There Mother stood, a bundle in her arms. Her giant, round belly had disappeared. Her blue eyes appeared flat, with dark circles beneath them. Her dark hair was messy like a bird’s nest, as if she hadn’t brushed it in days. She was surrounded by bags and strange contraptions. I stepped over a chair with no legs as I moved toward her.

“There’s my girl.” My father leaned down and grabbed me in his arms. “You hungry, doll?”

I wiggled, shaking my head. He returned me to the floor, and I stood on my tippy-toes to try and see what she was holding. Sunlight reflected off the snow, sending sparkles through the window and onto my mother. The wind howled and the house responded with creaks and moans.

My father made his way to the kitchen. Pots began clanging as he prepared lunch.

“Grace, this is your sister.” My mother knelt so I could look at the creature swaddled in a white blanket with pink rabbits. “Her name’s Annabelle.”

Her eyes were closed, her face squished as if she were already filled with disdain for the world. A quiet gurgle escaped her mouth as it curled into an O. Her brown eyes opened for a second and she looked at me. I reached out to touch her tiny hand, but upon impact withdrew in surprise. It was warm.

Chapter 9

For as long as I could remember, I had a debilitating aversion to most fabrics and noises. My parents often joked that I was tactilely and onomatopoeically challenged.

I couldn’t handle nylon. Polyester gave me cold shivers. Rayon made my teeth clench. I didn’t like hugs or being touched on the back. I once fainted when someone accidentally rubbed two pieces of Styrofoam together in front of me. I had to cover my ears whenever a student made their way to the front of the classroom to sharpen their pencil with the mounted rotary sharpener. If I even thought about the squeak, the soft spot behind my knees went wobbly.

The first night I spent at Jack’s place, I couldn’t sleep. His striped sheets were made of flannel, and they were knobbed from years of wear. I lay on my back, fully clothed in a cotton gingham pajama set, with my hands on my chest like a corpse, trying not to accidentally touch anything. Jack’s face was pressed into the pillow, inches from me.

He twitched, like a koala that suddenly felt it might be falling from a tree, and his arm shot against me. At that moment, he must have remembered I was there. He squeezed my thigh and moved even closer, kicking his leg up and draping it over me. In the process, his foot caught on the leg of my pants. He scraped me with his toenail and then exposed my ankles to the sheets. I could feel crumbs at the bottom of the bed.

Unable to bear it for another second, I shot to my feet. Jack blinked his sleepy eyes open, trying to focus on me in the dark. He cleared his throat, his voice thick. “What’s wrong?”