by Anna Shinoda
“He’s okay, just sleeping.” She paused. “Thank you for getting me, Clare Bear. Why don’t you grab yourself a bowl of cereal?” Another pause. “And, Clare, let’s keep this between the two of us, okay?”
I nodded.
As I ate my cereal, I peeked into the living room, catching Mom gently wiping away the blood on Luke’s head and face while he slept. Adhering Band-Aids. Lovingly, but at the same time like it was her duty to clean it all up, cover it all up—his cuts, the blood, the truth—before he woke up and saw what he looked like. Before Dad and Granny and Papa woke up and saw him too.
It didn’t matter. Later that day Papa told Luke, “I can’t have drug addicts in this house. You come back when you’ve been sober a year, or you never come back. You hear me, Luke?”
While Luke gathered up his stuff, I watched him, sniffling. It wasn’t fair that Papa was just kicking him out. He said Luke was a drug addict. Why didn’t Papa offer to give him help instead of making him leave?
Luke gave me a kiss and a big Luke-sized hug. And then he was gone. Again.
Chapter 27
Nightmare
NOW
Icy blue air.
My screams break though my ears, break though the
nightmare.
My eyelids fly open.
My room. The lights are all on. Luke is here. “Squeaks? You were screaming loud enough to wake
the whole town. I came running in! You okay?” “Nightmare.” I swallow hard. My heart is beating so
loudly that I swear he can hear it, all the way by the door. “Damn. You still get nightmares?” Why is Luke still
in his jeans? Has he been up all night? What is he hiding
behind his back?
“Ugh. All the time.” I say.
“Will a little four-fourteen-a.m. snack help?” Luke
suggests.
I rub the sweat off my forehead. “Okay.”
“Alright, Squeaks. One Luke special coming right
up. Meet you in the kitchen.”
With all the confusion of the nightmare and Luke
being there, I almost don’t notice him drop my purse
to the floor. Almost.
Chapter 28
Why Is Luke in Jail, Mom, Dad?
THEN: Age Thirteen
“Luke’s been picked up. Again,” Mom told Dad as he walked in from work. Her voice was quiet and exhausted, her eyes red.
Did she realize I was sitting right there?
“Damn it.” He pressed his lips together. “What for?” “The usual,” Mom said. I remembered the last time
I’d asked about why he was in jail. The wrong place at the wrong time.
“What is ‘the usual’?” I asked, surprising myself and my parents.
“He was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Mom answered quickly.
“But what did they accuse him of doing?” I was thirteen. That answer wasn’t good enough for me anymore. I knew people didn’t keep getting randomly thrown in jail if they didn’t do anything wrong.
Mom looked at Dad. He ran his hand over his head, then shrugged, giving my mom permission to tell me that Luke had been caught possessing drugs, but he’d claimed he’d been wearing a friend’s coat. They’d also said he’d stolen something. She added, “Now, Ms. Nosy Pants, didn’t I ask you to vacuum your room?”
Turning toward the closet where we kept the vacuum, my ear caught one more important piece of information.
“Do we know what he’s facing?”
“His lawyer says with his priors he could be looking at four to six years.”
Four to six years? My brain raced. Four years at the very least? In four years I’d be seventeen when he got out again! Four years of summers. Four years of Halloweens, Thanksgivings, Christmases, Easters. Four years without my brother.
And four years of Luke being in prison. I swallowed hard. I didn’t know what that was like, but I knew it had to be awful.
Watching the dirt disappear in neat little stripes while I listened to the roar of the vacuum, I let my mind go where I rarely allowed it. Luke probably was never in the wrong place at the wrong time. My parents just told me that because I was a little kid. So before, had it been drugs? Theft? Or something different?
And this time . . . What kind of drugs? And if it had been his friend’s coat, did his friend go to jail too, or just Luke?
It didn’t make sense to me that he’d steal something. Luke had a job. And he got to stay here and eat here, and Mom didn’t charge him anything, so why would he steal? Maybe he had a really good reason, like maybe he was trying to help someone who was really poor. Like Robin Hood did? I told myself to stop being stupid. Robin Hood was just a story, and Luke was going to jail. And a drug habit was expensive.
I imagined all the questions I had being sucked out of the air and into the vacuum. I put the full bag in the trash outside. Left my unanswered questions there too.
Chapter 29
Christmas in July
NOW
Bing Crosby is crooning. “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, everywhere you go.”
Which wouldn’t be strange, if it were December. But it’s July. And I was asleep. Finally sleeping deeply and soundly, like a log, which I always thought was a weird saying, but in some ways a good saying because logs don’t have nightmares.
Bing keeps singing. As my eyes open, a tiny tree decorated with lights and little paper ornaments slowly comes into focus.
“With candy canes and silver lanes aglowwwwwwwww,” Luke’s voice joins Bing’s just as he slides into view in front of the tree.
I point out the obvious. “There’s a Christmas tree in my room.”
“I know. It’s great. Ma never throws out anything. The attic’s like a fucking junkyard, but I found this, and look, ornaments made by you and me and Peter. You were, like, six years old. Do you remember? Man, I loved making those with you guys—all the glitter and cotton balls and paint. We should make some today.” I can barely keep up with Luke. Is he talking fast, or am I thinking slowly?
“But why is there a Christmas tree in here?” I sit up and start to survey the room. Everything else seems normal enough. My fish are still swimming, my duffel bag is waiting for me to fill it with clothes for the trip out to Granny’s. My purse is on the floor next to the bed, exactly where I left it once I made sure nothing was missing after I saw Luke drop it. And I’m assuming the two twenties and the ten that I took out of my wallet and stashed in my sock drawer are also still there.
“Because. We’re gonna celebrate Christmas. To make up for the last few ones that I missed. So here. Merry Christmas.” Luke hands me a small box. Wrapped in gold paper, a red supermarket bow from Mom’s ribbon stash stuck on top.
A necklace. Silver locket, no inscription, just an oval of smooth metal.
“Open it.”
Inside is a tiny photo of a teenage Luke holding a baby Clare.
“It’s you and me, Squeakers, from your first New Year’s. Right after Ma brought you home from the hospital. You were like the size of a football.” Luke looks so young. “Ma made me wear those dorky red pants. Oh, and you spit up all over me right after we took this picture. Ma said, ‘Oh, Clare Bear, why did you do that? I hope we have one good picture.’ And we did—this one.” Luke is still talking at hyper-speed. I’m afraid to look at his eyes. Afraid they will be red. Afraid to smell his breath. I don’t want this moment to be ruined. I’m just going to assume he’s excited and happy, and that a substance has nothing to do with this morning.
“So do you like it, the locket, the photo? I’m not so good at this. I mean, I don’t have a lot of practice at giving gifts.” My heart cracks—how could Luke be afraid that I wouldn’t like it?
“It’s the best gift. I love it. And how can you say you’re not good at giving gifts?” I point to the wooden box. “It’s for my treasures. Take a look at what I keep inside.” His fingers run along the smooth edges, delicately lifting the l
id. His hand floats down and picks up each letter, one by one. Bing Crosby and his chorus are now singing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas”—adding a bittersweet sound track to the moment.
“You’ve kept them? My letters? All of them?” His
voice is wavy.
“I kept all of them.” I rub my eyes with my pillow,
telling them to stop watering.
“If only in my dreams . . .” Bing’s voice is going to
push me over the crying edge.
Luke clears his throat, finally says, “That’s cool,
Squeakers. Really.”
He gently places the box back on my bookcase.
Checks the clock next to my bed. “Wow. I’ve gotta get to
that construction site before we go. Remind them about
me for when we get back. I guess Christmas is over till
December, huh?”
“Thanks, Luke. This means a lot to me,” I say. “You got it.” He gives a wave as he leaves the room. I open the locket. Squinting to get a better look at the photo. Luke’s comfortable with holding me, and I’m snug in his arms, sleeping.
I’d love to stay in bed all day, pretending like it’s Christmas for real, reading a book in my pj’s under the covers with no responsibilities, no worries. But it’s July. My last day of work for the summer. Chris’s last chance for me to teach him to swim. He’s showed up for five lessons, and we’ve made good progress.
Chris smiles and jumps up when he sees me.
There are two ways to get into a freezing snow-runofffilled lake. One is tiptoeing in, screaming “It’s too cold!” with each step, holding your breath as the water slowly covers inch after inch of skin. The other is jumping in, not knowing which part of you is the coldest. Getting the shock over within a few seconds, convincing your body and mind that the water is not really that cold, starting to move your arms and legs, letting the warm blood pump through your body at the same time that you feel the sun penetrating the water.
“On three.” Chris and I hold hands. Our toes curl along the concrete edge. We’ll be jumping in waist deep for me, chest deep for Chris.
“One,” I say.
“Man, it is going to be so cold!” Chris says. “Two,” I say.
“And three!”
Shock. Brrr. Sun. Not so bad.
I’ve learned a lot about Chris these past couple of weeks. He’s not the bully that I pegged him for, or the annoying brat of a brother that Mandy can’t stand to be around, or the hyper kid that Lucille tries to push away because he doesn’t fit quite right in her stupidly perfect little family. The first lessons were impossible. He didn’t want to do anything. But once his confidence kicked in, he really started working hard. I start to wonder if Luke was like Chris as a kid—his potential overlooked because he got in trouble. Chris really wants to learn, and I am desperate to teach him. Desperate to be the outside force that inspires him to challenge himself.
“Let’s get warmed up with your kicks.” I toss him a boogie board. “More from the hips than the knees. There you go. Perfect.” After he’s warmed up, we practice the swim test from start to finish. He jumps from the diving board into the deep end and starts to tread water. Three minutes later he begins his swim to the island, me doing a sidestroke beside him. His crawl is pretty ugly, his breaststroke not much better. He’s wasting a ton of energy, but at least he’s swimming. Kind of. When we get to the island, he pulls himself out of the water and flops down, exhausted. He just doesn’t have the endurance to swim back.
“You did great, Chris.” I tell him as he rests. Then my heart drops a little. “I wish I had more time. I think with another week of practice we could tighten up your strokes and you could pass the swim test for sure.”
He shrugs, but I can tell he’s disappointed. He agrees to practice while I’m gone, and I demonstrate some more strokes in case he wants to try them before I return.
“Hey, Chris,” I say, looking him straight in the eye. “You let me know if there is anything else you need help with, okay? Not just swimming. Anything.”
His face scrunches up, like he’s deciding whether to tell me something or not. Lucille breaks the moment, yelling from the beach, holding his blue towel up.
“Thanks,” Chris says. As I we swim toward his mom, I try to convince myself that the trip to Granny’s will be over before I know it. There will still be enough summer to finish teaching him to swim. I have to believe that, because I can’t just leave Chris on his own.
Chapter 30
On My Own
THEN: Age Thirteen
Two lessons. That’s all I had. One from Luke: learn to float. One from Peter: a basic crawl stroke.
Private lessons were out—too expensive. Dad’s idea of teaching me was throwing me into the deep end and yelling, “Sink or swim!” Mom refused to help, using her disgust for the lake water as an excuse.
Drea showed me what I would need to know for the swim test: jump off diving board, tread water, swim to the island and back. I watched other kids, little kids, younger than me by three or four years, pass the test using a number of styles: backstroke, crawl, breaststroke, sidestroke, even doggy paddle.
Then I practiced. Drea cheering me on.
In July I passed the swim test. All on my own. The lifeguard was so impressed with how hard I tried
to swim correctly that she gave me a couple of free lessons so I could really learn. At the end of summer she gave me information on junior lifeguards. By applying for financial aid, I was able to do the program for free, CPR class included.
The next summer I was a junior lifeguard. And I knew that once I turned sixteen, I would pass the test and become an official lifeguard and work my summers at the lake. I made the plan, and I did it. All on my own.
Chapter 31
Favor
NOW
“Hey, Squeaks, can you do me a favor?” Luke is standing at my bedroom door. Everything I think I need for the next few weeks is packed in two mismatched duffel bags, a backpack, and a purse. Our flight leaves at eight p.m. tonight.
“Depends on how long it takes,” I say, stuffing another few skeins of yarn into one of the bags. As a last-minute addition I decide to pack enough yarn to knit a blanket, and a beanie for Ryan. “I’m meeting friends later.”
“I just need you to drive me to a few stores so I can return some things.” Now I notice the three plastic shopping bags in his hand.
“Where?”
“Bargain Bin, Compute This, and Valerie’s.”
I look at the clock. Eleven a.m. Okay, there’s enough time. “As long as I’m home by two,” I say, dropping a large feeder into the aquarium that’s supposed to keep my fish alive for a month. I double-check my instructions for Peter to check the fish while I’m gone. “Let’s go.”
The car ride is all small talk. Luke asking questions about school and friends.
We pull into the parking lot of Bargain Bin. Luke opens a small black organizer, looks through it carefully. His fingers slide down each receipt as he looks from his shopping bags to the list of items printed on each slip of paper. He pulls a few receipts out, tosses the organizer onto the floor of the car.
“I’ll just be a second. Wait here.” It’s not an offer; it’s an order, and I follow it.
Skeleton looks over my shoulder from the backseat. “What are you doing here?” I mutter at him.
He points at the organizer, open on the passenger seat floor, a few receipts spilling out. I reach over and pick it up. Sliding the receipts back in, I notice the organizer is filled with them from different stores, the ink dark and new.
Skeleton’s bony finger tap, taps, taps the top of the receipt. Purchase date: June fifth. Luke was still in prison.
I clamp the organizer shut.
“Maybe I should take a lesson from Luke and try organizing things this way,” I say to Skeleton, changing the subject. “I can never find any receipts.”
Frustrated, Skeleton throws his arms up at me. “Big
deal. It’s not a crime to have an organizer.” I return it to the floor. Skeleton pushes me, leaning far over the seat, hits the organizer open so papers fly out. “Stop!” I yell, hurrying to stuff the receipts back in. There are so many. Too many. Luke couldn’t have had time to shop for this much stuff. He couldn’t have afforded it either.
As Luke exits the store, I quickly put his organizer back.
“Thanks.” Luke slides into the car. “Two more stops, then we’re done. We’re good on time, right?” “Two more stops?” Check the clock. A little past noon. There is plenty of time. Skeleton shakes his head. He’s right. Whatever Luke is doing with this receipt book doesn’t make sense.
And I don’t want to be a part of it. “I don’t know. I don’t want to be late.”
Luke’s smile drops. “C’mon, Squeaks.” He pulls his fingers through his hair. “It’s only noon. We have plenty of time. Besides, I need to handle these returns today. We leave tonight.”
I agree to drive to the next store. Luke exits the car. Skeleton shakes my shoulders.
“Leave me alone.” I turn on the radio and close my eyes as I sing along to words I don’t quite know. One last stop. Ignoring Skeleton as best I can. “Alright. All done.” Luke jumps into the car. “One o’clock. You should be home with time to spare.” He tries to start up a conversation, but I fake an excited “I love this song!” and turn the music as loud as I can stand it. Maybe nothing that weird is going on. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe not. But I know one thing: I don’t want to think about it anymore. He’s my brother and I love him. And that is all that matters. That has to be all that matters.
Chapter 32
Broken Bones
THEN: Age Thirteen
When Mom got to the hospital, she was worried only for a minute. Once she realized I wasn’t going to die, she demanded, “Explain yourself, young lady.”
