as her failure falls heavy between us , I can ’ t bring myself to tell her what she really is to me .
We struggle to make conversation . She tells me about her newest boyfriend , who doesn ’ t hit her . She asks if I have a boyfriend , the same question she has been asking me since I turned 10 , and I answer , no , no one special just yet . We talk about her education at The Greenhouse , an adult learning center , and she tells me that she is definitely getting her GED this year . I ’ m impressed by her using a word that ’ s been in my vocabulary since I was seven .
These phone calls aren ’ t mandatory . She has nothing to gain by calling me now that I ’ m adopted , but this is important to both of us for reasons I still can ’ t define . In the years I ’ ve been gone , she has broken up with Gary and gotten a job , moved from our row house and restarted her education . She is no longer the creature I knew who sat on the couch and quietly observed her boyfriend caning the backs of my calves , who left me to climb the cabinets for Cheerios each morning and dress myself in mismatched clothing . Amanda is also adopted and does not talk to her , just as none of her older daughters talk to her , and I am terrified that if someone doesn ’ t encourage her , she ’ ll just fall back to being a drunk on the couch .
“ I ’ m proud of you ,” she rasps . These words will never mean the same thing coming from anyone else . Within this country-accented house with its bright blue kitchen , Danielle ’ s Story is cut and dry — there was abuse , there was neglect , I was adopted and now everything is all better . She was the one there with me , holding her breath on nights when Gary raged through the house , watching me climb the bus to Headstart with dirty clothes while both of us wished she would do something about it . The same fire that cracked her forged me , and each day she lives the choice to give up that I didn ’ t make . In the next year she will quit her job and drop out of school , fall back with a man who steals her SSI checks , and I will apply to colleges . After her death I ’ ll find paperwork and see our shared diagnoses , General Anxiety Disorder , Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder , records of her multiple suicide attempts , and all of this will make so much more sense .
I ’ m proud of you , she says , and years later I ’ ll wish I had said back — I ’ m proud of you , too .
~
I am loud . Brassy , like the overzealous trumpeter in high school who played through the flute solo at Spring Concert . My friends are stunned and concerned when a voice gets raised and I melt into walls , so quickly becoming seen and not
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