The foot thunder was so twenty minutes ago. Crazy as it was, it turned into actual thunder after a while. Like the universe lined up within itself and a storm wasn’t just in the house but also outside. I saw the lightning before the thunder. And when the thunder smacked, it sounded like it was right over my room.

That, at least, took away some of the sounds from downstairs.

But there was a serious problem.

The storm distracted me.

I left Wink behind and walked to my window.

It was dark outside.

I stood there with my hands gripping the faded rainbow curtains that my mother found at a yard sale. I really didn’t like rainbows, but my mother was so excited to find curtains that were kiddish and girlie, so I smiled and thanked her.

They also smelled weird. Even after she washed them a few times, it smelled like a cat had peed on them. But I didn’t tell her that. She had enough pain in her life, how fair would it be for me to add to it?

So, I stood with my hands holding the curtains, waiting.

When the lightning would light up the sky, my eyes got wider. Then the thunder would smack against the sky. It had me in complete awe, as though I had never seen a thunderstorm in my life.

It was nice distraction from what was happening downstairs.

It was too much of a distraction.

So much so that when my bedroom door blasted open, I thought it was thunder outside at first. Then I realized I hadn’t seen lightning. By the time I turned around, he was there, hands reaching for my neck.

I should have been in my closet. Holding Wink. Trying to muffle the sounds.

At the very last second, I ducked down and he hit the window. He broke it. His hands went right through the window. Suddenly the rain, thunder, lightning, and wind were all part of my bedroom. It was noisier. The floor started to get wet.

When he turned, there was blood on his hands.

“Bitch,” he growled.

I didn’t know what that word meant, but I knew he called my mother that a lot. So maybe it was a good word. But probably not. Nothing was good about him. My stupid father.

He reached for me again, and I ran toward the door.

My mother appeared in the doorway just in time to grab me and hug me. She spun me around and pushed me into the hallway. She looked down at me and smiled. Nothing about the way her face looked like it should be smiling.

“Go into my room, Hazel. Under my bed there’s a box. There’s pictures in there. And books of pictures. Look at them. Go to what you see. I’ll be there soon.”

“Mom…”

“Now,” she said.

I hurried down the hall. I didn’t look back.

But I heard my mother scream.

I dove into her room and slithered under the bed, shutting my eyes, wishing the storms would go away forever.

* * *

The door slowly opened. I was looking at a book of pictures about small towns. It was all random stuff. An old-looking pharmacy. A tall bank. A baseball field with kids playing. That kind of stuff. I studied the pictures for what felt like hours. When I heard screams, I pretended I was on the baseball field. Even though I didn’t have a bat or glove or know how to play baseball, that didn’t matter. It was my fantasy. And in my fantasy I was the best baseball player ever. Yes, even for a girl.

I poked my head up and saw my mother entering the room.

“It’s okay now,” she whispered. “Your daddy went for a ride.”

“To the store?”

“Yes. To the store.”

Later I realized to the store meant the bar, where he would get drunker and come home even angrier.

“Whatcha looking at?” she asked, pointing to the book.

She didn’t want me to look at her swollen face. I wasn’t scared of how she looked. She was my mother. She was always beautiful to me. What I wanted to do was kiss her. Kiss all the boo-boos on her face and make them disappear. And I always wanted to make it so they never came back.

“This book of stuff,” I said.

“Hey, look at this picture,” my mother said. She flipped the page to a field of yellow sunflowers standing tall, trying to reached their heads to the sun. “This is my favorite. Want to know why?”

“Why?”

“There’s something secret in it.”

“There is?”

“Yeah. Look.”

I studied the picture but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

My mother giggled.

I looked at her.

Her face was really rough tonight.

I got angry.

Why did this have to happen? What could she have done so wrong? Her meatballs weren’t the best, but still…did that matter? It wasn’t like he was ever home to eat dinner.

“Hazel, did you see it in the book?”

“No.”

“Right…here…” she pointed to a spot. “There’s a scarecrow. Hiding in the sunflowers.”

Sure enough, there was a scarecrow hiding in the sunflowers! Yellow straw stuffing and a green hat, which was why it was hard to see the scarecrow. The closer I looked, the more I saw. A potato sack face with button eyes. A checkered green and black shirt, half-hidden behind a super tall sunflower. It left my mind racing with thoughts. Did someone put that scarecrow there on purpose? Or was the scarecrow there before the sunflowers grew?

It was amazing. It stole all my attention and that meant it stole everything that was happening around me.

My mother slowly put her arm around me and pulled me close. She smelled different. Weird. She smelled like him. But it was my mother. Her skin, body, I knew it was her.

“See, in each picture there’s a memory. A moment. And there’s a story. You get to find the story. And tell it. To yourself. To anyone you see. The best part is that you may never know the actual story. So one picture can tell you so many things, Hazel. That’s what I want you to look at. What could be there. Not just in these picture books, but in life. Beyond what you see. Okay? When you first looked at this picture, what did you see?”

“Sunflowers,” I whispered.

“Right. But when you looked closer, you saw the scarecrow. So always look closer, Hazel. Don’t take it for what it’s worth. Promise me that.”

“I promise,” I whispered.

“We’ll get your window fixed, okay? For now, just sleep here. In my bed with me.”

“Can Wink come?”

My mother grinned. “Of course.”

“Can I keep looking at these pictures?”

“Of course,” she said.

“Can I have a can of soda?”

“Of course…not!”

I giggled.

“But I’ll bring you some milk.”

“And cookies?”

“A cookie.”

“Fine,” I said.

My mother hugged me. It was one of those silent hugs that actually weren’t silent. You know what I mean? The kind where my mother didn’t speak, but I could feel her heart pounding, I could tell she was crying, and I knew she wanted to say something. Probably tell me she was sorry about my window. About my father. About what he did to her.

It was okay, I suppose.

My mother left the bedroom, and I went back to the picture books. I started over and really started to study them. I found so many things I never saw before. I was so involved that I left the milk and the cookie on the nightstand. I was so involved that my mother fell asleep, softly snoring, as I kept looking. I was so involved, my eyes started to burn. I looked at the clock and saw that it was one in the morning. I never saw one in the morning. Only that one time when my stomach hurt and I threw up. I got to miss school that morning and ate chicken noodle soup when I felt better.

But this was different.

It was like my life was changing.

Two things came to mind.

One: I was going to do something with pictures as my job when I grew up.

Two: I was never going to let what my father did to my mother happen to me. Ever.

One of those things came true.