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 the 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.