by Anna Shinoda
sorry. I forgot.” He shoves everything into his closet. “I’ll be back in five seconds. Are you okay alone?” “Sure. I’ll be okay.” But I’m not. Concentrating on the
posters of Peter’s all-time favorite athletes, I stay frozen to the spot where I woke up. Studying the faces of Michael Jordan, Wayne Gretzky, Lionel Messi, Alex Ovechkin, Pelé, and Kobe Bryant, I try to think of something other than one of my brothers stabbing the other with a fork, and my nightmare. But I can only think of one of my brothers
stabbing the other with a fork, and my nightmare. Peter returns with two glasses of water. An ice pack.
Hydrogen peroxide and Band-Aids. I gulp my water
and hold the ice to one knee as he cleans the other. “The cut isn’t bad at all. It looked worse with the
blood. Only two Band-Aids,” Peter says. I look at my
bandaged feet and my knees.
“Maybe I’ll fall and accidentally slit my wrists next.” I
try to make a joke.
Peter shakes his head, forces out a “Ha.” Then adds, “Don’t even joke about that shit, Clare.”
I shrug.
“Do you want to try to sleep again?” Peter asks. The
answer is no. I never want to sleep again. I look at the
window. The clock. It won’t be light for a whole two
more hours. “We can leave the light on, okay, Clare?” He leans against the base of his desk, his eyelids fluttering as he tries to keep them open. I can’t ask him to
stay awake with me.
“Okay,” I say. “I need to read something. Something
nice to get my mind off of . . . everything.”
“Sports Illustrated?” Peter suggests. I don’t play sports,
except when I’m recruited by Chase or Skye so they can
practice. I don’t get sports. Reading about sports is
exactly what I want to do right now.
Back in the bottom bunk I tuck the covers around
me. Peter lays his pillows on the floor next to the bed. “No, Peter. It’s okay. You don’t need to do that.” “I can use a rolled-up sweatshirt. I’ll sleep better
knowing you have something there in case you fall out
again.” Two nightmares in one night. I can’t handle that.
In the morning Peter’s desk lamp is still on. Sports Illustrated is lying across my chest. My body is sore all over, but I have made it through the second half of the night nightmare-free.
Wondering where Peter is, I slowly roll out of the bed, stretching my arms as I stand up and limp to the window. I pull the shade up, letting the gray light of a cloudy sky fill the room. Placing one hand on the glass, my fingertips feel the cold air leaking through. It could snow today.
Gazing out on Peter’s view—our front path that leads to the parking area where all our cars sit—I start sifting through my memories. Through all of those spinning pieces of the jigsaw puzzle of my past.
Looking out at the front path, I can still feel how my heart quickened when I saw the broken front window, the trail of blood.
I allow myself to remember. I allow myself to follow the droplets and turn the corner.
Chapter 44
Perfect Circles
THEN: Age Eleven
Dad was standing next to the couch. Tall, straight, strong. But his face was pale and blotchy red, veins strongly pounding beneath the thin surface. A mix of anger and fear. I stepped backward.
“GET OUT,” Dad shouted, pointing at the back door. “Leave me alone! Let me go to sleep.” Luke leaned against the couch, running his bloody fingers down his face, showing us the red under his lower eyelids.
Dad grabbed Luke by the shirt, pulled him close. “I said, GET OUT!” Dad pushed him toward the door. Luke stumbled, slammed into the wall. I shut my eyes tight. Was this really Luke? Was it really my dad?
Luke’s face morphed and mutated. He showed his teeth and his blood-filled eyes. Ugly.
Then he attacked. He attacked Dad, fists and hands and fingers clawing. They wrestled like two dogs, faces reddening as their breath ran low. Luke pinned Dad to the floor, his knees on his chest. His fingers around Dad’s neck. Red spatters and smears on their faces, arms, shirts, teeth. There was so much blood. So much blood.
Dad coughed. Spurted. Gurgled. Luke didn’t let go.
Skeleton wrapped his fingers around my eyes, but I pushed them away, running to the middle of the room. “STOP! STOP! STOP! STOP! STOP!” My screams froze the room, froze the scene for one tiny moment. Luke’s hands dropped from Dad’s neck.
I expected something more to happen. Did I break the spell? Dad moaned as Luke stood up. Fumbling, Dad grabbed the phone off the end table.
With his eyes on Luke, Dad said in a raw voice, “Go. Now. Don’t make me call the police.”
Luke stumbled, stretching out a bloodied hand. He pushed me to the side, leaving a handprint of red squarely on my chest, more complete than the ink prints in our baby books.
Then the sounds of the front door slamming. Of Luke leaving the house. Where did he go, red with blood? “Clare, be a big helper. Get old towels in cold water, bandages, and hydrogen peroxide, ice packs? Go on now.” Dad’s voice was so weak.
I ran to get everything.
The old towels soaked the red covering Dad. As they cleaned his skin, they revealed slivers of cuts, some deep and long. Ice pressed on his nose and eyes and neck to keep the swelling and bruising away.
“This mess,” Dad said faintly, “is going to be harder to clean up than a roadkill skunk.” He sputtered a fake laugh, looking out of the corner of his swollen eyes to me. I could tell it was for my benefit. I couldn’t join him. “Clare, you know we need to keep some things just in the family, right?”
I nodded.
“Anyone asks . . . I fell down a hill while I was working.”
I nodded again.
I carefully picked up pieces of glass, scrubbed stains of red, placed thrown objects back. Imagined the house was not mine, the brother was not mine, the father was not mine, the Skeleton was not mine. Allowed this memory to cloud over, eclipsed by all the good memories of Luke being kind and gentle and loving, giving myself permission to forget what Luke was capable of doing.
Chapter 45
Thanksgiving
NOW
I back away from Peter’s window, letting the memory completely finish, down to the slow process of watching Dad’s face morph—blacks, purples, blues, greens, yellows—finally back to skin tones, even the scars eventually fading. Once the house looked normal again and Dad’s face looked normal again, I could make myself forget. I could pick and choose the memories of Luke that I wanted to keep, playing over and over and over only the good ones.
But as I look at my bandaged feet and think of Peter’s arm, I realize: It has done nothing for me to filter memories and leave that one out. In fact, maybe if I had allowed myself to remember what Luke was capable of doing, I would have been more cautious. Maybe Peter and I wouldn’t have gotten hurt yesterday.
I limp my way to the living room and lie on the couch for most of the day, mindlessly watching balloon after balloon float down the Macy’s parade route. Then I watch hours of football with Peter, until dinner is ready.
One twenty-pound turkey, four family members. Mom sets the table for five, stands back and sighs, then puts the other place setting back in the cabinet. Sitting down, all together, the room feels full. Especially with Skeleton clunking around the table, dancing by the cabinet, pointing at our family portrait and counting on his bony fingers. Four, not five. He wraps one long arm around Peter.
We all pretend to ignore him. Peter wears long sleeves, concealing the holes in his arm. My bandaged feet are under the table. Saying aloud we are thankful for food and shelter and the love of friends, and of family. No one says they are thankful for safety. Skeleton sits down on the counter, between the apple and pumpkin pies, and watches us eat.
As soon as I’ve taken the last
bite of the last piece of pie, I hobble to my room. I’m still scared to be alone, but Peter is going out with friends tonight, and there is no way that I’m going to resort to sleeping on the floor in my parents’ room. I guess I could call Drea, but then I’d have to explain my bandaged feet. I just don’t want to talk about it.
The light outside my window illuminates our backyard. I watch as fat snowflakes begin to fall from the sky, kissing the branches of our apple tree before dissolving. It’s so beautiful, so peaceful. My eyes blur, and I imagine the yard in the summer, my mother happily sitting under the tree, clapping as Luke and I chase my frog. I want to jump into that memory, live there forever. Forget everything else about Luke.
No more, I resolve. No more floating back into my good memories. No more avoiding the truth.
I double-check to make sure the window is shut and locked, before pulling the curtain closed and crawling under my covers. My bedside lamp is still on, and I plan to sleep with it on for the rest of my life if I need to.
Chapter 46
Let Me Introduce You
to a New Family Skeleton
NOW
The snow continues to fall, on and off for the next five days. The roads are icy enough to cancel school Monday and Tuesday. Wednesday morning the sun is shining and my feet have healed well enough for me to go to school and be able to walk somewhat normally. It’s nice to be back in class, surrounded by my friends. It’s comforting to know that even with my world at home flipped upside down, there will always be a steady stream of lectures and assignments, the security of bells keeping me on schedule. There’s an avalanche of extra homework in my AP classes to keep us to date on our syllabuses. I’m extra busy for the month of December, barely having time to help Mom decorate the house.
Finally, the Saturday before Christmas, I have a morning free to patrol the mall for gifts. One day of shopping. That’s all I have time for.
I fight the urge to buy something for Luke. If he shows up at the house for Christmas, I will call the detective immediately. No shower. No food. No nothing. Skeleton walks beside me, nodding his head at every thought. Even he agrees.
But. What if he shows up sober? Sober and happy and sweet?
I catch myself stroking a black sweater that I know Luke would love. I picture him wearing it. Skeleton tries it on. It fits just right. I shove it back onto the pile. No. I will not buy him anything. If he shows, I will call the police. Even if he’s sober.
After I buy my last gift—a new pair of slippers for Mom—I make one more stop before I go home. Yesterday an envelope appeared in the mail, containing a congratulatory letter and a five-hundred-dollar check. One of the essays I wrote this summer for a scholarship was picked as the winner. I’m figuring what I have in my account: $9,125 plus the additional $500 that I will be depositing today makes a total of $9,625. It seems like a lot of money, but I know it won’t even get me through the first year of school, especially if I live on campus, which I plan to do. Considering no one will hire me in my crap town, I’m relying on scholarships now, a good job wherever I move to later.
“Hi, Sue,” I greet our teller, one of two in our town’s only banking establishment.
“Making a deposit today?” she asks as she takes my check and deposit slip. “Okay. Five hundred into your savings. Did you want any cash back?”
“Not today.”
She stamps the check and initials a few spots before sliding it into a drawer. Then she hands me my receipt. “Here you go.”
I glance at it. Seeing the total grow always feels good. But this time I do a double take. This can’t be right.
“Sue?” I point at the slip. “I’m confused. I had $9,125 in my account. It’s showing only $520. It should be $9,625.”
“Well, that’s because your mother came by this morning and withdrew everything but the twenty dollars we require to keep the account open.” Her eyes, framed by fake lashes, blink twice.
“But . . .” I can feel panic entering my chest, squeezing my heart and lungs. “But . . . this is my account. I didn’t authorize her to withdraw any money.”
“Honey, until you are eighteen, your mother is the joint holder of the account and, therefore, may withdraw money at any time.”
Remain calm, Clare. Stop and think. Be smart right now, not emotional.
“Can I help you with anything else today?”
“Yes, actually. I think I would like to withdraw the remaining money in the account.” I force myself to smile. “All of it. Including the twenty dollars that is needed to keep the account open.”
“Okay. Let’s see. You’re going to have to fill out a few forms.” Her false eyelashes flip up and down as she looks from her computer to me, pushing papers under the bulletproof glass. “And I’m going to have to verify the funds on this five-hundred-dollar check in order to give you cash. It’s from one of our affiliate banks, so it shouldn’t take but five or ten minutes.”
I fill out the forms to the sound of Sue’s finger’s tapping on the keyboard, then of her chatting on the phone for a moment or two before she asks to verify funds. As hard as I try to write with a steady hand, the forms are barely legible when I give them back. I need to get home. I need to find my money.
“All verified. Here you are. Five hundred and twenty dollars. Are hundreds okay?”
“Yes. Thank you.” I try to walk out at a normal pace.
I drive the few blocks home carefully, thinking, thinking. If I confront my mother, I will never see my money again.
Quiet as I can be, I tiptoe into the house. Where would she put it? I instantly think of the fire safe. I find the key. Silently, quickly. Open, look. Nothing there but my parent’s checkbooks and Mom’s only necklace with a diamond. Close, lock, key back.
Why did she take my money? What if she spent it already? What would she spend it on?
Wait. Find the money first. Ask why later.
Where else? Her purse. I look around the room. It’s not in here. Where could it be? Her bedroom? Her closet? I wouldn’t even know where to look.
Kitchen. That’s where she sorts the mail. Maybe in there.
I push the door open, freeze.
Mom greets me with, “They arrested your brother this morning.” She says it like any other mom would say, “We’re out of milk.”
It takes me off guard.
“For the receipt thing?” Oh, shit. I’m going to have to testify against him.
“Well, yes, they did have a warrant for that.” She pauses.
“And?” I ask.
“Well, not that I believe a bit of it, but these two twentysomething girls are claiming that they picked him up when he was hitchhiking and then he stole their car when they stopped to get gas.” Mom pauses. “Not that I believe it. I mean, really. What respectable person picks up hitchhikers these days?”
Skeleton nods as Mom steps toward me.
“Clare.” Mom’s fingers close in on my shoulder. “It would be a shame for Luke to spend Christmas in a holding cell, waiting for the trial, don’t you think?” She doesn’t wait for my response. “I know how much you love him, and I knew that you would want to help him, so I withdrew some money from your savings account today.”
Bail. This is about needing bail so Luke will be home for Christmas! She wants me to sacrifice all my hard work, all the time I spent working at the library, as a tutor, as a lifeguard. Ten hours a week during the school year since I was twelve years old. Thirty-three hours a week all summer and a half lifeguarding. So that Luke can be home for Christmas. I pry her talons off my shoulder. She must be sick. Ill. Mentally ill. There is no other explanation. I take a few steps back. “Do you know how bail works?” Mom asks, in a voice that she uses for small children. “Let me explain. Luke is going to be tried sometime in February, or maybe early March. If we post bail, from now until that time the judge allows Luke to be free, to be with his family or friends. What they require is that a certain amount of money is held by the court. If he shows up on his court
date, we get the money back. It’s that easy. And the bail bonds company takes a little percentage of the amount of bail for their services.”
“But what if he doesn’t show up? I’ve been saving that money my whole life,” I say. “For college. I need it.” Where the hell is my money?
“But you won’t be giving it away permanently. It’s just a loan, until Luke’s trial date,” she says. “We can’t afford it without your help.”
“What happens if he doesn’t show for the trial?” I ask again.
“We don’t worry about that, because Luke will show for his trial date. He always has.”
“Just so I completely understand how it works, what happens if he doesn’t show?” She’s not going to say. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll just look it up online.”
“Nothing comes back.” Her lips thin out, and the vein begins to show in her forehead. Has she already posted bail?
I have to stall for time. “Okay. I’ll think about it,” I say. I need to find the cash now—if it is here—let her think I’m considering. Where would she put it? Then I see the strap of her purse, pinched in the pantry door.
“The decision’s been made, Clare,” she tells me. “I have the money and I’m going to use it for Luke’s bail.”
She said “going to use it.” So it should still be here. Remain calm. Let her think she’s won.
“Okay,” I say. “I guess you’ve made the decision for me.”
She smiles.
Miraculously, she goes into the bathroom. It may be my only chance.
Open the pantry. There is Mom’s poorly hidden purse.
Inside is an envelope, filled with hundreds. There is a receipt. My account number is on the bottom. The relief is overwhelming. I stuff the envelope under my shirt. The guilt is overwhelming. It’s my money. Why do I feel like I am stealing?
Mom’s purse drops back into place. I grab my keys and drive to Drea’s as snow begins to fall once again.
“Your mom’s seriously crazy, but I can’t believe this.” Drea’s fingers are shaking as we count the money. With the cash I just withdrew, it totals $9,625. It’s all there.
