“I don’t see the point,” Bo would yell at him, sweeping ice cubes from his bed.
“The point,” Dad snarled, “is to get a diploma. And then go to college. And then get a job.” He said this like it was the most obvious thing in the world, just like two and two equals four.
“But I don’t want any of that!” Bo protested.
And Dad never, ever believed him. Because not wanting diploma-college-job was like not wanting to eat, not wanting to breathe, not wanting to live.
“My grandmother understood him,” I say without meaning to actually speak the words aloud. But now that they hang in the air between us, I keep talking. “My grandmother understood Bo better than anyone. She could always calm him.” I’m careful with my words now, careful not to say how jealous that made me.
Adults lie. They lie about how they love children equally. They never do. They love children differently, and the difference is so broad that equality is not even in the picture. My parents, for example, love me for my obedience. They love me for my academics and my ambition and the possibilities of what I could do and be in the future. They love Bo for who he is now, for the quiet, calm moments, and they hold on to that, not sure if it will continue.
Grandma loved Bo in an absolute and whole way. She accepted him entirely, but I grew to distrust her unconditional love. Because my grandmother never loved me that way. She loved me because I never gave her a reason not to. I had been the behaved, well-mannered child who was respectful and kind, but I was very aware that my grandmother’s attitude toward me was based on those actions. Bo, on the other hand, could do or be anything, and Grandma loved him just the same.
Maybe more.
“When she died, that’s when Bo’s problems got worse,” I say now. “That’s how he ended up here.”
“Bo has talked about his grandmother a few times. He considers her home his ‘safe place.’”
He would. I never liked going to that house. It was old and dark and smelled of stale cigarette smoke. But Bo loved it.
“Thank you,” Dr. Franklin says. “You’ve been really helpful. Bo has had some troubles here lately, and I’ve struggled to connect with him. I thought I’d established trust with him, but he seems to be closing himself off from me more and more.”
I raise an eyebrow. It doesn’t seem like using me to rat on him would make Bo trust the doctor more, but I’m not the professional.
“But I also want you to know that I’m here for you too,” Dr. Franklin adds. He slides his card across the desk toward me. “I want you to feel free to talk to me at any time.”
“I’m not like Bo,” I say immediately. “I don’t have his same problem.”
Dr. Franklin hesitates.
“Do I?” I ask. “Is it genetic or something? Is there a chance that I’ll—”
“No, no, I didn’t mean to imply that,” Dr. Franklin says quickly. “I mean, there is a prevalence for this sort of thing to happen in families, but not necessarily. I’ve worked with your mother, and we can’t confirm that any of your relatives have had similar issues to Bo’s.”
“But it’s possible.”
“It’s . . . possible,” he concedes.
I shift in my seat. I’ve never had any of the same symptoms as Bo, so maybe I’m safe. Or maybe his same set of gifts and curses lies inside me, even now, curled like a snake in winter, ready to rise. If not me, perhaps my children will be like Bo, slinking from mood to mood, time to time, leaving me behind just as Bo has done.
I have built a safe haven for myself in normalcy, but it’s terribly lonely here.
CHAPTER 39
“We need to talk,” Ryan whispers to me. His breath smells like mustard. “I just overheard some of the staff talking about ‘official letters’ that are being sent out to families during spring break.”
Family Day butts up against spring break—in fact, most parents take their kids home after the luncheon. Even though Ryan’s shuttle to the airport won’t pick him up until tomorrow morning, I saw his bags were already packed and waiting by his bedroom door.
“So?” I ask, my eyes still on the staircase that leads to the Doctor’s office, where Phoebe is.
“So, official letters mean official shit. The government goons are getting ready to go; the letters probably include their verdict on all this bull.” When I don’t answer, Ryan adds, “I’m worried they’re going to shut the school down. Haven’t you noticed the way the teachers have been acting?”
I watch as the weather outside the window swirls rapidly, from hurricane winds to a bright sunny day to flurries of snow. I clench my eyes shut, and when I look again, there’s nothing but the gray overcast sky.
“Berkshire can’t close,” I say under my breath. “I need it now more than ever.”