Wrists

My mother’s youngest sister and my father’s sister and her husband came to visit that weekend. They hadn’t come to see us in a while, and they knew they would’ve have been able to visit near Thanksgiving, so they planned the trip the days before my recess. My mother and father tried to keep it a secret from the rest of us, but, let’s just say, Cheyenne and I catch on quick. My parents were terrible liars.

My mother’s sister, Aunt Jen, wrapped my sister in a tight hug first, dimples carving in her chubby cheeks as she grinned ear to ear. While she screeched on and on about how “big and beautiful” Cheyenne got, my father’s sister, Aunt Desiree, and her husband, Uncle Patrick, turned to face me. Aunt Desiree’s once joyful grin fell into a look of shock.

“Graham?” She approached me careful. I didn’t react. I was used to being approached like a wild animal. “You look so... different. Did you... lose weight?”

I shrugged slowly, avoiding her eye contact. It hurt too much to look her in the eyes—I felt the raw guilt and depression of betraying my family. I couldn’t deal with it; I felt like I was lying to them when they turned their warm gaze, stabbing them right in their fragile backs. I was the worst scum of the Earth. I just couldn’t handle it. “I don’t know.”

Aunt Jen and Uncle Patrick were now looking at me. Their stares were overwhelming; I felt like throwing up. Luckily, my mother appeared at the right time, holding a dishcloth in her hands, pruning from washing all of the dirty dishes. Her bright smile fell into a confused/concerned stare, her eyes running past every one's faces. “Is everything okay? I have dinner on the table.”

“Of course!” Aunt Jen’s face brightened again—she turned to face my mother—and tilted her head to the right. “Let’s go check it out!”

I watched as my Aunts and Uncles left the foyer room to enter the kitchen. Cheyenne gave me a very long look, hesitant, before she followed the rest. I stood in front of the front door silently, waiting for every one to get into the kitchen, before I carefully followed behind.



After dinner—which I had managed to slip by unnoticed—I lagged behind, in the hallway closest to the kitchen door frame, listening and waiting for my parents and family to talk. All the “children” (meaning, Cheyenne and I) and men were out of the room, which meant my mother and Aunts had time to talk among themselves. I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach about what they were going to discuss.

“Graham,” Aunt Desiree began, confirming my fears. “Is he... alright Anna? I mean—he’s lost so much.”

“So much what?” I heard my mother ask, pretending to be oblivious. But she knew. I knew she knew. She just wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening, just like everyone else in my immediate family. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until my lungs protested. I inhaled silently through my nose.

“You know,” Aunt Jen’s voice came. “So much... weight. Is that even healthy? I mean, last year he was—” there was a loud noise of washed dishes meeting the granite counter tops “—was... bigger. And now he looks so. So, different, Anna. Has he been ill?”

Bigger. I understood what that meant. That was the nice way of saying “large”. “Disgusting”. A “pig”. I felt myself stop breathing again, my chest tightening in the way it always did when I felt uncomfortable. I willed myself to stay there and listen, no matter how much it hurt to do so.

My mother was hesitating—I could hear the running water of the kitchen faucet as she cleaned pots. “Don’t worry too much about him, Jen. Desiree. Graham is in the childish phase where he just wants attention.” Small pause. “He’ll stop when he realizes we’re not paying attention.” Her voice raised at the end of her sentences, as if she was uncertain about that statement.

Either way, unsure or not, it hurt all the same. Just a phase. Who knows. Maybe. Maybe this phase started when I was barely 16. Maybe I’m still going through it, even at 18. Maybe I am starving for attention from my parents. Maybe she was right.

But maybe she was wrong. And she just wanted to believe that so she wouldn’t have to worry. My mother didn’t like to worry about anything or anybody but herself. It was always herself, from the beginning. Yes, mother, I’m in a phase.

Maybe it’ll end when I’m dead.

“Well... okay.” Aunt Jen said.

And that was the end of that.