A Family Called Happy by Rebekkah Goodman-Williams

Hearing their soft, muffled whispers behind me, I think for a moment, maybe things will change. I sneak a look back. My parents are hiking behind me, murmuring secrets I can’t quite hear. I let them have their secrets, I want them to. It makes them look like one of those couples in movies, the ones who walk everywhere holding hands, gliding through their own private world, whispering words only they are allowed to hear while everyone else watches, reassuring themselves they will find that love soon.

Only they’re not actually holding hands. But it’s close.

We haven’t acted like a family for a long time. We’ve looked like one to anyone who tries to tell, who wonders if we’re as happy as our smiles and brown paper bag lunches and spotless minivans lead them to believe. “Oh, we are that happy,” my mom tries to tell them. She volunteers. She works with kids. She wears waterproof mascara that hides her tears very, very well.

I hear my dad stumble behind me. I have to hold in a small laugh, not at his falling, but at this idea. My family, climbing a mountain. Hiking. Together. It seemed strange when my parents first suggested it. I had to suppress my first reaction to scream out “We don’t do this! This isn’t us!” But why should I fight something I’d said I always wanted? More time together. More talking. Isn’t that what this was?

Maybe things will change.

The soft reds and yellows of the leaves surround us, inviting us further down the trail. Hearing the rhythmic chirping of a bird nearby, I wonder if he, too, is whispering secrets to the one he loves. Or is supposed to love. Or tries to love.

I hear the shuffling of feet stop behind me. They’ve taken a seat on a large rock to the side of the trail, sitting awkwardly like children sit on the first day of class, waiting for someone to speak first and something new to begin.

“Sweetie,” my mom says, “Why don’t you come take a break over here. With us.”

I look around. Sweetie? She never says sweetie when we’re alone.

“Jane,” my dad adds, pronouncing the word slowly, like it hurts. “Just for a minute. Let’s just sit and talk.”

I walk over, aware of putting each foot in front of the other. Where should I step? Should I say something? Drink water? Wait?

I sit on a tree stump nearby, picking woodchips from the trail. I strip pieces of wood from each chip, peeling away layer after layer. My eyes focus on each rigid piece. I want it to be fascinating.

“Jane,” my father starts again. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you sooner. I’m sorry we don’t know how to tell you better.”

His voice trails off, unsure of where the next sorry will lead.

“Jane, we want you to know we love you very much,” my mom begins. She takes a deep breath and continues.

After the word “separation,” I don’t hear much else. At least not much else they say. I hear my heart beating, so loud I’m sure they can hear it, too. I hear my stomach getting tighter and tighter, gripping my insides like a hug from someone who squeezes too tight. I hear a million thoughts racing through my head, and I hear myself try to quiet them, pushing them out. I hear nervousness and sadness mixed with feelings of failure and hurt and regret, struggling to stay hidden while fighting to get out.

To get out. To escape. To a place where they can be free, run free, feel free. To a place where paper bag lunches and clean cars aren’t the only signs of happiness. To a place where smiles aren’t fabricated like a story or a lie, but genuinely discovered each and every day.

And I hear the rhythmic noises of a bird above us, whispering sweet nothings to the bird he loves. Really loves. Will always love.

Then the noises stop. Closing my eyes, I, too, fly away.