The Truth about Us by Janet Gurtler

okay.”
    She laughs. “Not so great, actually.” She waves a hand in front of herself. “Look at me.”
    I stop and take a deep breath, studying her face, remembering how many colors it was when she was in the hospital. Purple swollen-shut slits for eyes. Bright red puffer-fish lips. Green and yellow bruises.
    â€œI hate what happened to you,” I tell her and then feel terrible. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bring up bad memories.” Dad would kill me for saying this. I’m not supposed to say anything.
    â€œIt’s okay. We tiptoe around what happened so much. Like if we don’t talk about it, it will go away. It can’t be healthy.” She tries to pass it off as a light comment, but then she closes her eyes and stops walking. She wraps her arms around herself as if she’s suddenly cold.
    I reach for her hand and squeeze it. She’d been the strongest person I knew. Eating challenges for breakfast. Then she was lying in the hospital bed. Tiny. Breakable. She had a concussion. They had to keep her jaw shut so it could heal. She stayed in the hospital for weeks. When she came home, she seemed to have shrunk. Gotten smaller. Even after the scars were gone, the damage didn’t disappear. She changed. Of course she did. It makes me sick and afraid, scared to imagine anyone hitting me so hard that my skin bruised. Never mind three men hitting me over and over and over.
    I wonder what she was thinking while the attack was happening. If she thought she was going to die. If she wanted to. To make it stop.
    She breathes out deeply.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I tell her.
    â€œI know. Me too.” She lets my hand go. There’s so much I want to ask her. What does she think about when she’s locked away in her room? Do the drugs the doctors gave her make her forget? Does she take a little bit too much on purpose so they’ll knock her out like that?
    Her whole body deflates as if someone let the air out of her. “I should get home,” she says.
    I hold in new tears and watch as the birds return to their tree. A dog barks as we walk by Dayton Denton’s house. Penny, Allie, and I used to play with him when were little. His black Scottish terrier is lying at the end of the lawn. I remember bringing him treats so we could hide on their lawn during hide-and-seek without him giving us away.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she says, watching the little dog bark at us. “That you don’t have Penny anymore.”
    I nod. I suppose we’re both sorry about lots of things.

chapter ten
    Mom is in bed when I’m ready to go to work the next day, and I check in on her before I go. I stand at the door, my heart swelling, hoping I didn’t push too hard. I hate whoever did this to her. I hate that they’ve never been caught. I’d like to make them pay. I imagine it must be how my dad feels. All the time. Sympathy for him surprises me. I tiptoe over to her side, kiss her on the forehead, tell her good-bye, and leave.
    At work, I watch the clock, waiting for Flynn to come in, but soon lunch is over and it’s another no-show day. I’m bummed and take my anger out on the tables I’m wiping down, scrubbing as hard as I can.
    â€œDid you hear the joke about the roof?”
    I glance up from the table. Wilf stands in front of me.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNever mind,” he continues. “It’s over your head.”
    I stand straight as I get the joke.
    â€œEyes rolling,” I tell him. “Mine.”
    He grins. “They’ll fall out. I warned you.” He glances around the dining room. It’s cleaned up, and the volunteer who took his place during the lunch service has gone somewhere else.
    â€œDid you miss me today?” he asks.
    â€œYou look tired,” I say instead of yes , because it’s true. He does look tired. I throw my cloth toward a bucket of sudsy water at the work station beside me