When she was 8, her mother firmly told her she could not get a dog, not now, and not while she lived in her parent’s house.
She continued to dream of a world in which she did not lie in bed by herself every night, talking to her stuffed animals about her day.
She did not dream of friends,
nor of people who could respond to her pain.
She did not want a response, she wanted unknowing, unconditional love.
A love not like that of her parents, that depended on her happily doing her chores, going to bed on time, and not crying herself to sleep at night.
She could not hide a dog like she could hide her emptiness;
paw prints and dog hair were a lot more obvious than voided stares and a longing to be understood despite what she does.
8-year-old girls are weird and it could be left at that.
Instead of having sleepovers like all of the other girls in her second-grade class, she spends her Saturdays sitting by her window, watching as more flowers appear in the yard every day.
She listens to the birds quickly chirping to one another and on days when she hasn’t spoken much at all, she chirps back.
Her parents notice and buy her a book on local bird species.
And on the Tuesday before summer starts, she notices a bunny biting at the bushes her mother had spent all morning trimming.
She watches as it hurriedly munches, eyes bouncing around. It hops away a few minutes later and she presses her hand to her window, wanting to hop away with it.
That night, when her mother tells her to eat her salad, she thinks of the bunny who survives off of salads, and she happily tears through hers.
If she can bond with the bunny over their shared love of vegetables, maybe then it’ll keep coming back.
The next day, after school, she rushes through her house to get to her window, face pressed to the glass to see if the bunny has come by for food again.
Her father comes in to ask about her homework and she tells him she doesn’t have any.
It’s a lie but she’ll get it done after she sees the bunny again. He leaves her alone to stare outside. She wonders if this is what having friends is like.
She waits until dinner time and she still hasn’t seen it.
When she sits at the table she asks for some carrots to go with her soup.
Her mother gives them to her and asks if she wants to have a sleepover this weekend with a girl who lives down the street.
She thinks of the bunny who might go hungry and says no. The girl down the street wouldn’t accept the way she dreams of being free.
Her parents sigh and share a look but don’t push further.
On Friday, she still hasn’t seen the rabbit again so she takes the carrots she’d hidden in her dresser drawers, races through her house, out the front door, and spreads them out in front of her window. She hopes the bunny understands that it’s not just food, but rather a promise of friendship.
Saturday comes and when she wakes up, she quickly goes to sit in front of her window.
A long while later, she sees the rabbit approach through the neighbor’s yard, skittish in the same way she is.
Its nose wiggles in the air and it notices the slightly rotted carrots she laid out for it.
While it eats them, she decides to name it Carrie.
That night, as she drifts off to sleep with her head pressed against her window, she thinks of her new friend watching over her. The thought is more comforting than her favorite blanket.
She gets in trouble often for not sleeping in her bed but she doesn’t want Carrie to be lonely at night.
She continues to sneak vegetables off her plate and talks to Carrie about her day, even when she’s not there. Their bond is strong enough that it connects them no matter where they are.
Her parents continue to try and set up sleepovers and play dates with their friend’s kids but she always turns them down.
She craves spending time with Carrie.
She tells her parents about her but lets them assume it’s a new girl in her class so that they’ll stop being so concerned about her.
When she lays down at night, the aching that used to press her down into her mattress is gone, instead replaced with hopes that she’ll see Carrie again the next day.
Her parents take her to her school counselor, telling him about how she barely talks to anyone anymore, how she spends all of her time outside of school pressed up against her window, and how she was lying about being friends with a girl named Carrie.
She shrinks and slides further and further down in her seat the more they talk about her. She thinks about Carrie, knowing that she is with her even though she can’t see her.
The counselor asks to talk to her alone.
“Hi,” he says.
She wishes Carrie carry her away to wherever it is she goes when she isn’t outside her window.
“Is Carrie an imaginary friend?”
She did not make Carrie up. She is real and she is missing her right now.
“Well, who is Carrie then?”
She tells him.
His smile softens and dips a bit at the corners.
He tries to tell her that it’s okay to not have friends and that if she needs help socializing with her classmates, he’ll help.
Her parents come back in.
She feels too small when they say that they’re going to try to take her to the park with their neighbors the next day.
She starts planning out her next conversation with Carrie. She fantasizes about the hole they could live in together, eating their way through all types of bushes.
She has found a way not to be lonely and they want to take it away.
The friend she has made is not good enough for them. But it is enough for her.