Tristan lay awake in bed that night, unable to sleep as the snores from her brothers and cousin woke her up. They refused to let her sleep alone, and really, who could blame them? Their sister had been taken from them not once, but twice in the past month. On her first night back, they tried to convince her to take a bunk in the much larger boys’ bedroom. When she refused, they all piled into her tiny room. They said it would only be for one night. But there they were, now on night seven of this peculiar sleeping arrangement. Closest to Tristan’s bed were Tommy and Blake who were sleeping opposite each other in blue sleeping bags on the floor. Meanwhile, the oversized Liam and Adam sprawled their long limbs out closer to the wall, and Shane, the poor nervous soul, slept sitting up at the locked picture window, latch key dangling from his left hand. She peered around the room, watching as the covers rose and fell with each breath, snores echoing loudly throughout the room. There was no way around it: Tristan was safe whether she liked it or not. She loved her brothers and cousin tremendously, but somehow she thought if she could deal with a neurotic, gun wielding mad man, then she could face a night alone in bed.
Tristan was convinced that the sleeping arrangement was more for their benefit than her own. Besides, she wasn’t getting much sleep these days, anyhow. Fed up with lying still, she kicked the covers off her legs as she tried to determine where she could step without treading on someone and waking them up. She reached her left leg over Tommy while holding on to the bed, then pulling the rest of her body with her, just narrowly missing Blake’s foot with her own. She slinked through the ajar door and into the dark hallway, escaping the snores of her tiny bedroom.
She meandered down the hallway, her hand sliding along the smoothly painted walls, fingers gliding along the wainscoting. She glanced at the family pictures that hung delicately on the wall. She had seen them a million times before, but now they had meant so much more. Just a week ago, she thought she would never see any of them again, especially Jack whom she had presumed to be dead. Housed in the frames of assorted shapes and sizes were the images of the people she loved most. Smiling groups at birthdays and sporting events, Uncle Frank and Grandpa cutting down the family Christmas tree last winter, Tristan and Jack on horseback, riding through the orchard, Aunt Bridgette smiling as she put the Thanksgiving turkey in the oven (The very same turkey that was burnt to a crisp and had the family eating at Denny’s). The walls were lined with memories, and for the amount of grief that Bernard Kendricks had put them through, they had some damn good ones. Regardless of all their flaws, she was so fortunate to have her family. Jack, Bridgette, and Frank had made sure that the children had a safe harbor to grow up in, and Tristan acknowledged that they were better off not knowing what had happened to her mother. Some secrets are better left unsaid. Would their knowledge of the incidents of 1981 have changed anything? They may have been more aware, but overall Jack was satisfied that he had done what he could to protect the children. Finally, she came to the end of the hall and the last picture on the wall in a small oval frame. Catherine sat intently in bed cradling a newborn baby with ebony hair and a tiny purple bow adorning her head. Tristan. She touched the picture carefully as if testing to see if it was real. Catherine stared adoringly at her tiny bundle of joy. Not a trace of pain or sadness was evident on her face, just pure untainted adulation and joy. Catherine was clearly looking forward to a long life with her long-anticipated little girl – a life that was cut short by a selfish and obsessed man who couldn’t differentiate between reality and his delusions anymore. It made Tristan sick to her stomach. Now that she knew the truth, she was proud to call Catherine Mom.
From behind her she heard a wooden floor board creak, jarring her train of thought. Frank stood leaning against the wall, still dressed in his work clothes, arm in a sling, looking tired and pensive. Even his voice sounded strained.
“2:57 A.M…. Going for a stroll?” Frank asked with a smirk. Tristan glanced at him with an amused half smile, as she shook her head no.
“Okay, kid?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Me either, then I heard footsteps in the corridor, but it was only you.”
Frank, with a tired smile, motioned his head towards the stairway that led downstairs.
“Come on, let’s go raid the refrigerator.”