Julia's Daughters Read Online Free Page A
Author: Colleen Faulkner
wheel. My thoughts drift from the Halloween costume on the floor of the closet to my daughter sitting beside me. Drugs? Now sheâs taking drugs? Or selling them? She didnât even attempt to offer a flimsy theyâre not mine, theyâre a friendâs . I know I should say something, I just donât know what to say. Tears fill my eyes.
âOh, Jesus,â Haley mutters.
I lean forward, pressing my forehead to the steering wheel, covering my head with my hands. Haley makes no attempt to comfort me . . . or argue. I hear her digging around in her backpack. When I lift up my head and glance at her, sheâs got her earbuds in her ears and sheâs staring straight ahead. She rubs her left arm, another habit sheâs developed since the accident.
After a couple of minutes, I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and shift my little silver SUV into reverse. And drive home with my Percocet, my marijuana, and my daughter.
Â
âWhat are we going to do, Jules?â Ben sits down on the edge of the bed. Our bedroom is dark, except for the light that comes from the bathroom.
Itâs after dinner, eight or so, I imagine. Ben brought pizza when he came home from work. I heard him and Izzy talking in the kitchen. Not what they were saying, just their voices. Then the sound of the TV. Iâm sure they ate their pizza in front of the TV watching something on the Discovery Channel. The one interest he and our ten-year-old share. Haley went to her room when we got home from school, where sheâll stay until everyone goes to bed. Only then will she get up and forage for food. Or maybe drugs from our medicine cabinets . . .
When I donât respond to Ben, he makes this sound in his throat that signals that heâs frustrated with me. Heâs been doing it for weeks. He doesnât understand the devastation of my heart, my soul. I know Caitlin was his daughter, too, but he doesnât seem to feel the way I do. About anything. He missed two days of work after she died. He didnât miss bowling league with his brothers or a single weekly Kiwanis club meeting. He said it was easier for him to carry on . What does that even mean?
âWe need to talk,â he says.
âI know,â I murmur. And I do know that we need to talk. About Haley, about Caitlin, about the state of our marriage, but Iâm not ready. Iâm just not.
âThereâs salad from Tony Oâs in the fridge,â he tells me.
Iâm lying on my back, my head on my pillow, my arm across my forehead. âThanks. Maybe Iâll get some later.â Of course I have no intention of eating it. I was always a little on the chubby side, particularly after having my girls. A size twelve, sometimes a fourteen squeezing into size twelve jeans. For the first time in my life Iâm not counting calories or trying to make good choices . Iâm on the dead child diet; just the thought of food makes me queasy.
Ben sighs again, but he doesnât get up from the bed to go back to the TV. I get the idea he means business tonight. In the first weeks after the accident, he came into the bedroom two or three times each night to ask me a question or try to say something that might draw me back into the normalcy of the life we used to have. As the days passed and I didnât snap out of it (Lindaâs words, not his), he began to come in less frequently. This is the first time heâs been in here when I was awake in days. Most nights, he stays out in the living room and sleeps in front of the TV in his recliner.
In made-for-TV movies, the kind Caitlin loved to watch, you always see couples clinging to each other after a tragedy. Sobbing together, the husband holding the wife against his chest, comforting her, but thatâs not real life. At least not in the Maxton household, though maybe it was a few years ago. I donât know.
I think we held onto each other after the ER doctor came into the little
âOh, Jesus,â Haley mutters.
I lean forward, pressing my forehead to the steering wheel, covering my head with my hands. Haley makes no attempt to comfort me . . . or argue. I hear her digging around in her backpack. When I lift up my head and glance at her, sheâs got her earbuds in her ears and sheâs staring straight ahead. She rubs her left arm, another habit sheâs developed since the accident.
After a couple of minutes, I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and shift my little silver SUV into reverse. And drive home with my Percocet, my marijuana, and my daughter.
Â
âWhat are we going to do, Jules?â Ben sits down on the edge of the bed. Our bedroom is dark, except for the light that comes from the bathroom.
Itâs after dinner, eight or so, I imagine. Ben brought pizza when he came home from work. I heard him and Izzy talking in the kitchen. Not what they were saying, just their voices. Then the sound of the TV. Iâm sure they ate their pizza in front of the TV watching something on the Discovery Channel. The one interest he and our ten-year-old share. Haley went to her room when we got home from school, where sheâll stay until everyone goes to bed. Only then will she get up and forage for food. Or maybe drugs from our medicine cabinets . . .
When I donât respond to Ben, he makes this sound in his throat that signals that heâs frustrated with me. Heâs been doing it for weeks. He doesnât understand the devastation of my heart, my soul. I know Caitlin was his daughter, too, but he doesnât seem to feel the way I do. About anything. He missed two days of work after she died. He didnât miss bowling league with his brothers or a single weekly Kiwanis club meeting. He said it was easier for him to carry on . What does that even mean?
âWe need to talk,â he says.
âI know,â I murmur. And I do know that we need to talk. About Haley, about Caitlin, about the state of our marriage, but Iâm not ready. Iâm just not.
âThereâs salad from Tony Oâs in the fridge,â he tells me.
Iâm lying on my back, my head on my pillow, my arm across my forehead. âThanks. Maybe Iâll get some later.â Of course I have no intention of eating it. I was always a little on the chubby side, particularly after having my girls. A size twelve, sometimes a fourteen squeezing into size twelve jeans. For the first time in my life Iâm not counting calories or trying to make good choices . Iâm on the dead child diet; just the thought of food makes me queasy.
Ben sighs again, but he doesnât get up from the bed to go back to the TV. I get the idea he means business tonight. In the first weeks after the accident, he came into the bedroom two or three times each night to ask me a question or try to say something that might draw me back into the normalcy of the life we used to have. As the days passed and I didnât snap out of it (Lindaâs words, not his), he began to come in less frequently. This is the first time heâs been in here when I was awake in days. Most nights, he stays out in the living room and sleeps in front of the TV in his recliner.
In made-for-TV movies, the kind Caitlin loved to watch, you always see couples clinging to each other after a tragedy. Sobbing together, the husband holding the wife against his chest, comforting her, but thatâs not real life. At least not in the Maxton household, though maybe it was a few years ago. I donât know.
I think we held onto each other after the ER doctor came into the little
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