Franny

The second time Matilda asked where we were going, my mother turned the radio up louder. It had been an hour or maybe two or maybe more — I didn't know because, at that moment, all I could hear was the tapping noise she was making against the steering wheel. We were stopped in traffic, which made her drum faster and harder, and then I felt it coming like a volcano about to erupt, the letters, mostly A's and R's sitting inside the rounds of my cheeks, readying themselves to pop out. Big and unwieldy, making my lips ache, but then just as they were about to slip past, Matilda reached over to hold my hand. I closed my eyes and thought about electrical storms. Matilda told me that I was born during one and that the first time she saw me, the lights flickered, and in that moment of darkness, my sister leaned over and whispered, "I missed you".

Like I had just returned from a trip.

I squeezed her hand tighter and she turned toward the window. I tried not to think about leaving our grandmother's house or how our mother stuffed our things into garbage bags that got so big and misshapen, she could barely drag them out of the room. I had watched as she packed the blanket my grandmother made for my ninth birthday. It was pink and soft and had a big F embroidered in the center. Now those garbage bags were crammed inside the trunk and I imagined my things swirled together tightly with no room to breathe.

The car stopped in traffic and the sound of engines rumbled through me. Matilda was still staring out the window and I could feel the letters slowly creeping back. They were steady and strong and constant and I wanted them to come and make everything happening fade away like the tiny dot on a television screen that disappears when you turn it off. Effortlessly, they slid across my tongue, this time smooth and silky and not bulky at all. I closed my eyes until they were all I could see, floating randomly, innocently in the darkness. Matilda took a long, exaggerated breath and, suddenly, the car came to an abrupt stop.

My mother pulled over to the side of the road and, as gently as if she was powdering her nose, folded into herself and began to sob. Matilda got out of the car and seconds later was in the passenger seat. Matilda and my mother had an alliance to which I was never invited.

The radio played. The car filled with the voice of an enthusiastic DJ commanding his audience to dial in and win a shopping spree at WalMart. My sister hovered over our mother, who was crying so softly that I was no longer sure that she was. Equally as quiet were the words she said when she finally spoke. "Forgive me."

F-O-R-G-I-V-E M-E

Alone in the backseat of the car, I broadened my shoulders and tried to convince my body that it was brave. Matilda's arms were folded across her chest. Even though sometimes it's hard for me to tell when something is wrong, this time I knew. I knew it when the fighting between my mother and grandmother got so loud, I could hear the words without pressing my ear up against the door. It was my mother's voice that was the loudest.

"There is no other way!" My mother yelled and then grumbled something that sounded like bullets being shot underwater. Their bitter exchanges continued over the next few days, my mother's voice humming like a sewing machine, chasing my grandmother from one room to the next. She was relentless until finally one night she reached into her purse, pulled out a brass-colored key, and laid it on the table. My grandmother swiped her arm across the surface, sending it flying to the floor, and then she ran out of the room.

That night their fighting was too quiet to hear.

Matilda and I stayed in the kitchen, watching television on the small black and white perched on the counter. We sat in red vinyl chairs until it was time for bed; we turned up the volume so loud that it made the air around us shake. In the morning, we acted like we always did. My grandmother was making toast and I remember breathing in the smell.

I wondered what my grandmother was doing now while I sat in the backseat of my mother's car, counting the number of times her shoulders bounced up and down. My sister reached over to twist the radio dial, first slowly and then faster, until all I heard were electrical bleeps and broken, cracked words. My mother wiped her face with her fingers and then pulled back into traffic. This time, instead of tapping out the rhythm of a song, she gripped the steering wheel tightly and focused with a determination that reminded me of a heavy rainstorm. We turned streets and passed neighborhoods that grew less familiar until finally we pulled up beside a small white house. We got out of the car, my mother first with Matilda and me trailing behind. I reached out to hold my sister's hand.

"Where are we?" Matilda asked.

My mother kept walking, as if she didn't hear.

"Why are we here?" Matilda now asked, this time the shake in her voice broke up her words and made it sound like she was out of breath.

"Everything will be fine," my mother answered as she used a brass key to open the door. "Just come inside."

How do I describe what I smelled the moment I entered that house? Simply put, I smelled art. It smelled of paper and charcoal and glasses tinged with colored water. It smelled of sweat and risk and inspiration. The old wood floors creaked as we inched closely behind my mother. She turned to us and smiled and then I heard a voice coming from the other room. It was soft and gentle and then the woman to whom it belonged entered the room.

She said her name was Leah.

Matilda stopped dead in her tracks the moment we laid eyes upon her, but she never told me why. Leah's hair had shards of light that glistened even though she wasn't standing in the sun. Her lips were the shade of pink that mine sometimes got after I sucked too many cherryflavored Lifesavers. Her voice was so melodic that, as she spoke, I got lost in her music and forgot to pay attention to what she was saying. Her name was beautiful, too. Like my mother's, it had a silent H, except the H in Therese's name hid behind the T like it was scared to be noticed. The H in LeaH stood proudly at the end, and if you listened very closely, it would make itself heard.

"You must be tired from your trip," Leah said.

Matilda stood in front of me. "Who are you?"

Leah smiled and then looked down at the ground. "I am an old friend of your mother's."

When she looked back up, I realized she was staring at me. I felt my sister shift so that she covered me even more. "Why are we here?"

"We are having a visit." My mother smiled and then whispered something to Leah, who then led us upstairs into a room the color of cucumbers. It took a few minutes for me to notice little painted pixie fairies on the walls — each standing on her toes and fluttering her wings as if she were about to go soaring around the room. I eased myself onto one of the beds and Matilda sat opposite me, her eyes fixed upon the fairy directly above my head. After Leah and my mother left, she came and sat beside me. She held my hand and we sat together, silently.

Side by side.

I don't remember when I fell asleep, but when I woke the room was caught in that space between darkness and light. The kind of color that makes you wonder if the day is just about to begin or end. Matilda was curled up on the bed opposite mine so I tried to be quiet, but secretly hoped...