feels warmer than the one her and her momma would sometimes sleep in after daddy would kick them out in a rage. Warmer than the two lone people shivering underneath many layers, blankets, and the heat barely coming off one another as they sat close but never touching. Warmer than the house that they would have to come back to after a few nights, momma begging, daddy drinking, and Phoebe crying. So much warmth now. With Ramsey and her husband in the front seat, holding hands, and baby in the car seat, trying to feed Phoebe honey rice-puffs. Phoebe looks away. Her heart laid bare in her open hands, barely beating enough to keep her breathing, the weight of the past sitting on her lungs and the terrifying future desperately trying to say hello. She focuses on the pain. Her aching knees. All of the anger for the Ramsey she no longer knows.