by Gwen Cole
I make it downstairs without a sound.
But when I smell coffee coming from the kitchen, I let out a quiet sigh and continue on. Uncle Jasper glances up from his paper as I pause in the doorway to the kitchen.
“Sit down and I’ll have a look at your side,” he says.
I glance at the door, trying to find an excuse to leave so I’ll be home before Dad goes to work. “I’m sure it’s fine. I should get home.”
“Kale, just sit down. This will only take a minute.”
I pull out the chair and sit, lifting up my shirt so Uncle Jasper can look. I stare at the stove over his head as he peels away the bandage and tape. Not wanting to look at something that could’ve killed me. Just thinking about it makes my heart pound faster.
It was too close.
“It looks good. Just make sure you keep it clean and come back if the stitches start coming out before they should.” He throws the red-stained bandage in the trash, replacing it with another one. “You’re lucky you heal pretty quick. It’s like—I don’t know.” He shakes his head and sits down.
“Like I was meant for this?” I pull my shirt back down.
He shrugs and goes back to eating his toast. “I don’t know. Maybe. Do you want some breakfast?”
“No, I should go.” I pull on my shoes, being careful of my side.
“I was going to work in the garage if you want to join me. I’ve got a ’68 Camaro in there that needs a lot of work. Should be fun.”
I stand and head for the door. “Maybe later.”
Then he says, “Why are you in such a hurry to get home?” But his tone of voice is different from before. Hinting at what he already knows.
My hand pauses on the screen door. “And why do you keep trying to stall something that’s inevitable? You know things aren’t good between us, and not being there more won’t help anything.”
Uncle Jasper’s chair pushes back, and I see him in my periphery, putting his dishes in the sink. He grabs his truck keys off the counter, only pausing to say, “It only is because you make it that way.”
He turns to leave, but I can’t keep my mouth shut. “Because I don’t have a choice.”
“Everyone has choices, Kale. You have the choice to tell him again, but you don’t.”
I turn around and he stands in the doorway, turning to leave. “Because I can’t.”
“That’s something for you to figure out. Not me and not anyone. And until you realize that, I can’t help you.”
I haven’t heard his voice this hard in a long time.
“And I never asked you to,” I tell him.
I regret saying it the moment the words come out.
Whatever drop of temper Uncle Jasper had is gone. Like he’s given up already. “Then go home, Kale. Go home and keep lying to your father thinking it’ll get better on its own.”
And he leaves. Not even looking back once.
Before my thoughts have any time to process, I breeze out the door and across the lawn, walking as fast as I can without pain stabbing my side. The sun is starting to rise when I disappear into the woods. I’m blinded by rage and my heart pounds too fast.
I stop suddenly and yell, “Fuck!”
I don’t remember ever being so angry.
But I don’t know if I’m angry at Uncle Jasper or myself. Because what bothers me the most is that he’s right. I need to try telling him again, consequences or not. I need him to believe me and see me for who I really am.
Why does telling the truth have to be so hard?
I start down the path again, my blood still hot from what was said in the kitchen. It’s one of those moments I wish I could take back. Uncle Jasper isn’t the one I should be fighting with.
I pull on my sweatshirt when the house comes into view. I feel colder already. My car is exactly where I left it, and Dad’s truck is parked next to Bryce’s near the garage. The insides of my stomach are tight.
I never know what to expect when I get home. Some days are good. Some days are bad.
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I start across the dew covered grass. Making a darker trail from where I came from.
I could’ve waited until later to come home, like Uncle Jasper was trying to get me to do. But the longer I put it off, the more nervous I get. I would rather get it done with. One less thing to worry about.
Dad is on the couch watching the morning news. I let the door swing shut behind me.
He takes a long look at me. “You look like shit.”
Love you, too, Dad.
The news anchor’s voice echoes from the television, pushing its way between our silence. Dad finally looks away and puts his mug on the coffee table. He’s too calm. Like something worse is coming.
“Kale, do you know it’s a privilege to live in this house?” He stands, towering a half foot over me. I hate looking up at him. So I don’t. I can’t. “I work so you can eat, sleep, take showers. It costs money to live … something you know nothing about, because you can’t get a damn job.”
Then he asks something he hasn’t for a long time.
He voice is soft—changed. “Why do you keep doing this?”
I slowly lift my head, barely able to look him in the eye. And what I see there isn’t anger. They’re the eyes of a father who cares. Someone I miss.
I open my mouth, but words won’t come out. I’m scared to tell him the truth—scared to say anything—thinking it’ll make worse all over again.
“I’m sorry.” The only words I know.
I can see his mind whirling. At first, a look of disappointment crosses his face, followed by something I’m starting to see more of—anger. Dad has never hit me before but sometimes I’m scared he’ll start. I’m scared of that more than anything.
“I know what you want from me,” I start, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. Then I seal my fate with, “But I’ve already told you the truth.”
Dad acts confused at first, likes he’s forgotten, but then shakes his head. “I’m not having this conversation with you again.” He turns away from me and starts down the hallway, probably wishing there was beer in the fridge even though he quit years ago. I can’t let it end like this.
“Dad, wait—”
I make a grab for his arm, but he’s already turning back and I can’t stop him in time. His arm crashes into me and I stumble back. My head hits the side of the hallway table and then I’m suddenly on the floor.
Something stings over my left eyebrow and my side throbs where the stitches try to hold me together.
“Kale—” Dad steps toward me with his hand outstretched, but he stops like he doesn’t know what to do. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I—”
Bryce comes down the stairs, cutting off some sort of apology. He spares me a glance, a question on his tongue that will never be asked. Instead he says, “Dad, can I talk to you for a minute?”
I feel eyes on me. I don’t look up.
“Sure,” Dad replies, sounding like himself again. “Kale, go clean yourself up.” But his voice shakes.
I wait until they’re gone before I head up the stairs. My tight muscles and cold fingers scream for a hot shower. I need something to calm me. What just happened wasn’t intentional, but it could’ve been.
In the bathroom, I start the shower and peel off my clothes. When I’m about to throw my T-shirt in the laundry basket, I notice a new growth of red on it. I check my side but it still looks fine; the stitches are still in place and the bleeding has stopped.
Then I remember my head and carefully touch my fingers above my eye.
They come away red.
I turn around and face the mirror for the first time in months.
A stranger stares back. There’s a stream of blood trailing down my temple, making my eyes look lifeless against the vivid shade. My skin holds no color like it used to, even in the middle of summer when I should be spending my days outside. Instead, it’s gray and has a smudge of dirt on the right cheek.
A knock on t
he bathroom door allows me to look away.
“Kale?” It’s Bryce.
“What.”
“Libby is on the phone for you.”
I wipe my fingers on my jeans, smearing blood across them, and shut off the shower. When I open the door a crack, I make sure he won’t be able to see the stitches along my ribs. He stares from the other side, his hand outstretched, holding the phone. He takes a long glance at the blood on my face before turning away, not saying a word.
“Hello?”
I shut the door.
The first thing she says is, “I don’t want to live with Mom. I’m trying to convince her that I don’t want to change schools.” She pauses. “I don’t like not being there for you.”
“It’s not your job to look after me,” I tell her, trying to make it sound like a joke. Why am I saying this? I want Libby to come home. But a part of my brain is telling me she’s better off away from here. Away from me.
Her argument is coming out fast, barely giving herself time to breathe.
I’m too tired to fight with her, knowing it won’t make a difference once her mind is set. I sit down with my back against the tub and wait for her to finish.
“Kale, are you even listening to me?” she asks on the other end. “We both know what it’s like between you and Dad, and it’s only getting worse.”
“I think you’re making it out to be worse than it is.”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” There’s a moment of silence. Then she asks, “When did you get back?”
“Early this morning.”
“So where are you, hiding in your room? The bathtub? You can’t keep avoiding him.”
I feel blood dripping off my chin. I remind myself that head wounds bleed more than everything else. I want to keep my mind off it, knowing it’ll take me places I don’t want to go.
Sometimes when I close my eyes, I see the forest and red snow. I feel my numb fingers and nose. I’ll hear the mortars and gun shots. The bullets peppering the ground at our feet. The flares singeing the night sky. I see every friend that has died, some screaming and others silenced before they can take their last breath.
I see it all.
Hear it all.
Relive every nightmare I’ve had. All in the blink of an eye.
I can hear my name being called, somewhere far and out of reach. I’m cold everywhere. Shaking.
“Kale!”
I open my eyes.
I’m still in the bathroom.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
She lets out a long breath, finally fed up. “I’m going to go. Tell Harper I said hi.”
Before I can respond, she’s gone. The dial tone drones in my ear and I slowly pull it away. Somewhere between hearing Libby’s last word and drawing my legs up to my chest, I shut it off. Now it sits on the tile, reminding me I’m alone here.
At the sound of someone coming upstairs, my eyes go straight for the door, realizing I never locked it. I always lock it. I glance down, making sure my stitches aren’t visible. I move my arm over them as the door opens.
A moment passes with me sitting against the tub and him with one hand still on the door, not sure if he wants to commit to coming in. We stare at each other, because he’s never cared to find me here. When the door is shut between us, it’s like I’m not here at all. Or maybe that’s what he likes to believe.
But he’s here now, and I can’t move. Not sure if I’m happy or scared.
The unknown can sometimes be a little of both.
Dad closes the door and comes toward me. Each step careful and thought out. He kneels down and pushes my hair aside, his fingers barely touching my skin.
Without saying a word, he gets up and goes over to the sink. He takes the wash cloth from the rack and holds it under the tap for a few seconds.
Then I’m seven again, coming into the house with a cut on my arm. Dad was the only one home. He took me upstairs and sat me down on the toilet to clean it. He was so calm through the whole thing. Caring for me the way every parent should.
That’s why coming home has always felt so safe. Dad would always be there to make things right.
But somewhere, somehow, things have changed.
He wipes the blood with the wash cloth, being more careful than he ever has. We sit there on the cold, tiled floor without ever saying a word to each other. We both know things are screwed up and nothing will ever be the way it used to be between us.
But right now, all I want to do is pretend it is.
And hope it’s the start of something better.
22.
Harper
Two days. I haven’t seen him for two days.
Grace came over yesterday and we played Halo since it’s the only multiplayer game I have. She talked more about the school’s volleyball team, and I surprised myself by agreeing to try out.
Who would have thought? Me, playing sports.
But now another day is coming to an end, and nobody in the Jackson house has bothered to answer the home phone—I told him I would try calling before going over next time, and I have. It’s his fault he doesn’t answer. Uncle Jasper hasn’t said a word about it, just spending time in the barn or doing crosswords at the table. Despite his normal silence, the house has been quieter than usual.
I’m finished with Kale ignoring me and Uncle Jasper pretending nothing is wrong.
Music drifts from the barn as I make my way across the lawn. The light falls in the sky as the sun dips deeper below the horizon, making the clouds wispy and pink. Fireflies have already begun to light up the forest.
The door is cracked open and I slip through, breathing in the smell of oil and potato chips. Uncle Jasper lays on a creeper under an old Camaro, his legs sticking out, oil stains on his jeans. He’s softly humming to the song coming from the old radio in the corner.
I wait a few seconds to see if he’ll notice me, but he doesn’t. “Uncle Jasper?”
“What’s up, kid?” Metal clanks from somewhere below.
“I’m going over to see Kale. He hasn’t answered any of my calls.”
Uncle Jasper stops working and rolls himself out, staring up. His baseball cap is turned sideways on his head, his graying hair sticking out from under it. If it wasn’t for the look in his eyes, it would be hard to take him seriously.
“You’re gonna go over there?”
“Yeah.” Then I ask, “Is that bad?”
“It can be tough on him when he comes back,” he says, shrugging, “especially after going through what he does. Some days are better than others. But maybe it’s a good idea you go see him. He could probably use it right now.”
He rolls back underneath the car without waiting for my response. But I ask him anyway, “When did he start being like this?”
“Like what?”
“Not Kale.”
There’s a long pause where the music fills in. “Probably within the last year or so. Things started to get worse after his mom left.”
A knot forms in my stomach, now knowing what that feels like.
“But I do know one thing,” Uncle Jasper continues. “He’s been more himself since you got here. Oh hey, tell him I could use his help tomorrow if he’s up for it.”
I nod—even though he can’t see me—and slip out the door, slightly nervous about going over there again, not wanting to find something else unexpected. I think about driving over, but walking through the woods takes just as much time, so I cut across the backyard with the fading music behind me.
When Kale’s house comes into view, I almost hesitate before stepping out of the woods. Coming here when I was younger was easy. It was something I did almost every day—running through the woods and entering the house without a knock or hesitation. It was a second home.
Now, like last week when I came, it feels like I’m approaching something unknown. Light glows from behind closed shades and not even the hum from the television can be heard. I step up to the door and knock, trying to ignore the wei
rd butterflies in my stomach. It takes a few moments for me to hear footsteps, and when the door finally cracks open, Bryce stands on the other side.
“Harper?” He opens the door wider. “What are you doing here?”
The house looks empty behind him, and I have a bad feeling that maybe Kale left early. It’s been only two days, and he said he had at least three or four before then.
“Um, is Kale here?” I ask. “I tried calling earlier today but nobody answered.”
“Oh, sorry. I just got home, and Kale is up in his room.” Bryce gives a small shrug, almost apologetic. “He doesn’t usually come out to answer the phone. But come on in. You can go up if you want. I’m sure he’s awake.”
“Thanks.”
I move in past him and up the stairs. The higher I get, the darker it becomes. Kale’s is the last room on the right. There’s no light coming from the crack under the closed door, but I knock anyway.
I hear the bed creak and bare feet padding softly across the floor. When the door opens, the light coming through the window behind him makes his face shadowy against the white walls.
“Harper.” He says it like I’m the last person he expected to see. “Who let you in? Is my dad home?” He looks past me, down the hall, like he expects to see someone standing there.
“I don’t think so. Bryce let me in.”
Kale lets out a breath and relaxes a little. “Oh. So, what are you doing here?”
“Well, I wouldn’t have come if you would answer your phone. I’ve been trying to call you all day.”
His eyes close briefly and he looks down. “I’m sorry.” His jaw flexes. “It seems I can’t do anything right today.”
“You will if you let me in,” I hint.
Kale flashes a quick smile and opens the door wider. “That, I can do.”
I walk past him through the door. “Uncle Jasper said to tell you if you’re free tomorrow, he could use some help with that Camaro.” When he doesn’t say anything I ask, “How’s your side?”
“It’s good. I’ll probably take the stitches out tomorrow.” He closes the door and sits down on his unmade bed.
