Page 112 of Play Nice

It’s the hurt of my burn that pulls me into full consciousness. I turn off the faucet and lift my arm closer to my face, water dripping off my fingers.

The burn is pretty disgusting. Pink and yellow and shiny—the blister on the verge of eruption. Now would be a good time to have a charged phone, to Google how to treat a burn, something I should have done last night if I had been in my right mind.

I open the cabinets looking for a Band-Aid or ointment or whatever. There’s a tub of Vaseline that might be as old as I am. I get it out and set it on the counter.

Before I make any poor attempt at delayed first aid, I think better of it and just leave the wound alone. I peel off my dress and take a cold shower, emerge shivering but clean.

I wrap myself in towels and go back to my room, find some clothes to change into. My dance team sweatshirt, some Soffe shorts. I look like a teenager, but I feel about a thousand years old, my bones weary.

The cold shower was a bad idea. I’m freezing. Dad and Amy always blast the AC. I go out into the hall to fetch a blanket from the linen closet.

There’s a light on downstairs. They never leave lights on. Someone’s awake.

I find the fuzziest blanket available, wrap myself inside it, wear it like a cloak, and head downstairs, careful not to trip over my blanket train.

“Dad? Amy?” I call out, keeping my voice low.

The light is coming from Dad’s study.

What else is hidden in here?

Maybe the devil lives somewhere in the words “I know I shouldn’t.” Or maybe God does.

There’s a stack of photo albums on his desk. I lower myself into his comfy rolling chair and start to flip through.

Pictures from childhood. Leda, Daphne, and me on the first day of school. At our dance recitals. At Six Flags, soaked from a log flume. Leda at the kitchen table doing her homework. Daphne outside in the yard dribbling a soccer ball. Me posing with my hands on my hips, wearing a tutu as a shirt over a pair of jeans, a heart on my cheek drawn with red lip liner.

The three of us with Dad and Amy on a beach in Maui—our big family vacation before Leda left for Harvard. There’s a magnificent sunset behind us. It’s a beautiful photo.

I go through another album, where we’re all younger. Leda and Daphne in matching dresses, having a tea party on the kitchen floor in our first house. Me in a bib and onesie sitting in a high chair, frowning, green mush smeared across my face. Somehow, Mom isn’t in any of these pictures.

I slam the album closed, and Dad’s computer screen illuminates.

His password is written on a Post-it in his top drawer. Amateur hour.

I type it in, and up comes Chrome. His email. I open Google and check his search history.

Healthline. Symptoms of a nervous breakdown.

Mental Health Services NJ.

Behavioral Help northern New Jersey.

Psychotic episode.

Psychosis.

Genetic psychosis.

Delusions.

Can grief cause delusions?

Can grief trigger psychosis?

How do you get someone mental help when they refuse?

5150. Psychiatric Hold.