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“There’s only one difference between the two of us, Dad…your truth is type-written in black ink on a newspaper article. Some might agree that a person of your stature and suffering from your disability can make everyone around them look like the criminals and you the victim.”
“Oh God, the article again,” Mom laments. “Haley, who gave that to you?”
“Billy Hoyt. His father came across it and then their daughter told everyone in school about you two.”
“That was the first time I had to cover up for our family. I was only thirteen and I had to come to terms with the fact that you had been lying to me about who you really were all my life. Even still, regardless of how hurt I was, I still wanted to protect you. I felt sorry for you. I felt sorry for myself. Then I felt scared of you, so scared I locked myself in my bedroom every night afraid one of you would show your true colors again.”
“What article?” Willa asks.
“It’s in the past, dear. It’s nothing to concern yourself with, I assure you,” Mom says, chuckling as if this moment could be confused as a laughing matter.
But I always have it on me. It’s proof to remind me of the difference between a truth and a lie. I pull the article out of my pocket and hand it to her.
“Go ahead, see for yourself who you were really helping all this time.”
Willa shakes her head as she reads the words and slowly glances up at me.
“Hales, this—I don’t understand what—what do you mean you had to cover up for your family when Billy or, Liam, gave you this article?”
FIFTY-SIX
THIRTEEN YEARS AGO
I can’t listen to the laughter outside. My windows are closed, and I can still hear their cackles. The newspaper clipping is vibrating in my tight grip as I read the lines over and over. How could they keep this from me? How could they do something like this?
The mirror on my closet door draws my attention and I step up close to stare at my reflection. How does someone know when their mind isn’t working properly? Did Mom and Dad know they were mentally ill before being taken away? I wonder if someone can look into another person’s eyes and just see that something isn’t right. People might see me that way, especially when everyone finds out about this article—my family history.
I look down at the article again, searching for a date. All this time has gone by, and it’s only now resurfacing. I wish I could believe this isn’t real. I glance at my small desk in the back corner of my bedroom through the mirror. The glow from the computer monitor pulls me over as if I’m in a trance without control over my actions. I don’t want to know the truth. I should already know the truth. This must be wrong.
With a few long strides, I’m sitting on the cushioned roller chair in front of my desk and swiveling my mouse around to open a new internet browser. I place the article on my desk tothe left of my keyboard and type out the article headline and date into the search bar.
My heart aches as I watch the mouse pointer turn into a spinning circle, waiting on the slow internet connection to bring me the results.
Matching images to the article show up and there’s a page full of articles with similar headlines but all from different news sources. It’s real.
My head swells with pain as I push myself away from the desk and storm out of my bedroom. The green digits on the microwave tell me it’s nine fifteen at night. Mom and Dad aren’t usually out this late.
I walk out the door and search the dark grounds outside, finding the group of teen boys still huddled together beneath the basketball net.
My heart is in my throat, thumping aggressively as I approach their group.
“Guys, guys,” one of them says.
“She’s here.”
“Yes, me, I’m here. You’re standing beneath my bedroom window talking about my family I assume, right?” I say, feeling the rush of anger lace each of my words.
“It’s not your fault or anything,” one of the guys says. “We feel bad for you.”
“No one needs to feel bad for me. The article you’ve all been passing around has nothing to do with me or my family. Whoever thought it would be fun to pass this gossip around is obviously blind, since those people look nothing like my parents. You’d have to be a real idiot to think they were the same.” I sound unsure of myself, nervous, unprepared to say everything I’m saying.
“It was Billy’s sister, Larissa, who showed everyone the article. She lives right next door to you,” one of the guys says with a chuckle. “Why don’t you go tell her that yourself?”
I step in closer to him. “Kyle, right?”
“Yes,” he says, taking a step back. The wide gape of his eyes tells me he regrets entering this conversation. “Thanks for the advice.”
“Su-sure, yeah no-no problem,” he says.
