palm reader would foretell the number of my children or my happiness or the length of my days, or some such thing – all the way past my wrist, halfway to the crook of my elbow. Four parallel lines. They ache even now.
I am so grateful for morning because it means a chance to do something, anything, to make me less jumpy and paranoid. I go into the kitchen and noisily begin breakfast at the first hint of dawn. The sun has barely risen and shines as brightly as it can through our old dirty window and faded lace curtains. I take out pots and pans and crack eggs and dip bread into vanilla and cinnamon-scented milk. I let the slices sizzle on the griddle with bacon and make coffee. I am being loud in the hopes that my household will wake up. I am being a chef in the hopes that they won’t kill me.
Israel is the first to enter my little sanctuary and I want to throw my arms around him. I am shaking off last night like the bad dream it must have been and am determined to dismiss it from my mind.
“Why are you cooking?” Israel yawns, taking out plates from the cupboard. He looks tired; worse, he looks like he was up all night. Perhaps we all ate something a bit off, a bit wonky, perhaps we all had terrifying dreams.
“Because I’m hungry,” I say happily. At least I am trying to sound happy; the truth is I sound squeaky which is an uncomfortable sound for a deep-voiced girl like me. I clear my throat and turn the kettle on for tea. Israel has spent most of his years in Europe and he prefers his caffeine in the form of tea leaves rather than coffee beans.
We don’t speak again as I flip the toast slices and add eggs to a pan to fry. My bacon is burnt and all my eggs end up breaking, so I scramble them hurriedly. I sip hot coffee from my favorite mug, one shaped like Elvis Presley’s head. Elvis is my very favorite artist and silence with Israel is one of my comforts and familiarities. “He is my rock,” I think to myself. Soon Meli and Will come in, and then Matthias and Harry. I serve them all, handing out little feasts on our best cracked dinner plates and making witless conversation about anything I can think of. I seem to be talking now just to keep myself from thinking too much, and it sounds like chatter to my ears. I even out-talk Meli which is remarkable in and of itself.
“Here is your English Breakfast, Is,” I hand Israel his tea in my other favorite cup, one with a fat orange colored cat pictured. I also have the same cat on a t-shirt, though Emme once tried to burn it after she claimed she only wanted to borrow it. I know better now than to believe her when she compliments my fashion. I had to cut off the burnt bottom just to salvage it, and now it’s so short I have to wear it under over-alls, a sort of revenge on Emme, so it worked out well. It’s a double whammy fashion disaster now, she says.
Israel takes the cup, but his eyes look concerned when the sleeve of my white nightgown falls back towards my elbow. He has seen my scratches. He reaches out and rubs them lightly with his thumb. “What happened?” He mouthed. He knows already somehow I don’t want to speak of it with the others.
I shrug as though I either don’t recall or it isn’t important enough to mention. I suddenly don’t want to talk anymore and I definitely don’t want to talk about my arm. It begins to throb again, and burn.
I eat, but the breakfast tastes wooden in my mouth. I wash my bites down with coffee but it tastes of nothing. I feel as though I want to jump out of my skin, especially the skin on my arm and wrist. I hear Meli and Will debating something, and Harry interjecting gentle admonishments to them. I see Prue come out from her bedroom and push my father’s leg off the coffee table as he snores on. I am aware of Israel watching me, looking perplexed. I see Dad finally pick himself up off the couch and fold his blanket neatly; fluffing the pillow he leaves behind. I see all this and hear all