Now what?
Don’t say, I’m sorry. That’s what grown-ups say and it’s stupid. Of course you’re sorry. How does that help?
But what?
She edged forward cautiously, careful not to touch him, and sidled up beside him, leaning back against the burnt wall. From here, she could see everything—the lanterns hanging from burnt rafters, walls covered with dusty antique snowshoes and fishnets and cross-country skis, ashtrays overflowing, smoke blurring everything—and everyone.
Her parents were huddled with Mad Earl and Clyde and Thelma and the rest of the Harlan family. Even through the cigarette smoke haze, Leni could see how red her dad’s face was (a sign of too much whiskey), how his eyes were narrowed in anger as he talked. Mama looked defeated beside him, afraid to move, afraid to add to the conversation or to look at anything except her husband.
“He blames me.”
Leni was so surprised to hear Matthew speak that it took her a moment to process what he’d said. Her gaze followed his to Mr. Walker.
“Your dad?” Leni turned to him. “He couldn’t. It’s not anyone’s fault. She just … I mean, the ice…”
Matthew started to cry. Tears streamed down his face as he stood there, stock-still, so tense he seemed to be vibrating. In his eyes, she glimpsed a bigger world. Being lonely, being afraid, a volatile, angry dad; these were bad things that gave you nightmares.
But they were nothing compared to watching your mother die. How would that feel? How would you ever get over it?
And how was she, a fourteen-year-old girl with troubles of her own, supposed to help?
“They found her yesterday,” he said. “Did you hear? One of her legs was missing, and her face—”
She touched him. “Don’t think—”
At her touch, he let out a howl of pain that drew everyone’s attention. He roared with it again, shuddered. Leni froze, unsure of what to do—should she pull away or push forward? She reacted instinctively, took him in her arms. He melted into her, held her so tightly she couldn’t breathe. She felt his tears on her neck, warm and wet. “It’s my fault. I keep having these nightmares … and I wake up so pissed off I can’t stand it.”
Before Leni could say anything, the pretty blond girl moved in beside Matthew, put an arm around him, pulled him away from Leni. Matthew stumbled into his sister, moving unsteadily, as if even walking felt unfamiliar.
“You must be Leni,” Alyeska said.
Leni nodded.
“I’m Aly. Mattie’s big sister. He told me about you.” She was trying hard to smile; that was obvious. “Said you were best friends.”
Leni wanted to cry. “We are.”
“That’s lucky. I didn’t have anyone my age in school when I lived here,” Aly said, tucking her hair behind one ear. “I guess it’s why Fairbanks seemed like a good idea. I mean … Kaneq and the homestead can feel as small as a speck sometimes. But I should have been here…”
“Don’t,” Matthew said to his sister. “Please.”
Aly’s smile wavered. Leni didn’t know this girl at all, but her struggle for composure and her love for her brother were obvious. It made Leni feel strangely connected to her, as if they had this one important thing in common.
“I’m glad he has you. He’s … struggling now, aren’t you, Mattie?” Aly’s voice broke. “But he’ll be fine. I hope.”
Leni saw suddenly how hope could break you, how it was a shiny lure for the unwary. What happened to you if you hoped too hard for the best and got the worst? Was it better not to hope at all, to prepare? Wasn’t that what her father’s lesson always was? Prepare for the worst.
“Of course he will,” Leni said, but she didn’t believe it. She knew what nightmares could do to a person and how bad memories could change who you were.
*
ON THE DRIVE HOME, no one spoke. Leni felt the loss of every second of light as night fell, felt it as sharply as a mallet striking bone. She imagined her father could hear them, the lost seconds, like stones clattering down a rock wall, plunking somewhere into black, murky water.
Mama huddled in her seat, hunched over. She kept glancing at Dad.
He was drunk and angry. He bounced in his seat, thumped his hand on the steering wheel.
Mama reached out, touched his arm.
He yanked away from her, said, “You’re good at that, aren’t you? Touching men. You think I didn’t see. You think I’m stupid.”
Mama looked at him wide-eyed, fear etched onto her delicate features. “I don’t think that.”
“I saw how you looked at him. I saw it.” He muttered something and pulled away from her. Leni thought he said, Breathe, under his breath, but she couldn’t be sure. All she knew was that they were in trouble. “I saw you touch his hand.”
This was bad.
He’d always been jealous of Tom Walker’s money … this was something else.
All the way home, as he muttered under his breath, whore, bitch, lied, his fingers played piano keys on the steering wheel. At the homestead, he stumbled out of the bus and stood there swaying, looking at the cabin. Mama went up to him. They stared at each other, both breathing unsteadily.
“Make a fool of me again … will you?”
Mama touched his arm. “You don’t really think I want Tom—”
He grabbed Mama by the arm and dragged her into the cabin. She tried to pull free, stumbled forward, put her hand over his in a feeble attempt to make him ease his grip. “Ernt, please.”
Leni ran after them, followed them into the cabin, saying, “Dad, please, let her go.”
“Leni, go—” Mama started to say.
Dad hit Mama so hard she flew sideways, cracked her head into the log wall, and crumpled to the floor.
Leni screamed. “Mama!”
Mama crawled to her knees, got unsteadily to her feet. Her lip was ripped, bleeding.
Dad hit her again, harder. When she hit the wall, he looked down, saw the blood on his knuckles, and stared at it.
A high, keening howl of pain burst out of him, ringing off the log walls. He stumbled back, putting distance between them. He gave Mama a long, desperate look of sorrow and hatred, then ran out of the cabin, slamming the door behind him.
*
LENI WAS SO SCARED and surprised and horrified by what she’d just seen, she did nothing.
Nothing.
She should have thrown herself at Dad, gotten between them, even gone for her gun.
She heard the door slam and it knocked her out of her paralysis.
Mama was sitting on the floor in front of the woodstove, her hands in her lap and her head forward, her face hidden by her hair.
“Mama?”
Mama slowly looked up, tucked the hair behind her ear. A red splotch marred her temple. Her lower lip was split open, dripping blood onto her pants.
Do something.
Leni ran into the kitchen, soaked a washcloth with water from the bucket, and went to Mama, kneeling beside her. With a tired smile, Mama took the rag, pressed it to her bleeding lip.
“Sorry, baby girl,” she said through the cloth.
“He hit you,” Leni said, stunned.
This was an ugliness she’d never imagined. A lost temper, yes. A fist? Blood? No …
You were supposed to be safe in your own home, with your parents. They were supposed to protect you from the dangers outside.
“He was agitated all day. I shouldn’t have talked to Tom.” Mama sighed. “And now I suppose he’s gone to the compound to drink whiskey and eat hate with Mad Earl.”
Leni looked at her mother’s beaten, bruised face, the rag turning red with her blood. “You’re saying it’s your fault?”
“You’re too young to understand. He didn’t mean to do that. He just … loves me too much sometimes.”
Was that true? Was that what love was when you grew up?
“He meant to,” Leni said quietly, feeling a cold wave of understanding wash through her. Memories clicked into place like pieces of a puzzle, fitting together. Mama’s bruises, her always saying, I’m clumsy. She had hidden this ugly truth from Leni for years. Her parents had been able to hide it from her with walls and lies, but here in this one-room cabin there was no hiding anymore. “He has hit you before.”