I met her eyes, suddenly having a terrible feeling she was going to say something like, Don’t ever come in my room again.
“Can you leave the door a little bit open? I don’t like to be closed in.”
“Sure.” It was hard to believe this was the same Sarah who had always insisted on privacy, who had a habit of slamming her door, hard, behind anyone foolish enough to leave it open. As I left, I dimmed the hallway light, then I went into my own room and closed the door behind me.
That night, I woke to the sound of screaming. “Let me out!” I jerked awake, my feet on the floor before I even knew where I was. In a moment I was at Sarah’s door, panting for breath. “Stop, stop!” she yelled.
Dad stood in the hallway, in the dim light, and whispered to me, “It’s okay, Sarah’s just having a nightmare, go back to bed.” I peered into Sarah’s room and saw Mom on the bed next to her, holding her and rocking her back and forth as she sobbed and gulped air.
“It’s okay, you’re home now, you’re safe, you’re okay,” Mom said over and over again.
“Nico, back to bed,” Dad commanded.
Before I turned back into my room, I whispered to him, “Leave the door open a little, she doesn’t like it closed.”
He looked at me with sad eyes and rubbed the stubble on his face. “I know,” he said.
I went back into my room and lay in bed, just staring at the ceiling. I heard Dad go downstairs and hit some buttons on the panel for the alarm system next to the front door, probably checking to be sure it was armed and the door securely locked. I could hear him pacing, his slippers on the hardwood floor, checking the windows and doors, like he sometimes did before we went on vacation. But I wasn’t sure who he was protecting us from. The damage had already been done.
SARAH
THERE WAS ONE BOOK in the room, oversized with a puffy front cover, like there was padding inside it. It was white and felt like leather to the touch. It was an illustrated book of Bible stories for kids, big pictures with everything from Adam and Eve to Moses parting the Red Sea.
They never said I could look at the book, so I only did it in secret, when I was alone in the room for a long time. When I heard the key in the lock, I would quick put it back.
The next time I got in trouble, I thought it was maybe because I had been looking at the book. But that wasn’t why. It happened because she washed some clothes that had been sitting around. I only had two or three things to wear then and I just wore them over and over.
She said she saw something. “Has he been messing with you?” she asked me, and I didn’t know what to say so I just shook my head.
She sat on the bed and looked at me for a long time, then pulled the blanket up around my shoulders and tucked me in. She had never done anything nice like that before.
That night, the yelling was so bad I could hear it even though I pressed my hands hard over my ears. If only they had neighbors, they would hear and call the police, but from what I had seen out the little window, we were too far away for anyone to know what was happening. I couldn’t see another house or car anywhere. I just sat on the bed and rocked and rocked for hours. Sometimes I would get out that old Bible book and look at the pictures, but not now. There was noise and yelling and things being thrown. It was not a time for Bible pictures.
CHAPTER 12
MAX AND GRAM WEREN’T the only ones who wanted to see Sarah. My friends were all dying to come over, suddenly, and everyone wanted a photo of how she looked now. She had been gone for four years—was she still the same pretty girl? Or had she been tarnished in some way that could never wash off? Even Tessa, who stopped by with my assignments from school and lingered in the doorway, her mom’s car idling in our driveway.
“Can I stay for a little bit? Mom said I can, if your mom says it’s okay,” she said breathlessly, looking past my shoulder. I couldn’t help but think back to just a year or two before, when Tessa hadn’t even been allowed to come over or spend the night. Now we were suddenly celebrities, and everyone wanted a piece of us.
“It’s not a good idea,” I said, though I didn’t fault her. I wanted her to come in so we could talk—really talk—about what was going on. Tessa would know what to do.
“We saw on the news—she really doesn’t remember anything? I mean, like, nothing?”