Rex told Willow and Asher they could stay home from school for two weeks after Rosie died. And then he told his children that it would be best if they could “return to normalcy.”
But this explanation meant nothing to neither Willow nor Asher. For Asher, normalcy was a word that had not yet entered his vocabulary. And when Rex looked at Asher for a reaction, Asher just smiled his genuine and toothless smile and continued banging his action figures against one another. And for Willow, normalcy was not something she could return to. She had never been normal, and neither had the world around her. She had never even aspired to normal.
Rex looked at Willow for a reaction, but she just whipped her body around and walked away. He didn’t understand her. Not at all. Not before and definitely not now.
When the two weeks were over and Rex dropped his children off at school that morning, Willow could see the awkwardness in the air all around her. She knew everyone had heard the news about her mother. She knew everyone was talking about the news behind cupped hands in the hallways.
This was undeniable when, as Willow walked through the front door of Robert Kansas Elementary School, Patricia and Amanda, with matching blond hair, matching pink skirts and matching pointers, extended those fingers directly at Willow.
Willow’s knee buckled and her black Converse squeaked against the green linoleum. But she just readjusted her backpack and kept on walking as she turned heads more than she ever had before. Because the girl with the dead mom was back at school.
* * *
As more time passed, Willow noticed that there were two primary responses to the girl with the dead mom: sympathy and fear. And Willow had to deal with the sympathizers and the fearers over and over and over again.
The sympathizers were the group of moms with black cars and white T-shirts. And also some teachers who previously ignored Willow, even when she had her hand raised and the correct answer on the tip of her tongue. And also the lunch lady who previously refused to give her an extra cookie even though she gave one to Jackie Milham, who was only two girls in front of her in line.
The sympathizers ran right over to Willow with waving arms and forced frowns. They bent down in front of her with creases in their foreheads and the corners of their lips turned down, but not a trace of empathy in their eyes.
“We are so sorry about your mom,” they would say. The volume of the “so” was an eight.
“If you ever need anything, you call me anytime, okay?” They said “anything” at a ten. And then they would draw Willow forcefully into their chests and rub her back in big rounded circles.
And it was all crap.
Willow saw how these women looked at her mother when Rosie would turn the corner in her Lili Von. She knew what they thought about the bright blue color and the googly eyes. She saw how they shook their heads disdainfully when her mother turned the music up and rolled down the windows. She saw how they rolled their eyes when her mother knocked on the classroom door and said, “I need Willow for ummm an appointment.”
Sympathy had caused the histrionics of falling arms and melodramatic frowns, but Willow would have much preferred quieter empathy. Eyes that actually had sadness in them. A hug that actually meant she could call anytime. From anyone. Anyone at all.
And then there was everyone else. And everyone else was a fearer.
They were the rest of the teachers and staff at Robert Kansas Elementary School. All of the other fifth graders in her class. Even Alexandra, who she thought might be a friend after she helped her with her necklace. Willow could feel all of their stares burning into her. All the time. When she was sitting or doing her word searches or eating her lunch. Or even just breathing.
And when Willow would turn around, she would catch the fearers staring into her, unable to blink. And maybe it was because they had never known someone who had been so close to someone who was now dead. Maybe it was because they expected some sort of physical manifestation of grief. A face that twisted with sadness. A big black band on her arm to commemorate her loss. And even though Willow knew those things didn’t exist, the fearers scanned her body for it relentlessly.
Fear had caused them to stare intensely at Willow when she was doing the banal activities she had always done. But Willow would have much preferred a warmer empathy. Someone to ask “How are you?” Or “Are you thinking about Mom today?”
Or anything. From anyone. Anyone at all.
More than anything else, Willow wanted the sympathizers and the fearers to just go away. She wanted it all to go away. But when she thought more about it, Willow considered that those hugs from the white T-shirt ponytail moms still felt good. It felt good to be hugged and cradled for even a millisecond. It felt good to have her back rubbed. It felt nice even if Willow wasn’t hugging back. And even it was from those other moms who never really liked her real mom.