Limp to the kitchen. The freezer's not closed properly, of course. Roll eyes, shake head. Get out the ice cream anyway; maybe it's at least drinkable. Spoon some into a cup (all the bowls are dirty, but Dad's still working and the sink knob for hot water fell off some time last Wednesday and it was a total accident and nobody's really to blame for it at all) and stick the carton back in the freezer. Make sure to shut it this time, because ice cream soup, while quite innovative, is not as good as the real thing.
Take the cup of ice cream, limp upstairs, shut the door, sit on the bed. Flex ankle, wince. Physical education-not a strong suit, but it can't be avoided. Unfortunately. The doctor said nothing's really wrong with it, but it'll be stiff, so. Try not to walk on it. (Walk on it all the time, obviously, because Dad's working and the bus costs money.) Sip the ice cream idly for a while, ignore the mountain of homework on the desk (teachers have been letting it slide, lately, but they won't for long.)
What's the appropriate mourning period for an eleven-year-old's mom? Three weeks? A month? More? When will it not be okay to turn in assignments? When will it not be okay to show up late to school without any valid excuse other than a mumbled "sorry?" When will it not be okay to get up in the middle of class and run to the bathroom, shaking and retching fruitlessly?
Don't think about it. Don't wonder. Drink more ice cream soup and go to bed with the lights on, with jeans on, with the covers off and windows open.
Dad'll come in and close them, and pull the blankets up, and flip the light switch. He'll sigh, and stand in the doorway, and maybe rub his brow and pinch the bridge of his nose and hope you're not awake to see it. Then he'll go down and pour himself a drink, and a while later his footsteps will be back in the hall. And he'll go to his room, and he won't think about it either.
It's just. It's kind of like everyone else in town has moved on from it, from this, from her. But Dad, he hasn't. And that's a sick sort of blessing, that someone else is still stuck in the misery and the darkness and the emptiness, that it's not just you.
But still. Don't talk about it, that's smart; don't think about it, that's better; don't feel it. (It's harder to do, but hey. You can manage.)
Untangle yourself from the sheets and stop shaking. Pretend it's okay, and remember to breathe.