Coping (open)

They say you never forget your first Reaping, the first time your life hangs in the balance. People tell stories of waking early and seeing the fear in their parents’ eyes, of standing in their pens and clasping their friends hands. They talk of the fear and terror while waiting for to hear their own name. That might be so for some people, people who are far more invested in the Games than I am. I barely remember mine. I vaguely recall an apprehension followed by immediate relief and a quick trek back home to tend to Mama. Every Reaping since my first has been like that, with very little variation.

Until this one.

This time I recognized a name. This time I knew the girl. The Games hit close to home and they hit hard. I sat with my family, watching the opening ceremonies and the interviews leading up to Games. My heart broke for this poor girl, the girl from the market those months ago. The girl who was so nice, but so fiery at the same time. I worried for her two infants, wondered what happened to them by the time the final interviews came. I held out hope when she ran from the bloodbath on the first day, unharmed and looking for allies. And I sat and watched as her life poured from her in the Arena, spreading out on the ground as she cried out in pain, fighting back as best she could. Her cries will probably be with me forever, the sounds of her calling out to her family.

The days that followed were chaotic to say the least. People were hurt by what happened to the young mother from District 10, and they wanted to let the world know their pain. There were demonstrations and tokens given for Noreen Lexington. Almost all were anonymous and symbolic.

I, on the other hand, feel the need to do something. I remember what my mother would do when someone in our close knit group of friends lost a loved one, her own token of rememberance and kindness in a time of grief. So early this morning, I packed up a basket filled with what little food we could spare, some bread and cheese and a few pieces of fruit, and some eggs from the henhouse and set out for the Lexingtons’ house. I had to ask a few people earlier in the week where they lived, but found out easy enough.

The heat in the air is unbearable, even for early morning, and the wind does nothing but kick up dust and throw it in my face. It stings my eyes and filled my lungs, forcing me to cough and slow my pace until it passes. It seems that we haven’t gotten rain in so long, and the sun beating down on the ground has begun to make it crack and fall apart. I eventually pull the bandanna from my hair, letting the dark tresses tumble down my back, and hold it to my mouth and nose just to breathe easy. On my way down the path to their house, I notice Jack and an older man in the patch of trees for the town. The man was chopping, but Jack just stood there, staring at the ground. He looks so tired, so much paler than I remember. I can’t even begin to imagine what he’s going through.

I gulp past the lump in my throat and tuck the dusty bandanna into my dusty pants pocket. My heart pounds in my ears as I step up to the edge of the trees and clear my throat, trying to get their attention. I pray to whatever higher power there is that I can keep from crying in front of Jack. “Hello, Jack.” I don’t know what else to say. Do I mention Noreen? Would it be too painful? Surely it’s no mystery why I’m here. Awkwardly, I stand at the edge of the path, my eyes on my feet and chewing my lip.

The lump in my throat returns with a vengeance, making it almost impossible to speak. I raise my eyes to look at the older man with Jack, nodding to him and smiling warmly. FInally, I find my voice to answer him. "I'm well, sir. Thank you." Jack looks over at me like he's seeing me for the first time. Who knows? We only meet once by chance. It's not unlikely he doesn't remember me. Especially with everything going on now. By the time his voice finally comes through, it's so dry and scratchy I hardly recognize it.

"Yes. We met in the market. When I ran into you. Marisol. Noreen and I..." I trail off, realizing that I mentioned her. Inside, I kick myself for bringing her up. Maybe he doesn't want to hear about her right now. My stomach jumps inside me in agitation. I ring my hands along the handle of the basket held in front of me, the wicker digging into my fingers.

His next question catches me off guard. It's so frank and to the point, almost cynical. How do you respond to that? I stutter for a moment, trying to find the right way to say it. When the words come, it's a jumbled mess. "I- Well, yes but- I just thought that- I remember when Mama was sick, people brought food. To help us out a little. I thought maybe I could pay the favor forward." I fold the small towel back as I take a couple steps forward and hold the basket up to him. "It's not much. But I figured trading might be the last thing on your mind right now." It dawns on me that Jack might be cynical because so many people who barely knew Noreen have been visiting him. Instantly I feel stupid and drop my gaze again.

Jack mutters quietly and turns his body away. It takes me a moment to realize I can hear him crying softly. His shoulders shake, causing my insides knot up. His grief is overwhelming, threatening to pull down everyone around him. Just a glance at his father reveals tears in his eyes as well. My vision becomes watery, and I can feel the grief rising in my chest. But it wouldn't help anyone for me to break down here, so I swallow back the tears, forcing myself into the position I've been with my family so often. That of the strong one, the one that has it all together in any situation, no matter how things are falling apart around me. It almost feels natural as I set the basket on the grass near a tree and softly place a hand on Jack's shoulder.

"I'm sorry. Please don't cry." I'm not sure what I'm sorry for. Obviously it's not my fault he's crying. ZHe's crying for what he's lost, not the basket I brought. I can feel his back trembling under my hand, hear his quiet sobs. I wish I could tell him it would be okay, that things will get better with time. The hurt and pain and grief would dull and he would be left with the happy memories. But I don't like to lie. So instead I tuck my dusty hair behind my ear and stand in the hot sun, holding his shoulder in silence, waiting for the grief to pass.

I pull my hand away from his shoulder when he backs away, as if his shirt had burned me. His eyes are searching mine, asking for answers I can’t give. I curl my fingers in and pull my hand to my chest, awkwardly trying to find what to say. “I don’t know, Jack. I... I wish I knew what to tell you. It was just... It was random.” I doubt that’ll give him much comfort, knowing that no one meant for Noreen to be reaped, not even the Capitol. As he sinks to the ground against a tree, sobs wracking his body, I kneel in my spot, my knees folding neatly under me. I lay my hands on my dusty lap and just watch and listen.

“I know she was. My little sister and I watched the ceremonies. And the interviews.” It’s hard to think about what Noreen was going through in her last weeks. My instinct to protect my younger siblings is strong, but it’s nothing compared to a mother’s instinct about her children. I can still remember Noreen climbing the steps to the Justice Building, the dazed look on her face, the shouting from the crowd. I realize now it must have been Jack. A bead of sweat hangs on the edge of my eyebrow and I move to wipe it away as he asks me what I think about his children. I can’t help but think back to what I told Annabelle.

I look to him and give him a small, sad smile. “I think your children are fine, Jack. Everyone in Panem knows she had them. Before she went in the arena. She even told Caesar Flickerman in the interviews. The Capitol may be cruel, but they aren’t that bad.” I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the next part. “I think they’re alive. Maybe they’ll even send them back. After all, neither they nor Noreen did anything wrong.” I hope some measure of that got through. It breaks my heart to see anyone like this.