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I sweep my eyes across them one by one, left to right, slowly, an agonizing crawl.
Gradually, the purple gives way to something else: a dark blue, then a light blue, then various shades of pink and lilac, with yellow beginning to creep in toward day ten, like a flower you didn’t know you planted that suddenly sprouts in a thicket of weeds.
But in there, too, in all that pulpy, changing misery of my face, is something else, and it’s in my eyes. They start out dull and ashamed, looking everywhere but at Tracy’s camera lens, and then they get more focused. They get clearer. As the swelling in my face goes down, my eyes get stronger, even as I’m having a hard time here. I stand up straighter in each photo.
Something is happening to me. But—
Holly is next to me.
“Oh,” she says, laying a finger on Day One. “I remember that. The first day. I’m sorry I said you looked like crap. I think I was just scared.”
“Me too,” I say. “It’s my face. Imagine how I felt.”
“You haven’t said,” she says quietly. “Like, how that happened.”
“Someday I will,” I tell her. “I promise.”
“You kind of look unreal,” she says. “Not in a bad way. But all the color. Like a painting. These look like little paintings of you, almost, but you’re the painted thing.”
“When you say it like that, my self-destruction almost sounds cool.”
“Do you want to see mine?” Holly says. She’s got them pressed against her chest. “I’m like Wednesday Addams in each one.”
She spreads them on the table above mine. It’s gradual, like with me, but you can see the difference as the days go by.
“What time are your parents coming?” she asks. “Can I meet them? My fosters are coming. I called. They promised. I had to beg, but they promised.”
Her eyes are gleaming.
“I told my parents not to come,” I say.
Her smile dies. “Really?”
“Really,” I say. “And it’s okay. I’m going to pretend it’s okay. They’d just make me miserable, and I’m miserable enough, you know?”
“I get it.”
“I’m gonna take pictures of these, okay?” She holds up her phone. “I want to remember all of them.”
I hesitate. “Are you…you aren’t going to post them anywhere or anything, are you? Because I’m not cool—”
“No, no,” she says. “I’d never do that. It’s just for me. I like to draw. Maybe I’ll draw from them sometime.”
“That would be okay,” I say. “I’d like to see that, actually.”
“When we get out,” she says. “We’ll hang out. Pinky-swear.”
We link pinkies.
—
Visiting is three hours, from eleven to two. They can eat lunch with kids in the meal room, take a tour of the buildings, see the animal pens, walk the paths, admire the gym, sit in the activity room and talk.
I keep myself busy in the kitchen. Most kids have peoplecoming, so the kitchen is a little understaffed. Fran and Chuck have stepped in to help make lunch.
“You okay, kid?” Fran asks.
“Fine,” I say. “I am, really. It’s better this way. The only person I want to see is my little sister anyway, but she’s too young to come.”
