“They’re coming,” he says. His gaze nervously darts around the cabin before he runs to flip off the light. The cabin goes gray.
“Who is?” I ask, adrenaline surging through my veins. Maybe the police figured out he was part of the robbery.
Dad ducks under the windowsill and carefully grips the corner of the black fabric, pulling away the curtain. He scans the woods. It’s almost dark outside, but I can still hear the steady patter of rain against the leaves.
He glances at me, whispering, “Jenny, you have to hide.”
Jenny? As in my mom?
“Get Rebel and hide under the bed,” Dad instructs.
I bite my lip; my eyes sting. Does he really think I’m Mom?
“What are you waiting for?” he yells. “They’ll be here any minute.”
“Dad,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady so I don’t startle him. “It’s me.”
I sense the change in his body before I see it. He charges toward me, grabbing my shirt collar. “Soldier, what are you doing here?” Veins throb along his neck. “You never leave your post.” He tosses me against the front door; my hands smack the wood. Pain shoots into my wrists.
His footsteps are fast behind me. I gasp as he grips the back of my neck, yanking me sideways, my head swinging like a rag doll’s. He opens the door. “Go!” he screams, pointing at the woods.
My head throbs. I don’t know where I’m supposed to go. Or what he wants me to do.
His body grows tighter and tighter the longer I don’t move. “That’s a direct order.”
“Dad, please,” I say again.
He grips my upper arm with one hand and pushes between my shoulder blades with the other; my feet shuffle against their will across the porch to the edge of the steps. The toes of my boots teeter over the edge, about to fall. He yells into my ear, “Soldier, I’m warning you!”
It’s all I can do not to flinch.
“Stand post, now!”
I don’t know what else to do; I stumble down the stairs and into the rain. My hair washes into my eyes.
He follows close behind, large drops streaming along his angular face. “Stand guard,” he commands and shoves his weapon against my chest.
I fold in half from the impact and then force myself upright. Fearful I’ll drop his gun, my fingers cramp.
In one motion, he jumps onto the porch and storms inside, slamming the door behind him.
Thunder rumbles and shakes the woods. My clothes are already soaked and sticking to my body. I stand in the leaves, facing the cabin, my legs bending beneath my weight. But I will myself to keep standing; I don’t dare move.
Water pours down my face. I squint, stealing a glance at the gun, trying to find the safety to make sure it’s locked. My fingertip flips the switch—it wasn’t. My whole body trembles.
There’s a large flash against the dark sky; my vision blurs from the mix of rain and tears.
All of a sudden, the cabin door flies open, startling me. Dad’s in the doorway. I’m shaking so hard the gun rattles in my hands.
Within seconds, he’s rushing toward me. I lower my face and hunch my shoulders, trying to curl into myself. Trying to protect myself.
“Rebel?” Dad says, his voice changed. There’s another flash across the sky as I look up and see the question in his eyes.
He gently pulls the gun from my unsteady hands, but it’s like my fingertips are glued to it. He gives the gun an extra yank, finally freeing it.
“Rebel?” he repeats.
“Y-yes, s-sir,” I say, unable to keep the stutter from my voice.
He kneads his lips and drops the gun at our feet with a damp thud. Dad raises an arm; I flinch automatically.
But he doesn’t strike; he wraps a muscled arm around me, drawing me in. I stand stiff and trembling against his chest as he squeezes me with both arms. I’m too afraid to move, too afraid to breathe, too afraid for the next time his brain decides to hit reset.
The storm thunders and flashes around us. The rain washes over us, soaks us. But he doesn’t let go.
And, for the first time ever, I hear Dad cry.
EIGHTEEN
The birds chirp and rattle, signaling the first light of day. But, with the curtains drawn shut, the cabin is still gray. I don’t turn on the lights.
My elbows press into the counter. My hands barely prop the weight of my chin as I lean over, staring straight ahead, staring at what I’ve made—the thing I thought was going to help Dad understand me better. But that all went out the window the moment he tossed me into the rain.
N8TE’s battery indicator light shows he’s fully charged. He’s the only one. After what happened with Dad, a mix of exhaustion and sadness weighs on me.
We didn’t talk. He didn’t speak. Once we came inside, Dad went straight upstairs. I haven’t seen or heard from him since. He didn’t even pace.
In the meantime, I’ve managed to change into dry soldier clothes and stare at N8TE. That’s about it.
I couldn’t sleep.
Nothing like that had ever happened before. Sure, he’s been angry. And maybe he’s accidentally pushed me once or twice before Aunt Birdie made him stop. But what if he hadn’t stopped last night? What if he hadn’t snapped out of it?
I shake my head. I’m not going to let myself think about that. He did stop. And I’m fine.
The sudden clomping of his boots makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. I jump, edging away from N8TE. Which version of Dad is coming down the stairs?
When he reaches the ground floor, he pauses for a second. Dressed like me—or really, I’m dressed like him—he’s wearing sunglasses, even though it’s not bright inside. He carries the gun he forced on me last night. My blood thrums as he moves closer, my tense reflection growing larger in his mirrored lenses.
He brushes past me and into the kitchen and then spins my direction. I gasp. I can’t see his eyes or, worse, predict his mood.
Without warning, he drops the magazine full of bullets from his weapon into the palm of his hand and places it on the empty countertop. He then pulls the charging handle, showing me the inside so I can see the chamber is empty.
I try to breathe. His gun isn’t loaded. Dad places his weapon on the counter next to the sink, across from N8TE, and pulls the trigger with a quiet click. I force myself to take another breath, attempting to slow my racing heart.
As it is, the gun can’t fire now. But he doesn’t stop there: He pulls the pins and separates the upper and lower parts of the gun. The lower part is soon on the countertop. The upper remains in his hand as he removes the bolt carrier group and charging handle and then places all of the pieces next to one another. He’s pretty much disassembled his weapon.
Both of his hands grab the edge of the counter while his chin drops to his chest with a heavy sigh. “I don’t know what happened,” he says, his voice low, “but it won’t happen again.” He looks from the floor to me, and I can see my stunned reflection in his sunglasses.
I quickly shift my expression to neutral and nod.
He gestures to N8TE. “You’ve been busy.”
I want to tell him I made this new robot to show him who I really am and what I really want to be doing. Instead, I point to the table and say, “So have you.”
Dad pulls off his shades and glances over at his war scene. “I can’t get it out of my head,” he says as he walks to the table and stares.
Slowly, I move to the opposite end of the table. “Someone once told me talking about things makes them easier.”
He closes his eyes and flinches, as if reliving the scene in real time.
I ease toward him and point to the toy soldier, the one standing in the front seat of the Jeep. “Is that you?”
Dad’s eyes fly open; his gaze darts to the one pointing the gun at the girl. He sniffs loudly and then nods.
“Who is she?”
He shrugs and pulls out a chair; the legs scrape against the raw wood floor. “Just a girl,” he says and then si
ts. “I don’t know her name. She was about your age.”
My hands clench as I debate whether to ask or not. But I can’t help it: I have to know. “Did you kill her?”
He gives a brief nod.
“Why?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
“She was there,” Dad says, shaking his head. “We’d come out of the city.” He points to the smoking rubble in the scene. “We were exhausted from two days of fighting. The enemy had civilian bombers—mostly women and children.” He stops to rub his eyes, his fingers moving in circles. “I thought she had a bomb in the sack,” Dad explains, his fingers slowly falling from his face. His eyes are red. “I made a split-second decision, and I shot her before she could kill me and my men.”
“But she wasn’t a bomber,” I say, guessing.
“No. Groceries fell from her sack when she—” He takes a sharp breath, stopping himself. “I didn’t have a choice,” he says, his voice flat.
I nod, because what else can I do? I don’t agree with what Dad did. How could I? I also don’t disagree. He thought he was protecting himself and his friends.
Dad dabs the corner of one eye with his knuckle, and it seems like he’s not so sure, either. Maybe that’s why he keeps rebuilding this scene. He made a split-second decision, and now he has to live with it.
Josiah was right: War really does mess with a person’s head.
Dad clears his throat and taps the edge of the table; grains of sand fall onto the floor. “What do you say we go outside?”
“Now?” I asked, surprised.
“I could use the fresh air.” Dad stands and pushes the chair under the table. “If I remember correctly, I owe you a fishing trip.” He tries a smile, looking a little more like the young man in the pictures before he went off to war.
But what if he goes off again? I knead my lips, unsure.
“Look, I know things went too far last night, and I’m really sorry. I promise I’ll do better.” Dad slides his hands inside his pockets. “What do you say?” he asks, his voice ebbing as if his confidence is barely hanging on.
He’s waiting for me to decide: I can accept his invitation or turn away. But, there’s not really a choice. Not when you love someone.
I smile. “I think that’s a great idea.”
***
We’ve been hiking and exploring and fishing all day. It’s twilight, and the frogs bellow their songs along the creek. Dad crouches by the water, gutting and cleaning the trout he’s caught with a makeshift fishing rod made of a long twig, plus the line, bobber, and hook from his bug-out bag.
I’m sitting on the warm ground, leaning against my backpack. I stare at Calliope’s fallen log, thinking of her and her meadow of flowers on the other side of the water and through the trees. I haven’t seen her since she told me I needed to speak to my dad. I shift on my elbows. I wish I could talk to her now.
“Almost ready,” Dad says, a smile to his voice.
Dad and I already dug a shallow pit on this side of the creek. About the size of a round platter, we’ve encircled it with rocks we retrieved from the bottom of the stream. I take the large hunting knife from my bag and carve bark from a twig. Once it’s clear of bark, I keep pushing my blade along the grain, down with the point of the knife, again and again, feathering the wood.
Dad approaches, holding two large and perfect filets, one resting in each hand. “Get me the skillet, will you?”
I put my knife point-side into the earth and roll to my knees, opening the top flap of Dad’s bug-out bag. I dig under his gas mask, dehydrated food, and the plastic survival blanket until I reach the small cast-iron skillet at the bottom. “Here,” I say, offering it to him.
Dad carefully lays the filets skin-side against the pan. “I put an onion in the outer pocket,” he says, gesturing.
I set the skillet on the ground and, as he rinses his hands in the creek, I find the white onion and a pack of dehydrated strawberries. My stomach grumbles. “Can I have one?” I ask.
As he returns, Dad shakes the water from his fingers and takes the onion from me with a nod.
He sits, and I open the packet before popping a dried strawberry into my mouth. Instantly, the sweetness melts into my tongue. I’m tempted to take another one, but Dad’s usually protective of his food stash. I force myself to savor the one and return the packet to his bag.
Seated next to me, Dad places the onion on the flat side of one of the logs stacked next to the pit. He chops the onion, releasing the strong smell.
I place the feathered twigs I’ve made into the pit with the other wood, making a nest for the fire.
“Where did you learn to do that?” he asks, stopping for a second, admiring the fringed pieces.
I swallow the last bits of the strawberry. “Mom,” I say. “The feathering helps the fire get more oxygen.”
Dad smiles. “I know. Do you want to start the fire?”
I’ll probably bumble it if he’s watching. I shake my head. “That’s okay.”
He passes me the onion to finish.
As I chop, I smile to myself. “Remember when Mom made the tray of caramel apples for Halloween, but she—”
“Made one of them a caramel onion?” he finishes with a laugh. “I don’t know how she did it, but it looked like an apple.” He unsnaps the pocket on his vest, and from the chest pocket, removes a small baggie filled with cotton balls soaked in petroleum jelly.
I grin at the memory. “And then Aunt Birdie took that huge bite.”
Dad laughs. “I’ve never seen someone spit something so far, so fast across a room before or since.”
“Me either,” I say.
He takes one of the cotton balls from the baggie and pulls at it, exposing the dry fibers in the middle. He sets it between my feathered twigs.
“I think she brushed her teeth about fifty times after that.”
“Oh, at least,” Dad says, striking a piece of flint against the steel on his knife, making it spark. Once, twice, and the cotton ball ignites. He blows on the small fire until it spreads to my feathered pieces and then adds some dry leaves as tinder to the pit. The fire crackles and smokes a little.
I scoot over to help as he unrolls a small section of chicken wire and places it over the pit like the surface of a grill. When we’re finished, he holds out the bag of strawberries. “Want some more?”
With a nod, I center the skillet of trout and onions onto the chicken wire over the fire.
He shakes dried strawberry bits into his hand and then into my cupped hands. “Thanks,” I say, and we both lean against our packs, watching the fire.
I pop another sweet bite into my mouth, letting my spit dissolve it on my tongue.
He chews for a second and then stops. “Did I ever tell you what your mom did to the orange juice?”
“No,” I say, sitting up, excited he actually wants to talk about Mom for a change.
“You were a baby, and we were hardly getting any sleep.” He smiles. “You couldn’t get your days and nights straight.”
I nod.
“Anyway, I’d fed you a bottle and was carrying you downstairs so your mom could get some rest.” Dad pulls one leg to his chest and wraps a hand around his knee. “I grabbed the pitcher of orange juice from the refrigerator and poured a big glass.” He shakes his head with a smile. “I took a drink, thinking, This sure tastes funny, but I was so tired, I took another drink to make sure. Then I heard the laughter coming from the bottom of the stairs.”
“Who was laughing?”
“Who do you think?” Dad winks at me.
“Mom?”
“You got it. You know that powdered cheese stuff in the macaroni and cheese boxes?” He mimics pouring and stirring.
I cover my mouth in delighted disgust.
“Yep,” Dad says with a nod. “She mixed the stuff in water and put it in the orange juice pitcher.” He shakes his head.
“Seriously?” I ask.
He nods. “Here we were, bone tired, but your
mom never lost her sense of humor.”
The tasty smell of fish and onions waft from the skillet as I look across the river. “I miss her.”
“I know,” Dad says, his voice softening. “I miss her, too.”
I snatch a large piece of rough bark I’d carved from one of the twigs and toss it like a Frisbee. It lands on the edge of the creek with a plunk. “She liked to show you her funny side, since that’s what she thought you needed.”
Dad shifts.
“She worried about you. Constantly.” I watch the flames beneath the skillet. “I worry, too.”
He scoots around the fire and lays a hand on my shoulder. “You shouldn’t worry. I’m making a lot of progress.”
I shrug off his hand.
Dad sighs. “I know I messed up, but look at us now: fishing and cooking out.” He looks skyward to where the first stars are peeking between the branches. “We’re out in nature, and I haven’t felt this good in a really long time.” He points. “And I couldn’t do this without you.”
I shake my head, doubtful.
“You deserve to know you’re helping me.” He seems so genuine.
“I just want you to be happy again.”
“I am happy. Can’t you see?”
I’m not sure I can see it. But what I can see is the fallen log, which leads to her.
Calliope says I need to talk to him, and I know she’s right. But, sitting here, with Dad so close, his eyes begging me to see how happy he is, I can’t. Not right now.
“I can see it,” I fib.
Dad’s smile is instant. “Everything will be alright. You’ll see,” he says. “You have to trust me.”
I take a deep breath and nod, hoping he’s right.
NINETEEN
I sit on the center of the fallen log, my hands pressing into the rough and peeling bark. Yesterday with Dad—fishing and hiking—was perfect. The whole day, it was only the two of us. No Wade. No Karl. No Dwight. No guns. No drills. Just us. And Dad really did seem happy.
I know I told Calliope I’d talk to him, but I couldn’t. It had been so long since he’d actually seemed to enjoy being with me; I didn’t have the heart to ruin it.
The Inside Battle Page 14
