Today is the first day we build something new. Today we start construction on the first new home in District 12. Families have been prioritized based on size, age, and health. The first home is for a young father with four small children. He lost his wife in the siege of the Capitol. He's not sure when or how. He turned around and she was gone. It was as if she had evaporated into the air. Probably a pod, although none of us want to say that. Those of us in the field know.
A special construction crew has been sent in from District 13 to provide guidance for the first few houses we build. We dig a base for a foundation and pour cement. I listen carefully and do as I'm told. We build the bones of the home. By the end of the first day, we are all exhausted.
"That's a wrap for today, folks," Thom announces and it's as though you can hear a unison sigh of relief from the crew. I drop my work belt in a pile with the others, but when I turnaround I don't expect a footfall under my own. I slam hard into the ground, skinning my palms and sending shockwaves through my knees. "What the hell?" I spit out, looking up.
One of the men from 13 stares down at me. He's tall, his shoulders broad and chin pointed. His hair is short and gray around his temples. He has a buddy directly over his shoulder, snickering away. "Oops," he says sarcastically, dropping his belt in the pile and turning away from me, leaving me bleeding on the ground.
"Katniss! Are you okay?" Peeta asks, rushing over. He squats beside me, worry flitting across his pale blue eyes. "Your hands," he says with concern. "What happened?"
"I tripped," I answer. It's not entirely a lie. It's not the whole truth either. Peeta's not stupid. He looks over his shoulder and sees the men walking away from me. It's as though I can feel him bristle like a rabid dog. It's not a reaction Peeta would have had before the hijacking. He'd feel an instinct to protect, but not a bloodthirst to avenge. His eyes remain locked on the men as he pushes himself to his feet with a quiet intensity. "Peeta, no," I say, grabbing the crux of his elbow. "I'm not some helpless girl in need of defending. I can take care of myself," I spit out. I don't like being treated like a victim.
I watch as Peeta tries to calm the fury in his belly. He knows that's not what I need. He takes a deep breath and looks at me. "Okay," he says softly, turning back into the worried boy. "Let's get you cleaned up," he offers and we start the trek toward Victor's Village. As we get closer I see a small crowd outside Haymitch's house. Haymitch and Effie, yes, but I don't recognize the visitor from a distance. A woman. Definitely not Delly. As we grow closer though, I realize the frame is one I know better than almost any.
"Mom?" I say in a small voice, stopped in my tracks only a moment before I take off sprinting toward her. "Mom!" I cry out, and her head turns toward me. By the time she processes it's me I've already thrown myself into her arms. "What are you doing here? I thought you were in Four," I ramble. I realize I'm crying and try to wipe my face, but my hands are raw.
"What is this?" my mom asks, turning my palms toward her.
"Oh it's stupid, it's nothing. I fell at the work site," I blather.
"Mrs. Everdeen!" Peeta says as he wraps her in his arms. He squeezes her so tight I think she might disappear inside his embrace, but the look of relief on her face is prominent.
"Dinner at Haymitch's," Effie insists as Haymitch shoos her inside the house, giving our tiny family some space.
"I need to clean this up," my mom says of my hands and starts toward our house. The house I don't go in. The house that's full of clothes and memories and things I ignore. I hesitate, but then force myself to follow her inside. Peeta takes up the rear. My mother walks to her medicine cabinet, meticulously lining up tweezers, alcohol, and ointment on the table. I sit across from her and lay my hands in her open palms. Her skin is so soft and for a moment I remember her stroking my cheek when I was a little girl. I see a Prim dart across the kitchen giggling and wild, wrapped in a towel and dripping bathwater all over the floor, my mother chasing her with a comb. This place is full of ghosts, but my mother isn't a ghost. Not anymore. She's tangible. Real. Right in front of me.
"There, done. Peeta, dear, will you hand me that gauze?" she points, and Peeta drops the roll in her open hand. "All set," she says and I look down. The bloody mess that was my skin is now sterile white cotton.
"Mom, what are you doing here?" I ask as she cleans up her mess, tossing bloody cotton in the trash, putting the ointment back in the cabinet.
"I wanted to see you," she says softly. "They wouldn't let me come earlier. There were still so many war veterans in serious condition at the hospital, but eventually they had to," my mother answers. She looks around her, letting her surroundings final sink in. Her hands shake and she hides it with busy work at the sink. "I should have called. I just… Katniss, I'm so sorry. I –" she tries holding it together, but this is the first time we've truly been together since losing Prim, aside from a few short words when she snuck into my hospital room. Her resolve breaks like a dam giving way to a forceful current. She wraps me in her arms and I can feel her body tremor as the grief overtakes her. "I'm sorry," she whispers.
I hold my mother with my gauze-wrapped hands until she finally calms down.
"Do you want to go somewhere else? Being in the house is… rough," I say.
"No, I want to be here. I've been so far away. I just want to be home for a little while. Somewhere that reminds me of her," my mom answers, shaking out her hands and running her fingers under her eyes. I don't know what to make of it. My mother isn't brave like this. She recoils and hides from things that hurt. She loses time. But my mother isn't the same woman she was when my dad died, when I got reaped. She's the woman who stood toe-to-toe with Mrs. Mellark and told her off. Who snuck into Coin's hospital room and slipped air into her IV. I always assumed I got my courage from my father, but I've never given my mother acknowledgement. How brave she must have been to walk away from her family and live in poverty in the Seam. How her jaw sets, her eyes temper when she's healing an injured or sick person. I've never given her the credit she deserves. I let a grudge linger in my stomach like poison instead.
"Why don't we get ready for dinner?" she says, taking her bag and heading upstairs.
"Are you okay?" Peeta asks when she's out of earshot.
"Yeah, it will heal in a few days. I just need to keep my hands clean," I say dismissively, although I know that's not what he's asking about.
"You're in your head," he says gently. He's right. I don't even remember her cleaning my hands. I don't know what was said between our hug and heading to her room. "Kat," he starts, but I walk past him and toward the stairs.
"I'm going to shower before dinner. Should I just meet you at Haymitch's?" I tell more than ask.
"I can stay if you want." Peeta looks at me, confusion evident in his eyes. "Um, yeah. Okay. I'll meet you at Haymitch's."
I finish walking up the stairs before Peeta finally leaves. I step into my room. It looks like I remember it. Everything around this house has changed, transformed, burned, rebuilt, but the house has remained unmoved thought it all. It's like a time capsule. In my bathroom I take a comb from the drawer and unknot my hair before showering. I find some pants and a light shirt in the dresser. I braid my hair wet and head back downstairs. My mother is fretting about the kitchen.
"There's nothing in the cabinets. We shouldn't show up emptyhanded," she says.
"It's fine. Haymitch is always emptyhanded when he comes to our house," I answer. "Emptyhanded, empty-bellied…"She doesn't laugh. "Empty-minded…" I add under my breath. My mother looks at me unsatisfied. "Wait here," I say and scoot out the front door. I walk around to the back of the house where a patch of fire orange tiger lilies have taken over the rear wall. I cut a handful with my pocket knife and bring them back inside. My mother seems gratified, throwing them in a vase with water.
When we arrive at Haymitch's I'm awkward. Everyone knows my mom, but no one really knows my mom. Delly and Rye arrive. Rye and my mom hug. I watch it happen like a bystander gawking at an accident. Delly also hugs my mom, who shoots me a look of comical desperation over her shoulder of bouncing blonde hair. My mother beams and brags about Peeta when he arrives. I sometimes forget how close they've grown – living together in the Village, Peeta's long haul in the hospital. I let a paranoia sink into my head. Maybe I'm the outsider –not her, not him.
Everything seems to be going fine until Peeta places dessert on the table. He made a cake to celebrate my mother's return home, but when she sees the icing flowers her eyes fall dead. She looks nearly catatonic, save a single tear that slides down her cheek.
"Mom, Mom," I shake her shoulder and she breaks out of it. She looks at Peeta, quickly swiping her hand across her cheek.
"I'm so sorry about your father," she says, and Peeta stills.
"Me too," Peeta says softly.
"Thank you," Rye offers.
We eat the cake and pretend like everything is fine. Like we aren't a bunch of half-broken people burying our grief in sugar, butter, flour.
We leave after dark. Peeta and I walk my mother home. He opens the door and my mother steps inside. I hesitate.
"I think I should stay here tonight," I say quietly, so my mother doesn't hear. I think I should stay here tonight.
"Okay," Peeta says supportively, but something under his voice makes my chest clench.
"It's just tonight," I make an excuse, but Peeta steps off the step.
"No, it's fine. I get it," he says, turning his back and walking away from me.
"Peeta!" I call out. He pauses, looking up at me hopefully. "Come to breakfast?" I ask. It's as though he visibly deflates.
"Sure," he answers with a feigned optimism, turning back again.
That night I dream of death. Of medical tubes and needles and choking and blood. I dream of dying and waking. I dream of melting faces and tongueless mouths. I wake panting and sweating, my sheets soaked. My hand shoots to the pillow next to mine, but I'm alone. I get out of bed and look across the lawn to Peeta's house. The light is on, a small puff of smoke escaping his chimney into the damp, summer sky. He's not sleeping either.
I creep out of my room and silently slip down the stairs. The lawn is covered in dew and my pajama pants soak. I run soundlessly through the dark until I reach Peeta's porch. I stand in front of the door, my hand balled in a gauzed fist, poised to knock, but I hesitate. I hear him pause inside. I hear him pad across the floor to the door. We stand silently across from one another, facing each other with a meaningless piece of wood between us.
Knock. Just knock.
I don't. You don't knock to enter the place where you live. Instead I put my hand on the knob and turn. Peeta's standing in the door, bits of flour on his hands.
"Hi," he says with a soft smile, but I don't talk. I step forward and wrap my arms around him. He closes me into him, his skin hot compared to the chill of night air on mine. And so I end up with flour in my hair, my clothes on the ground, sleeping in a bed that's becomes ours, not his.
Everything is ours now. The bed. Grief. Suffering. Love. Burden. Joy. Laughter. Food. Blankets. Wonder. Doubt. Everything is different, but nothing's changed. It's ours now.
A/N: Thank you all for your patience! I'm feeling much better. My cast is finally off and I'm bearing weight again. Finally sleeping through the night, too, which is a big help. I appreciate all the kind notes you sent. It definitely made things better.
