Possibly the most intimate moment of my life.
Scarlett’s cheeks have a healthy glow. It’s a blush. As if she liked me touching her, as if the moment made her shy. I shove my hands in my pockets because I’d be lying if I didn’t say the moment made me shy, too. Curious, confused and shy.
“What else can I do?” she asks. “To help.”
It’s all been done. “I need to scatter her ashes now.”
Sorrow shadows her face, and her sadness awakens mine.
“I remember climbing this tree.” Scarlett glances up at the old oak, and I wonder if she sees our ghosts racing toward the top.
I reach both arms up and touch the thick low-hanging branch. Closing my eyes, I can feel the energy of the tree barreling through my veins. The tree is old, not the oldest on the farm, but close to it. The roots run deep into the soil, into the heart of the land. Touching the tree releases a surge of power from it into me—like recharging a battery.
“How do you do that?” Scarlett asks, and I open my eyes.
“Do what?”
“The same thing you’ve always done since we were kids.” She shrugs as if she’s confused by her own words. “Touch anything on this land and look peaceful.”
Twenty-three hours and forty-five minutes of my day, I have no peace, but I guess I’m lucky that my land can at least hand me fifteen minutes of no demons. “Don’t give me that crap. You know what I’m doing, and you know how to do it.”
Pure defiance. “No, I don’t.”
I smile because I like the familiar stubbornness. “Yes, you do.”
Crossed arms over her chest.
“Touch the tree,” I say.
“Touch the tree?”
“Touch the tree.”
Scarlett grins, one reminiscent of our childhood days. The breeze plays with the ends of her hair, and I capture that moment. A snapshot of something I want to remember. Scarlett’s back on my land. My friend. My foe. The person who used to push me, compete with me and made me alive. My Tink.
“Do it,” I tease her. “Or are you scared of what you’ll find when you do?”
“I am not touching a tree to prove a point,” she says.
I chuckle because Scarlett was never one to be pushed to do anything she didn’t want to do. Not even when I double-dog dared. I release the limb and head for my truck. “Your loss.”
But when enough steps have happened, I glance over my shoulder to see her staring at the trunk like she’s considering pressing her hand against the bark.
I open the passenger door. On the bench seat is her phone and it’s surprising my truck hasn’t caught on fire. Someone is blowing up her cell, and I’m betting it’s her dad.
Two parts of me battle as I stare at her cell. The selfish part wants to ignore it and continue on with my plan with her by my side, but then the other part of me, the part my grandmother wanted me to pay more attention to, knows what needs to be done.
I pick up her cell and stretch it toward her. “Looks like someone wants to talk.”
Her posture crumbles as she accepts her cell and scrolls through the messages. With a blink of her eyes, she hardens. A fortress built to endure a war.
Scarlett blows out a breath then looks up at me. “I have to go.”
Yeah. Saw that coming. “Hop in. I’ll give you a ride.”
“Thank you for the offer, but I’ll walk.”
“Don’t be like that. I thought we weren’t mad at each other anymore,” I say. Her forehead furrows, and my stomach sinks. “Are you still mad at me?”
“N … no, yes … I … I,” she stutters, and that keeps me from opening my mouth and arguing with her. When we were young, she stuttered all the time, but then she learned how to control the stutter through breathing. After that, the only time she did it was when she was upset and her thoughts were moving too fast for her mouth. My eyes narrow in on her as I try to figure out the problem.
The haunted look in her eyes—it’s déjà vu. A whisper of a memory from another lifetime. I saw that sadness in my mother’s eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.”
Her head drops with what I can imagine was her reading the disbelief on my face.
“My father’s angry at me, okay? I’ve pushed him, and I’ll admit to pushing him on purpose. In hindsight, that was stupid. If he sees me with you, it’ll only make him angrier.”
I bristle. “Because I’m Jesse Lachlin, town menace?”
Her dad hated me when we were younger, too. He didn’t think I was good enough to be her friend then. That’s why we snuck out at night to play. I don’t guess there’s any reason for his opinion of me to have changed.
“Because I’m not allowed to be alone with a boy. I’m barely allowed to go out with my friends, but he does allow it and only because he checks my plans with their parents. He won’t appreciate you giving me a ride home, and I won’t appreciate any assumptions he’ll make as to what I was doing alone with you.”
My eyebrows raise. “Are you saying your dad would think we were having—” Her cheeks turn bright red, cutting off my words, and I chuckle. “Our conversations were different when we were kids.”
“I guess they were,” she says with a faint lift of her lips, but then it falls. “When it comes to my dad, I’ve dug myself a hole and I don’t need to dig it any further.”
That I can respect. I’ve spent the past couple of years digging holes, too. “Do you know how to get home?”
“I’m going to cut through the east field, follow the stream and hit the road a quarter mile from my house; that way he’ll think I came from the main road. I promise I won’t get lost this time.” There’s a twinkle in her eye, and it’s the most adorable thing I’ve seen.
“That’s a twenty-minute walk.”
She shrugs. “I said I need to go home, not that I wanted to.”
“I’ll go with you. At least to the road.”
“You need to stay and scatter your grandmother’s ashes.”
“Scarlett,” I start, but she silences me with a lift of her hand.
“You need to do this.”
She’s right, I do, and the misery in my chest nearly brings me to my knees. Scarlett rises onto her toes, kisses my cheek and I close my eyes with the tender pressure of her soft lips on my skin. She pulls back and offers me a sad smile. “Thank you for all that you’ve done for me. The job, the ride, for bringing me here. I needed this.”
Scarlett takes her flats off her feet and starts barefoot for the stream, but I can’t let her go, not yet. “Is everything going to be okay with your dad?”
That stops her cold, and she looks at me over her shoulder. There’s something there in her expression that bothers me. A pulling and a nagging.
“I’ll be fine,” she says.
“He’s the reason you took that job, isn’t he? He doesn’t want you to go to UK.”
Scarlett stays silent but the answer is there in how her shoulders crumble.
“I’ll still help you if I can,” I offer.
“I don’t think anyone can help me, but thank you for trying. It’s more than anyone else has ever done.”
“We’re friends now,” I say. “Friends again, I guess.” I can do it again—friends with Scarlett. I’m friends with V, Leo and Nazareth, and overall, they’re doing okay. As V said, we’ve figured out a way to be lost together.
Her entire face drains of color, and her sadness hits me deep. “I don’t know what being friends means anymore. Not just with you, but with anyone. There’s something wrong with me. When I look inside me, I don’t see anything. I’m empty.”
“Scarlett, I mean it. We’re friends again.”
“No offense, but you don’t get to make that decision. I appreciate the job, I appreciate the ride and I appreciate you letting me have this moment with you, but you burned the friendship bridge between us years ago then danced in the ashes. After how you treated me, there’s no going back, but at least we had this moment. I’m not angry
with you anymore, and it feels really good to not be angry with at least one person.”
I don’t understand why I feel like she just reached into my chest and created a black hole, but I do. The loneliness as she leaves is close to crippling.
Partially believing she’ll turn around and tell me she was wrong, I watch as she disappears on the horizon. She doesn’t turn, and she doesn’t forgive me. The overwhelming sense of loss creates a confusing ache.
I return to the truck and check my cell. There are messages from V, but also a message from Glory: What she needs, ask me and I can help.
The skin on my neck prickles, and I scan the area searching for the eyes watching me, but I’m alone. What are you talking about?
Glory: You know.
There’s a crazy buzz in my head. You’re full of crap.
Glory: Am I?
This is stupid. There’s no way Glory knows what Scarlett needs. No way she knows anything. I throw the cell back on the bench seat, but then stare at it. What if Glory can somehow give Scarlett what she needs? Am I going to let my pride cost her?
Scarlett needs a job. One she can work from home and one she can keep secret.
Silence. Enough time that I should be smug that I called Glory’s bluff, but I’m not. I want Scarlett to have a job more than I want to be right.
Glory: You have to ask. Nicely.
And Glory wonders why I don’t like her: Can you please give Scarlett a job?
Glory: Bring her to me. She and I will talk.
I massage my neck and then hope I can pull this off. We’ll be by tonight.
SCARLETT
The front door opens before I have the chance to place my hand on the doorknob. My stomach jumps to my throat as I expect Dad to tower over me, but it’s not my father, it’s my mother. Her eyes are wide, her face pale and drawn. She grabs hold of my hand and drags me into the house, closing the door behind her with great care to not make noise.
“Go to your room,” she whispers. “And stay there. Don’t come out until I tell you.”
My heart beats at every pressure point. I’m five years old again being ushered away to a promised safety that doesn’t exist. Somehow, when Mom looks this scared, I’m always five.
The back door opens and shuts with a slam. “Scarlett!”
I stop breathing and Mom gives me a look that screams danger. She pushes me toward the stairs. “Run.”
I do. Up the stairs, but it doesn’t feel fast enough. It’s like I’m caught in slow motion, running through wet sand. Dad’s footsteps pound against the hardwood of the foyer. “Scarlett, come here!”
“You don’t want to do this,” Mom says in her soothing tone. “Let her go upstairs while you have a chance to calm down.”
“She walked out on me!” he shouts at Mom. “I took her to counseling and she left!”
“They told us she might act out once we brought her to counseling. That we would be drudging up emotions in her that she hasn’t faced. They told us that we need to be patient. This isn’t Scarlett. This is the result of her counseling session.”
“She wasn’t there when I left!” his voice booms. “That was her choice! Scarlett! Get down here now!”
A shiver runs through me so forcefully that I slip on the stairs. I fall, my knee slamming into the corner of the step and my head hits the railing. Pain spikes through me, but I ignore the throbbing. I have to keep going.
“Get out of my way!” he yells, and there’s a crash. Glass shattering. With my hand on the railing, I drag myself to my feet and look down. In chunks and pieces throughout the foyer are the remnants of Mom’s favorite vase. The one her mother gave her. The sole heirloom from her past.
With her arms outstretched, my mother stands at the bottom of the stairs, a wall between me and him. Dad looms over Mom, and while she stands strong, I cower for her.
Panic races through me. Self-preservation screams at me to lock myself in my room, but love begs me to save my mom. I do neither, instead I’m frozen, except for my lips. They move, and sound tumbles out. “Mom.”
Both Mom and Dad’s gazes snap up to mine. Dad’s chest moves rapidly, breathing hard with his anger, and Mom somehow appears so calm that I blink because it can’t be real. While keeping her eyes locked on me, Mom reaches out and slowly places a hand on Dad’s chest. My heart stutters as I expect him to push her away, but he doesn’t. He only closes his eyes.
“Go to your room, Scarlett,” Mom says. I swallow as I feel like I should stay. Terrified if I leave, Dad will release all his anger and hit her again, but then red-hot nausea causes me to break into a sweat. What if staying makes things worse?
“Do what I ask,” Mom says in a soft voice, “and take Isabelle with you.”
My eyes shoot straight to the second-floor landing and there is my sister. Her entire face void of color, her little fingers squeezing her doll tight to her chest. Mom protects me. I protect Isabelle. Those are our jobs. I scurry to my feet, grab my sister, swing her up to my hip and race to my room.
Isabelle clings to me as she presses her doll and fingers into my neck. In my room, I close my door, lock it and pretend that will keep the monsters away. I climb onto my bed, and Isabelle doesn’t let go. She only tries to burrow further into me, as if she could find a way to climb inside my chest and hide. I hold on to her and she holds on to me and we lay perfectly still.
Shouting.
My father irate, my mother begging for him to be calm. He blames me, he blames Mom, he blames Isabelle, he blames Pastor Hughes. Everyone but himself. And my mom, I wish she would shut up and hide. I wish she wouldn’t confront him. I wish I had kept my mouth shut. I wish for an entirely different life.
It goes on and on. Their voices bouncing in volume as they move from room to room.
It feels like weeks pass, days pass, when in reality it’s hours. A circle of loud voices that never ceases.
“Have you considered that Scarlett’s rebellious behavior is because of our college decision? Maybe if we give her a little bit of freedom…?” Mom’s plea is clearer than any of the other things they’ve said. They’re moving up the stairs. I pray she makes it safely.
“It’s not about where she goes to college,” Dad snaps. “This is about Scarlett lying to us.”
“But the speech therapy degree means so much to her.”
“She’s trying to divide and control us. She’s mad you’ve forgiven me. We have to stand firm together if we’re going to save our family. We can’t give in to her. We have to stand strong.”
“But maybe if you allowed the job she’d see that as an act of faith from you—”
“Whose side are you on?” Dad roars outside my door. Isabelle and I jump and cling tighter to each other. “It should be my side! My side, not hers!”
“Please don’t yell at me,” Mom begs, and I choke as Mom begins to cry. “Just please stop yelling. I can’t take it anymore. I just can’t.”
My heart rate raises. I let go of my sister and clutch the blanket. I feel as if I’m being thrown out into the vast vacuum of space, spiraling out of control. My lungs squeeze, and I gasp for breath. I caused this. If he hurts her, it’s my fault.
Pain in my chest, my muscles ache, and I can’t suck in enough air. Sweat beads along my skin, and as Mom continues to cry and Dad continues to shout, no air goes into my lungs. I can’t breathe, and I’m going to die.
Isabelle’s little body shakes into mine, her tears streaming through the material of my shirt. Mom cries louder, I see stars as I fight to breathe and then …
“I’m sorry.” Dad sounds so tired. So contrite. Like a different man. “Please don’t cry. I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to yell. I never thought Scarlett would actually leave. I never thought she would outright disobey like she has. When she left, I thought she was going to wait in the car for me and then when I couldn’t find her after my session … it scared me.”
I freeze and so does my sister. It’s like we’re on the edge of a blade and the wrong mov
e could cause us to be sliced.
“Don’t cry—” Dad’s voice breaks as if he’s on the verge of tears. “Please don’t cry. I love you. So much. Please forgive me. Please, just forgive me.”
He continues like that as Mom continues to weep. Eventually she tells him that she forgives him and that she loves him and it goes silent, except for the eventual click of their bedroom door being closed.
Second verse same as the first.
Isabelle and I stay silent on my bed, holding one another. An hour goes by. Then another. I stop keeping count. Eventually she drifts off, and I become brave enough to bundle her up in a blanket and carry her to her room.
When I place her on her bed, she becomes barely coherent enough to lift her arms as I change her into pajamas and to whisper she loves me as I leave.
In the hallway, I pause outside my door, straining to hear anything from my parents’ bedroom, but beyond my father’s muffled snore, there’s nothing. How can they do that? Go from one hundred to zero in minutes? From warpath to sleep, as if that’s natural? I’ll be lucky if I sleep the rest of the week.
I enter my bedroom, close the door, lean back against it and wonder if I should turn on the lights and read until sunrise, but a tap on my window causes my forehead to furrow.
SCARLETT
At the second tap, I turn my head toward the sound. A third tap followed by a fourth and I cross the room. It’s close to midnight, it’s Friday and it’s August. Old habit and expectation cause my pulse to quicken. Two more taps, and on instinct, I open the window.
I search the dark ground but spot nothing. Maybe I’m hearing things that aren’t real. Maybe—
My head tilts as I spot the tiny visitor on my windowsill. Inching along is a fat, multicolored caterpillar and seeing him is like reaching through the fog of memory. I’ve seen him before, but where?
“Hey, Tink. It’s about time. I ran out of rocks.”
My gaze snaps to the towering oak tree next to the house. Crouched near the trunk on the thick branch reaching out toward my window is Jesse Lachlin. He’s in jeans, a white T-shirt and a blue baseball cap. A surge of panic that my father will find him floods me, but then Jesse slowly smiles—his pirate one. With that one gesture, the heaviness overwhelming my body lifts.
Only a Breath Apart Page 13
