“I didn’t kill those Guard,” I whisper. Why oh why can no one find them? It’s been five months without a single lead.
“I never believed you did. And, for what it’s worth, your father doesn’t, either.”
I want to cry, but find I can’t, which is so strange, because my chest burns so much right now it’s a wonder I can even speak. “Bringing Jens back would be the same thing as admitting to it.”
My mother finally sets down her shears and turns to face me. Her eyes are glassy, but nothing falls from them. Another sight I’ve never seen from her before. It nearly unglues me, but even now, I still can’t cry. Why can’t I cry? “Politics are a messy business.”
“I’m your daughter,” I choke out.
Her fingers press against the shears on the wooden bench. “Until things are rectified, you are not to call us, come over, or expect either of us to acknowledge you or Jonah in public or private. I’m sorry, Chloe. Your father is quite convinced this is the right course of action.”
We’ve never been close, but there’s always been this hope I’ve harbored—foolishly, but consistently—that we would be something more. “And you?”
“I am married to him,” she tells me. There is regret, so much regret in her face, but it’s of no comfort.
How can you do this? is what I want to say. Don’t you love me? “It’s not like he can tell you what to do, not if you don’t think it’s right!”
“That is true. Nonetheless, I have agreed to side with your father in this.” For the first time in years, she pulls me into her arms and hugs me. Against my ear, she whispers so soft, “I love you.” And then she lets go and resumes tending her plants.
All of the seeds of hope within me die.
Jonah takes a few shirts out of a drawer, and then a couple of pairs of jeans and stuffs them in a small bag. He’s leaving in the morning, to go on a weeklong mission in an obscure part of Eastern Africa.
He’s leaving for a week right on the heels of my mother informing me that she and my father have no place for me in their lives. And, irrationally, it feels like I’m being abandoned on every front.
I didn’t tell him about my mom when I came home, just ten minutes prior. I couldn’t. He’s already got a difficult enough assignment to focus on, the kind that gnaws at his soul because he hates the thought of inspiring rebellions even if, in the long run, they do more good than harm. He doesn’t need to be needlessly worrying over me.
So I sit on his bed while he packs, trying desperately to chatter on about normal things like our friends, my lame-ass excuse of a class, and whether or not he’s remembered the can of bug spray I bought him this week. Every time he goes to Africa, he gets eaten alive. I joke and tell him it’s because he’s so sweet and that bugs must love him, but it’s of no consolation when we’re slathering calamine lotion all over him after each return.
“Don’t forget your rain slicker.” I motion to a super thin yet extremely waterproof coat I made especially for him just last night. “I checked the weather forecast; it’s supposed to rain a lot this week.”
He shoves the coat into his bag and zips it up.
“What about your toothbrush?” I stand up and look around, like it’s going to miraculously appear just because I’m thinking of it.
He pats the bag. “I’ve got it.”
But just in case, I run into his bathroom and search for it. And then for his brush, and deodorant, and the dry shampoo I bought for him. He needs to be prepared. He’s going to be gone for days. He’s going to be gone for days, and my mom just told me that she and my dad want nothing to do with me, and—
“Honey.” Jonah’s in the doorway, waving a piece of paper. “Thanks to your checklist, I’ve got everything.”
“Good.” I clear my throat. “Good. I’m glad. You need to be prepared.”
His head cocks to the side, his eyes filled with far too much concern. “Chloe—”
I try to brush past him, but he stops me with a gentle hand. “I’ve tried to give you space, but I just can’t do it anymore. What happened with your mother today?”
He does not need this. Not now. I’m about to offer up another, “Nothing,” but he slashes his hand through the air.
“It’s not nothing. Talk to me.”
I really shouldn’t. He should be able to go to Africa without having to worry about me. And maybe it makes me selfish, but I cave and tell him everything. Every word my mother said, of my father’s ultimatum. How I feel like an orphan even though both of my parents are still living. How I’ve felt like one the majority of my life. How I hate that it makes me feel weak, especially since I can’t seem to let them go as easily as they’ve let me go.
How I wish things were different.