by Amy Giles
Charlie leans forward, elbows on his knees, riveted. He turns to me wide-eyed, shaking his head. “Crazy.”
I nod, but the cosmic calendar’s perspective snips at the last fragile threads holding me together. If each second equals 438 years, then this, us, me . . . mean nothing. We’re not even a flick of static on the radar. Every breath I’ve taken over the course of my entire lifetime combined, doesn’t even make a dent in the timeline of humanity’s existence. The world is filled with worse things. Famine, genocide, disease. We’re a rich family with a fucked-up father. We’re nothing.
My body and mind are exhausted. In this moment, never waking up, never having these dark thoughts again, is the only solution that makes sense. It’s not the first time it’s crossed my mind, but it scares me enough that it forces me up on my feet.
Charlie helps me with my jacket. His fingers linger on my collar, straightening it, tugging at it, then his head lowers to mine, our foreheads touching.
“I’m sorry about CPS,” he says finally. “I thought it would help.”
“It’ll be okay,” I lie, because I can’t bear that look on his face. He shakes his head, but I nod, trying to convince him. If he loses hope too, I’m lost.
His arms reach around me again, squeezing tighter and tighter. I almost can’t breathe, but that’s okay. This would be the best way to go.
Today is Thursday. Lila has been sleeping almost nonstop since we got home, only waking up as the meds wear off, but then Mom shows up with another dose that knocks her right out again.
“I don’t think she should be sleeping this much,” I say as Mom checks the clock on the stove for the next dose.
“Your father said the doctor told him to stay on top of the pain,” she answers.
“But she’s been asleep since Tuesday. That can’t be good,” I say, walking behind her upstairs as Mom opens the door to Lila’s room. The blinds are shut. Lila’s room, always active and bright, filled with music and dancing and tons and tons of attitude, is dark and depressing. My usually larger-than-life little sister is just a lump under the covers.
“Hey,” I say, as her eyes flutter open. Stretching, she tries to fight off the drowsiness. With a wince, she glances down at her arm, so thoroughly zonked she forgot it was broken.
“Time for your medicine,” Mom says, handing her a pill and some water. “I’ll bring you some food in a bit.”
Resenting my mother for the gazillionth time this week alone, I suggest, “Maybe we should let her eat first so she doesn’t sleep through another meal.”
Mom purses her lips. “Okay. That sounds like a good idea.” She puts the pill and water down on Lila’s nightstand. “I’ll be back in a minute with a bite to eat.”
She leaves, and I turn to Lila.
“How are you feeling?”
“Sleepy.” Even her words are sluggish, as if coated in molasses. I walk over to her blinds and open them a bit to ease her back into daylight.
“It’s perfect sledding weather,” I say. “I wish you were feeling better. I can’t go out there by myself; I’ll look like a dork.”
“More than usual,” she adds, and her lips struggle to smile. I’m encouraged by her attempt at sarcasm.
She winces again, probably from the pain in her arm.
“You okay?” I ask, smoothing some hair away from her forehead.
She glances up at me.
“Is Dad here?” she whispers. My heart skips a beat.
“No.”
Her bottom lip wobbles. “He did it.”
“Did . . . what?” Needles of terror prickle across my skin.
“I didn’t fall,” she squeezes out.
“What?” My heart roars in my ears. An avalanche approaches that is going to bury me alive, but I can’t get out of its way fast enough.
“I told him I didn’t want to go down the mountain. I was scared. And I got mad at him for calling me a baby. Every day. Whenever I got scared, he’d call me a baby!” Her voice hitches. “It came out by accident. I know I shouldn’t have said it.”
“Said what?”
“I called him an asshole.”
“Oh God.” My hand flies to my mouth.
“I think because I heard Mom say it—”
“Lila. What did he do?”
Downstairs, Mom putters around the kitchen. The blender whirs, probably a smoothie, Mom’s idea of TLC.
“He smacked me,” she says. I wince as if it happened to me, the crack of his hand across her cheek, how much it must have stung in the cold. And for a brief second I’m relieved. We have our own scale of aggression to measure against in this house. A slap is a two, a three. But she’s not done, even though I want her to stop talking so badly my hand itches to cover her mouth.
“Then h-he grabbed my jacket and pulled me up to his face and yelled at me. He was really mad. And then, I don’t know, like, he dropped me or pushed me, but I fell and rolled a long time. I heard it crack . . . my arm. And when I finally stopped, I was alone. And I thought . . . I thought he was mad enough to leave me there.”
The blender stops whirring downstairs, and we just stare at each other in the silence.
I’m there on the slope with him, as if it were me he threw down a mountain. Because that’s what Lila has always been, the part of me that I needed to protect and save. And I failed.
Blinding anger consumes me, extinguishing any last flicker of hope that lingered inside me.
“Hadley?” she looks at me with fearful eyes. Whatever flashed across my face scared her. “Are you okay?”
“No. But I will be.”
I pocket her painkiller.
Mom comes up with a bed tray that she places over Lila’s lap. Glancing over, she searches the nightstand.
“She took it already,” I say, fluffing Lila’s pillow. Then I hand her the smoothie off the tray, and Lila takes it from me. Without asking, Lila knows. I’m in charge now.
then
Later that night, I rap my knuckles on the doorjamb. “Dad?”
He’s in his study, looking at his computer screen, his eyeballs darting left and right, reading numbers that make sense only to him. He looks borderline happy; he must have made some more money.
He glances up at me for a second then back at his screen. “Yeah?”
I walk in hesitantly.
“I wanted to talk to you. About Cornell.” I stop in front of his desk. He glances up at me and rubs a hand across his stubble. I guess his girlfriend doesn’t have a razor for him at her place. Or he hasn’t cashed in my thoughtful gift card to the Art of Shaving yet.
He gestures to the chair across from his desk, which I gratefully accept because my knees are just about to give out on me or start knocking together like in the cartoons.
Inhale, exhale. “I’m sorry I missed the early decision deadline. I screwed up. Especially because the more I think about it, the more excited I am to go. If I get in, I mean.”
He leans back in his chair like a pleased king looking down at one of his repentant serfs.
“Good.”
He turns back to his computer.
“I’m thinking of taking a ride up there, talk to Coach Jeffreys.” I lift a shoulder. “I could ask Meaghan to go with me, but I thought I’d check with you first. See if you had any interest in going?”
His face lights up. “Honestly, I’d love an excuse to visit again.”
He grabs his iPhone and checks his calendar, doing that long-armed old person squint before grabbing his reading glasses off the desk.
“Let’s go tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
He levels me with a suspicious glare over his glasses. “Why? Have big plans?”
“No, I just . . .” Think, think.
He taps his phone and grimaces. “Tomorrow doesn’t work. They’re expecting a storm. Can’t fly in that.” His fingers flip along the screen, his lips tug down, contemplating. “We’ll go on the second. Clear skies.”
Air rushes out of me in
a whoosh; I’m not sure how long I’d been holding my breath.
“Okay, good.” I stand up on shaky legs, turning to leave.
“Hadley.” His takes his glasses off and gestures for me to sit back down. “Do you know who called CPS?”
My heart jackhammers in my ears.
“No.” I shake my head slowly, calmly, bottling my panic inside where he can’t reach it. “I mean, I just figured it was because of Mom’s DWI,” I say, throwing the bait away from me.
He leans forward, never breaking eye contact. “I have my suspicions about who made that call. But let me make this perfectly clear: I’m not going to let the government come into my house and tell me how to raise my children. Over my dead body. Understood?”
He stares at me, and I nod in agreement quickly.
He waits for me to flinch, to show any signs of weakness that reveal my involvement.
Still nodding, I try to swallow but I gag instead, coughing into my fist to cover it up. “I know.”
Dad leaves early the next morning, just as the snowflakes start falling from the sky like confectioners’ sugar, soft and harmless. By late morning it’s practically a blizzard.
My laptop rings. Meaghan’s shiny, makeup-free face appears on the screen, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“Yay! You’re back!” She shakes two fists in the air. I don’t dare tell her I’ve been back since Tuesday.
“Yep,” I say.
She finds her mug off to the side and lifts it to her mouth, taking a sip. “When I didn’t hear from you on Christmas, I sent Charlie a text. He said your dad was taking you all skiing.” She shoots me a warning glare. “Kind of weird to hear what’s going on with you from your boyfriend.”
I’m not up to managing Meaghan today.
“My father confiscated my phone for the entire trip,” I say. “Literally took it out of my hands while I was texting you. He said he didn’t want us to be distracted while we were on a family vacation, but it was just his way of keeping me from talking to Charlie.”
Meaghan cringes. “That’s sick.”
She looks away and clears her throat, a nervous habit to stall while she gathers her thoughts, like when Señora Moore calls on her and she doesn’t know the answer. I pick up a paper clip off my desk and unfurl it, bend by bend, waiting.
“What?”
“Nothing . . . it’s just . . . your dad seems to be getting worse. I mean, taking your phone so you can’t talk to Charlie is pretty diabolical.”
Having my phone confiscated is the least of my problems. Nearly everyone I know has had their phone taken away at some point or another. That would actually make me normal. I’ll bet none of them have been dropkicked for getting a B-minus on a calculus test.
Meaghan gasps. “Oh shit. Do you think he read our texts? Or your texts to Charlie!”
“I delete them.”
She nods and smiles, ready to move on to something happier. “So . . . ,” she says, trying to brighten the mood. “Tomorrow night!”
“What about it?” I ask. There’s a chirping on her end.
“It’s Noah. Let’s add him,” she says. My screen adjusts to accommodate both of their faces. Noah’s dark floppy hair is damp, with snow still clinging to the tips.
“It’s nasty out there. The roads are a mess,” he says, shaking the wet flakes from his hair.
“My sister has a doctor’s appointment this afternoon. I hope the roads are clear by then.”
“Lila’s sick?” Noah asks.
“Broken arm. Skiing,” I add.
They both gasp. “Oh no! Poor Lila,” Meaghan says.
The paper clip, twisted and mangled during my conversation with Meaghan, pokes me under my nail. I drop it and pick up a new one to destroy. They don’t know the half of it. If CPS can’t help us, I have nothing to gain by telling Noah and Meaghan. And at this point, I have even more to lose.
Meaghan says, “Noah, I was just about to tell Hadley about our New Year’s Eve plans.”
New Year’s Eve has always been my least favorite holiday of the year. Not having someone to kiss at midnight is the equivalent of going to the prom with your cousin. And even though for the first time in my life I actually do have someone to kiss, this New Year’s Eve will be the worst one of all. I was hoping Charlie and I could just do something quiet together, alone.
“What about it?” I ask cautiously.
“I’m having a party!” she announces. “And you have to dress up!” Her finger points to the screen, but Noah and I both answer, “Who? Me?”
“Not you, Noah!” She rolls her eyes. “I’m not worried about you. I’m worried about Miss Thinks a Grandma Cardigan Is Dressed Up over there!”
“I do not!” I say, before reviewing my wardrobe in my mind. “Okay, well, whatever. I don’t think I can make it anyway.”
There’s a stunned silence from both of them.
“What?” Meaghan’s voice squeaks with hurt feelings.
“You know I hate big parties!” I backpedal, trying to unwind the damage my words inflicted.
Her eyes glisten. I can’t do that to her, even if the last thing I want to do is ring in the New Year and celebrate, not when I know what lies ahead. But I can’t hurt Meaghan like this.
“I’m sorry. That was dumb. Of course I’ll come.”
Meaghan smiles in relief, but Noah scrutinizes me from under his eyelashes.
“Everything okay over there, Muscles?” he asks.
It’s the knowing way he says it that just about destroys me, as if he’s putting the last few pieces of the puzzle together and finally seeing my life for what it really is.
Noah would give his left arm to make things better for me if he could, I know that down to my marrow. But no one can stop what’s already been set in motion.
I nod and blink hard, trying to will away the tears.
“Fantastic! Can’t wait to see you guys tomorrow. What can I bring?”
“Yourself! And your man!” Meaghan laughs, back into excited party-planning mode.
Later that afternoon, a plow scrapes a path down our block. Mom’s already been hitting the Chardonnay, so I take Lila to her doctor’s appointment.
The pediatric orthopedist is pleased with how the bone was set in Vermont. He pats Lila on the head and calls her Suzy Chapstick.
“Who?” Lila asks, full of snark.
He laughs. “She was a famous skier back in my day. Try to avoid doing the Triple Lindy again till you get to the Olympics, okay?”
“A what?” she asks. Dr. Sher, who’s probably around my parents’ age, shakes his head. “Rodney Dangerfield? Back to School? No? God I’m old!” Lila and I smile to be polite.
He’s about to leave the room when I pull out the bottle of pain meds.
“Dr. Sher?” He turns back to me. I hand him the bottle. “They gave Lila these for the pain.”
He looks at them and at Lila, nods once. “Just to get her over the initial hump.”
“So . . . not every four hours then,” I say.
“Only if she needs them.” He turns to Lila. “Are you on these now?”
“No,” she answers.
“She’s taking Children’s Advil,” I add.
“And it’s dulling the pain?” he asks.
She nods.
“Okay.” He turns to me. “Really, the ibuprofen should be enough. I’m not a fan of these.” He holds up the bottle and hands it back to me. “Bare minimum they’ll constipate her.” He turns back to Lila. “When was the last time you had a bowel movement, Lila?”
“Gross!” is her answer.
“Lila! Just answer him!” I scowl at her.
She pretends to gag and then says, “I don’t remember.”
He nods knowingly.
“Pick up a stool softener at the drugstore. That should do it.”
He turns to leave again, and I press it further. “It’s just . . . my parents were under the impression they needed to give these to her every four hours.�
��
“As needed,” he stresses. “And since she doesn’t need them . . .”
“Right.” I nod. “Okay, good. They were making her sleep a lot,” I add. That’s exactly what Dad wanted, I’m sure. For Lila to sleep so she wouldn’t blab.
“I bet.” He stares back at me. Behind his kind eyes, the gears are spinning. “So neither of your parents were available to make it to this appointment?”
I clutch the edge of the exam table; the paper crackles under my fingers.
“No.” I like Dr. Sher. He’s asking the right questions.
“Do they both work?” He opens his file and clicks on his pen.
“Just my dad,” I offer. Keep going . . .
“And Mom?” He starts to scribble something.
She was drunk! She got arrested for a DWI with Lila in the car, and now I’ll never let her drive Lila anywhere ever again! Tell him! Tell him that she didn’t break her arm doing a Triple Lindy, that our father threw her down the mountain because she called him an asshole!
“Couldn’t make it,” I say, and my eyes plead with him to understand, to read between the lines.
He scribbles something, and I hope he’s as good a mind reader as he is a pediatric orthopedist. I envision how Dr. Sher will come to our rescue. He’ll red-flag Lila’s file, stamp it suspicious and demand to speak to someone at CPS who can actually do something to help us.
But as he takes my hand in a limp shake and walks across the hall to greet his next patient with the same level of interest and enthusiasm, I know that file is just going right back in the cabinet when we leave.
I open my mouth to call him back. To tell him. But my father’s threatening face looms in front of mine again, silencing me.
Back in the car, I navigate the slushy roads from the doctor’s office to the expressway. But taking Lila home is like handing her back over to the enemy. A map unfurls in my mind, tracing detours, exits, and escape routes. As we approach the ramps, I veer onto the westbound ramp.
