Page 1 Page 2 Page 3 Page 4 Page 5 Page 6 Page 7 Page 8 Page 9 Page 10 Page 11 Page 12 Page 13 Page 14 Page 15 Page 16 Page 17 Page 18 Page 19 Page 20 Page 21 Page 22 Page 23 Page 24 Page 25 Page 26 Page 27 Page 28 Page 29 Page 30 Page 31 Page 32 Page 33 Page 34 Page 35 Page 36 Page 37 Page 38 Page 39 Page 40 Page 41 Page 42 Page 43 Page 44 Page 45 Page 46 Page 47 Page 48 Page 49 Page 50 Page 51 Page 52 Page 53 Page 54 Page 55 Page 56 Page 57 Page 58 Page 59 Page 60 Page 61 Page 62 Page 63 Page 64 Page 65 Page 66 Page 67 Page 68 Page 69 Page 70 Page 71 Page 72 Page 73 Page 74 Page 75 Page 76 Page 77 Page 78 Page 79 Page 80 Page 81 Page 82 Page 83 Page 84 Page 85 Page 86 Page 87 Page 88 Page 89 Page 90 Page 91 Page 92 Page 93 Page 94 Page 95 Page 96 Page 97 Page 98 Page 99 Page 100 Page 101 Page 102 Page 103 Page 104 Page 105 Page 106 Page 107 Page 108 Page 109 Page 110 Page 111 Page 112 Page 113 Page 114 Page 115 Page 116 Page 117 Page 118 Page 119 Page 120 Page 121 Page 122 Page 123 Page 124 Page 125 Page 126 Page 127 Page 128 Page 129 Page 130 Page 131 Page 132 Page 133 Page 134 Page 135 Page 136 Page 137 Page 138 Page 139 Page 140J u ly / A u g u s t 2016 133 Fiction By Deana Coddaire Amelia Connolly Coping Mechanism W hat are you afraid of?” my psychiatrist asks, and I hate her a little. I breathe. “We’ve looked at houses in Kennebunk for six months.” I speak slowly, as if to a child. “Nothing is perfect. Or we can’t afford it. Our current home is old, lots of character. It’s our first house. We’ve been there for 24 years. Our children were born there.” Dr. K tucks gray hair behind her ear, waiting. “So, uh…” Her silence throws me. “We’re thinking of building…but, what if…” My hands flap weakly. “What if…?” I know. It’s because my mother died, right? It’s what everyone concluded. One bright bulb actually said my brother “turned gay” for that reason. Who knew? An endless mental ribbon of anxieties unfurls: What if we buy a house and I hate it? What if we build, and make all the wrong decisions? What if John loses his job? What if something terrible happens? And then it hits me. The last time I moved from one house to another, some- thing terrible did hap- pen. And damn it, Dr. K could be right. October 28th, 1978. Moving day. I was eleven, and my siblings and I would finally have our own rooms—which meant sleep- ing alone for the first time. That night, I tip- toed downstairs. “Mum? I can’t sleep.” The television flickered blue around my parents’ door. “Up in a minute.” I scampered up the steep stairway on all fours (seemed faster this way) and leapt into bed. My mother appeared, and I wriggled happily. Her footsteps crackled the old lino- leum like bubble wrap. I counted steps: One- Two-Three-Four. She sat on my bed, chuckling. “What’s so funny?” I squinted at her face in the dim light. “This house is so big,” she said, her voice soothing. “Dad says I’d go downstairs from our old bedroom, and my footsteps went, ‘thump, thump, thump, thump’ to the kitchen.” I was already drifting. “Now, it’s ‘thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump…” I fell asleep to the thumps. That weekend, my mother went on re- treat with the church, and on Sunday eve- ning when I heard our Suburban’s burbling rumble, I ran outside. Moving far slower than her 32 years warranted, she climbed down from the driver’s seat. I burrowed my face into her sweater, inhaling that signature mixture of scents: Jungle Gardenia cologne, Winston cigarettes, and Dial soap. “Back to Bilbo?” I asked; we were reading The Hobbit again. She gave me a wan smile. “I’m sorry, Deana. I have a headache.” She rested her arm around my shoulders as we went inside. My father appeared and took her suit- case. They headed to their bedroom, and I headed to our china closet, which, inexpli- cably, was also our medicine cabinet. I grabbed the familiar bottle of pills and a glass of water and entered my parents’ bedroom. My mother was speaking. “–worst I’ve had.” She turned, squinting like I was the sun, and accepted my offerings. Later, I went downstairs to say that I, too, had a headache–a ruse to miss school. My father’s anxious gaze never left the limp shape of my mother on the bed, a dishrag over her eyes. “Take an aspirin and go to bed,” he snapped. The next morning, we were greeted by Dad’s sister, Sandy. As a rule, we only saw Aunt Sandy, Uncle Wayne, and my three cousins, Kelly, Kim and Koral (always spo- ken as one word: KellyKimandKoral) at their Christmas open house. We stopped short, agog. “Dad’s at the hospital with Mum–her headache got really bad.” She spoke quickly, no slivers of silence for questions, and add- ed that Mum’s best friend Marilyn was on her way; she’d be keeping us overnight. No school after all, I thought. I was lying on Marilyn’s couch–the re- sult of a tag-induced asthma attack–when my father came by later. Words drifted from the kitchen: “Meningitis…coma…life sup- port…” I understood none of this and lay quietly until he came in. “Mum’s still sick,” he said, looking elsewhere. “You’re staying here again.” Turning onto our street Wednesday, I knew something was happening. Familiar cars lined the street, announcing the pres-