Before You Break

by Kyla Stone

  “It was an accident.”

  “I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “There’s no point in blaming yourself.”

  He looks on the verge of panic. “It was my fault.”

  “She’s okay. Do you hear me? She’s okay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. Here, take over for a minute.”

  Panic creeps into his voice again. “What do I do?”

  “Just keep her as submerged as possible. Warm up her face and head with this washcloth. I’ll be right back.”

  I stick my head in Dad’s room. He’s slept through the whole thing. Lux’s door is still closed, so she’s either not paying attention or she took off again. Either way, I can’t worry about it now.

  I grab a bunch of towels from the linen closet, then head downstairs to my room to pick out the smallest clothes I can find. When I come back up, we rub Hadley down with towels, then dress her in one of my hoodies that falls to her shins, pajama shorts that I cinch at the waist with a ribbon, and a pair of my winter socks that go past her knees.

  “There. You look adorable.”

  “T’ank you,” she says solemnly.

  “How about some hot chocolate?”

  Her little face breaks into a smile, her eyes glimmering. “Yummy!”

  Eli paces the living room like a caged tiger. He jiggles his car keys in his hand. “You sure we shouldn’t—”

  “Look at her, Eli. She’s acting normal. She’s warm. She’s happy.”

  “Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

  “But you’re freezing. And you’re shaking like crazy. Go take a warm shower. Make sure it’s not hot. I’ll try to find some clothes.” Eli looks at Hadley, hesitating.

  “I’ll put the clothes outside the bathroom door. We’ll be in the kitchen, making hot chocolate. Now go!” Finally, reluctantly, he goes.

  “Hadley, do you want to help me find clothes for your daddy?”

  She grins and takes my hand. Dad’s clothes will be way too big, plus I don’t want to disturb him, so I end up finding an oversized pair of apricot-colored unicorn pajama pants in Lux’s bottom drawer. She’s gone, of course.

  I grit my teeth. No time to get pissed off now. I grab the oversized Detroit Lions hoodie hanging up in her closet and hold it up to my chest. It should fit him. I’m about to shut the closet door when I notice something else.

  Mom’s heart-shaped ceramic box, the one from her dresser. It’s sitting on the top shelf of Lux’s closet. I take it down and carefully lift off the ceramic lid. It’s full of junk. Trash. Gum wrappers, Canadian quarters, a rusty lighter, a couple of lipstick tubes, nail polish, receipts, a tiny glass figurine, paper clips, several earrings, an origami swan.

  I recognize my single pearl earring Mom bought me for that last Christmas before she died. It’s been missing for years.

  Hadley tugs on my jeans. “All done?”

  “Yeah, sweetie. Let’s go.” I tuck the earring in my pocket and put the ceramic box back on the top shelf. What the heck is going on with Lux? Yet another question to add to the growing list. I push my anger down and turn to Hadley. “Your daddy’s gonna look awesome. Almost as fantastic as you.”

  By the time Eli comes out of the bathroom, I’ve got two bowls of steaming chicken soup ready and waiting. The hot chocolate is brewing on the stove, and Hadley’s sitting at the kitchen table, scarfing up marshmallows.

  I laugh when I see him. I can’t help it. The unicorn pajamas fit him at the waist but are much too short, riding up to the middle of his shins.

  “Hey, at least the sweatshirt is manly, right?” he says with a grin. He preens and takes a bow.

  He pokes Hadley’s belly and she bursts into giggles.

  Then he kneels down and wraps his arms around her. It’s a hug so fierce and intimate, I feel like I should turn away. “I love you,” he whispers into her hair.

  My heart clenches. I don’t know why I’m surprised, but I am. He’s a good dad. A great dad. I have the sudden, inexplicable urge to hug him too, to know what it’s like to be wrapped up in those strong, safe arms.

  He comes over to the stove. His damp hair curls over his ears. He smells like soap, and beneath that, the deep, musky scent that is distinctly male. “What smells so great over here?”

  “Homemade hot chocolate,” I say, stirring the chocolate a final time. I pick up the pan, pour the liquid chocolate into three mugs, and sprinkle in the mini marshmallows. “You boil whole milk and add in a bar of melted dark chocolate. It’s really quite easy. My dad always made it for us after— ” I pause, my mind snagging on a memory. Shouting, broken glass, tears. I shove it down. “When we were sad.”

  “I’ve never had anything but the powdered kind.”

  “You’re missing out on an essential life experience. Here.” I hand him his mug and start to give one to Hadley.

  “Maybe put it in the fridge for a few minutes, so it isn’t so hot? Do you have a plastic cup? Ceramic will break if she drops it.”

  “Sure. Your parenting books teach you that?”

  He grimaces. “Real-world experience, unfortunately.”

  A few minutes later, Hadley’s all settled, her chubby hands wrapped around a plastic cup of cooled hot chocolate. “Urse! Urse!”

  “Huh?”

  “Her purse. And your camera. We left them at the park. I’ll go back and get them.”

  In the chaos, I’d forgotten about the camera. I feel a sudden sense of impending loss, but no. It’s dark and cold. No one’s at the park. My camera is safe, for now. “Drink your hot chocolate first. It’s never gonna be as good as it is right now. That’s what my dad always says.”

  Eli takes a long sip. “This is delicious. Like, mind-alteringly good.”

  I shrug, my face reddening. “My pleasure.”

  “Thank you for what you did today.”

  “For what? You’re the one that jumped in the water.”

  He shakes his head, his brow furrowing. “I totally freaked. I always thought I’d be smart in an emergency, but I wasn’t. All I could think about was losing her. You were the clear-headed one, calm under pressure. You took care of her.” He tugs at the unicorn pajamas and grins sheepishly. “Guess I’m losing manly points left and right, huh?”

  I take another gulp of hot chocolate. It scalds on the way down. I try not to notice the chocolaty mustache skimming his upper lip. “I don’t think so,” I whisper.

  “What?”

  I take a step back, untucking my hair so it falls across my face. “I said you’re welcome.”

  His grin widens. “No, you didn’t.”

  “I’m sure I did.”

  “We’ll just have to agree to disagree, Freckles—I mean, Lena.”

  The way he says my name sends shivers up and down my spine that no amount of hot chocolate could help.

  23

  Lena

  The third week of February passes, gray and bitterly cold. I spend as much time in the darkroom as I can. No matter how often my thoughts stray to Eli and that day at the park last week, my responsibility is here. I need to be here.

  My father is getting worse. His skin is sallow, splotchy with the effort of breathing. The doctor warned me of this: his heart can’t pump enough blood to keep up with his body’s demands. His legs and feet are swollen. I can’t stand this agonizing, creeping death.

  The darkroom is my relief. I’ve always found comfort in the quick movement of my hands, the safelight making everything dark and red like a womb, the slowly emerging images floating in their trays, images I created and can make better, always better.

  The competition is a constant reminder niggling in a corner of my brain. I’ve worked with several prints of Hadley, a few of Eli, but somehow I can’t make myself leave the snapshots of my childhood.

  Everything rushes back so clearly. They aren’t memories so much as mirrors, reflecting back in an instant the years I’d thought I’d forgotten, had tried to forget, both the ba
d and the good.

  The photo I’m resetting in the enlarger brings a slow sharp ache to the pit of my stomach. A pile of daisies tossed in the trash, the flowers half-escaped from their paper bouquet wrapping, their stems bent, the petals ripped and torn.

  My parents fought almost constantly in the last year Mom was alive. Sometimes I crept into the hallway and listened to them. I both wanted to hear and dreaded it simultaneously.

  Less than a month before her suicide, Dad came home from a week-long run. They were in the kitchen, supposedly making supper.

  “How could you forget?” Mom’s voice, loud and high-pitched.

  Dad’s voice, quiet and placating. “I’m so sorry, Eve. I’ve been on the road six days. I was just focused on coming home. I wanted to see the girls.”

  “You always remember to bring them their fancy paper and film. You used to bring me flowers every time. Every. Single. Time. The most beautiful daisies. Do you remember? Do you even care anymore?”

  “Of course I do, but I—”

  “You know the last time you remembered to bring me flowers? Do you?”

  A pause. “No.”

  “Eight months, Jacob! No one forgets things that are important to them. You show your true feelings loud and clear. You don’t love me. Admit it. Tell me the truth.”

  “I love you.”

  “Those are just words. They don’t mean anything. Anybody can say that. I just can’t do this anymore, I can’t be here while you’re off doing who-knows-what-with some whore—”

  “I’m working! I’m on the road, that’s all.”

  “Liar!” Something slammed against the table. I heard a sharp slapping sound.

  “Eve, stop!”

  I clapped my hands over my ears, but it didn’t matter. I could still hear every single thing.

  The slapping sound came again. She started to cry. “Do you see what you do to me? Do you see how much pain I’m in?”

  “Don’t do that, baby. Please.”

  “What do you expect me to do? What am I supposed to do when you cause so much pain?” Another slap. “Do you see? Do you see now how much you hurt me?”

  A chair scraped back. “Please. Eve, I love you. I’m so sorry. I’ll do anything. Tell me what you want me to do. Just—just stop.”

  “Why don’t you love me? Do you want me to climb onto the roof and jump off? Do you want me to tie a cord around my neck and hang myself from the ceiling fan? Would that make you happy? You’d be free then.”

  “No! Please don’t talk like that, baby. I’ll do better, okay? I promise.”

  “I’m all alone. You just leave me, every time …” Her voice dissolved into sobs.

  My father’s voice, exhausted, defeated: “I have to leave for work. That doesn’t mean I don’t love you. Okay? Eve?” She didn’t respond.

  “I’m so sorry about the flowers. I’m sorry I forgot.”

  There was only the sound of her gasping, hiccupping sobs.

  “Why don’t you relax? Don’t worry about supper,” Dad said, his voice artificially cheerful. “I’m gonna go out and grab some pizza and bring it back for the girls, okay? I’ll be right back.”

  I crept from the hallway as he grabbed his jacket out of the coat closet. “Hey, Gingersnap,” he said softly. “Keep your mom company for me, will you?”

  Obediently, I went and sat next to her. She was slumped at the table, her head in her hands, her shoulders trembling. “Mom?”

  She raised her head, tears streaking her mascara down her face in two black lines. One side of her face was bright red. “Your father doesn’t love me.”

  “I love you,” I whispered, pain and loyalty squeezing my heart.

  “Do you really?”

  “I love you, Mom. More than anything. More than the whole world.”

  She shook her head. “No one understands. How it is to be trapped here, in this house all alone. What it’s like for me.”

  “I understand,” I said, but the only thing I really understood was how unhappy she was to be stuck here with us, with me. I was desperate for her to gather me up in her arms and tell me everything would be okay, that she loved me.

  But she didn’t.

  She scrubbed her arm over her eyes. “You’re just a child. You can’t possibly understand.”

  “But I love you. I love you to the moon.” My mistake was repeating the line Dad always said to us at bedtime.

  Instead of finishing the last line, she flinched. “Don’t tell me you’re on his side.”

  “No!” I cried.

  But it was too late. She looked at me like I’d committed some terrible crime against her. She got up, went into her bedroom and shut the door.

  Lux crept out of her room and sank down in the chair beside me. Her small hand slipped into mine. “Is it over?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s over.”

  When Dad came home, Lux and I sat with him and ate greasy pizza slices and butter-soaked breadsticks on paper plates. The bouquet of daisies he’d picked up at the gas station stayed on the table. Mom didn’t leave her room.

  “Tell me about school,” Dad said brightly. He said nothing about Mom’s absence.

  “I made this with the art papers you got me,” Lux said, showing him a roughly shaped origami creature. “What is that? An elephant?” “No!” Lux giggled.

  “A rhinoceros?”

  “No! It’s a llama!”

  “That was my next guess, I swear.”

  “Look, Dad, it’s road pizza,” Lux said, opening her mouth full of food. Road pizza was Dad’s trucker slang for roadkill. Lux thought it was hilarious.

  “Ha. Good one.” He ruffled Lux’s hair. “Who wants homemade hot chocolate?”

  “I do! I do!” Lux cried, leaping out of her seat. “Can I help you? I know how to stir super good.”

  Dad and Lux chattered on like nothing was wrong, like there wasn’t a bottomless chasm gaping in the center of our lives. But I couldn’t. I sat there numbly, eating cheese and sauce and crust I barely tasted.

  The next morning, I found the bouquet in the trash, the delicate daisies crushed and broken.

  What happened to us? Who would we have been if Eve hadn’t been our mother? How fundamentally have we been changed, altered off our potential course?

  And Lux—where was the little girl who used to follow Dad around and hide in his closet, waiting patiently for the moment he would notice her? She would creep around the house, borrowing things that belonged to him—his cologne, the remote control, the latest Photography magazine. How had she gotten so lost?

  I turn away from the photograph. It seems pointless to think about now. We’re both damaged. We’re both lost.

  I set aside the photographs in neat piles and clean up. I should talk to Dad again. I need to talk to him. If there’s some truth that can help me understand my mother’s life, her death, all of it, then I want to know it. Dad can tell me.

  He’s still here, still alive. For now.

  24

  Lena

  When I enter the bedroom, at first I think he’s sleeping. His eyes are closed. The National Geographic’s Greatest Landscapes book lying opened on his chest rises and falls with each labored breath.

  When I turn to leave, he calls my name in a strained voice. “Lena.”

  “Do you need to rest?”

  His face is sallow, the whites of his eyes beginning to yellow. His lips are tinged blue. “Negatory. Come sit. Talk to me.”

  I obey, settling into the armchair by the bed. I swallow hard. He’s getting worse. This is my father, and he is dying. “Are you in much pain?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle. Don’t worry about me, Gingersnap.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “I’ve been worried about you.”

  “Don’t be silly. What for?”

  He lifts his hand and passes it across his face. “You haven’t been talking much. Are you upset with me?”

  “It’s—” I want to say, “All righ
t,” but I can’t. Not anymore. It isn’t all right, and never will be. “I just—I want some answers, Dad. I’m tired of all the secrets. I want to talk about our family, our past. Everything. The good and the bad.”

  He blinks slowly. “It won’t do any good. It’s over. What does it matter?”

  “It matters to me! This is my life, too.”

  “It’s all darkness, Lena. It’s mistakes and bad choices and guilt. Why relive it? God has forgiven me. I have peace.”

  “Do you? Because I don’t. And that’s not fair.”

  He raises his eyebrows. He’s not used to push back from me, the good daughter, the obedient one. “Why are you making such a big deal out of this now?”

  The silence stretches between us. There’s so much I can’t bring myself to say. This thing—this prison Mom condemned her own family to—it demands explanation.

  We were the ones closest to her. We’re the survivors. We deserve an explanation, a reason, an understanding. We deserve to know. I need to know.

  “I’m glad you found religion and all that, Dad,” I say finally. “I really am. I know you hate talking about it, but—I still need to know. Don’t you think I’ve earned it?”

  He stares up at the ceiling. The room fills with the sound of his ragged breathing. “What do you want to hear?”

  Conflicting emotions tangle like snakes in my belly. “Tell me about Mom.”

  “I loved her more than life itself. I tried to make her happy.” He pauses, the lines around his mouth taut. “She had a hard time being happy. Things were difficult for her. But I tried. I was on the road so much. I always felt bad about that, but you were so responsible. You took care of things.”

  I run my fingertips along the ridged cords of the armrest. “I was just a kid.”

  He coughs. “You were always so strong.”

  “I shouldn’t have had to be.” He doesn’t say anything.

  “How many times did she try to kill herself?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “How can you not know?”

  “Three or four, maybe. Sometimes she just took too many pills. She wanted to sleep. She felt overwhelmed.”