it’s more complicated than that? What if someone doesn’t want to be fixed? What if there isn’t a body to heal?
I don’t have the wherewithal to argue with him. I’m hollow. There’s nothing left to expend, just dents and dings where I’ve been scraped empty.
I run a hand over Cosette’s face. “Okay.”
“No, I mean it,” he says. “We will.”
He’s on a mission. I feel it. He’s going to make me feel better or die trying. But the idea of rehashing today is overwhelming.
“Okay.”
“Elle . . .” There’s an ache in his voice as he gathers me to his chest, holding me. Like a bandage, like one of those butterfly bandages that hold everything together. But as a wound I’m bled dry, and his arms make it hard to breathe. I pull away.
“I believe you, Jake, I do. But can we figure it all out tomorrow? I’m just . . . I’m . . .”
His arms are still open, still hanging there, waiting for me to crawl into them. “You’re tired,” he says. “Of course you are.”
“I’m . . . yes, I’m tired.”
He’s hurt. I know he is, but there’s that emptiness in me, that inability to carry his hurt alongside mine.
“Okay,” he says, dropping his arms. “I’ll go.”
The door closes behind him, and still I feel nothing. I’m not scared. I’m not angry. I’m just nothing. I fall into my desk chair and roll it to the window. The blinds are up, and I press my cheek to the glass, wanting to feel the cold on my face, wanting it to wake me. It’s not enough, and my eyes close. Forcing them open, I yank the window open, feeling the cold night air on my face. But the night can’t last forever, and when the sun crests over the horizon my face is warmed by its rays and my eyes close. I’ve no energy left to fight it.
And the nightmare takes hold.
20
Brielle
I wake screaming.
My rolling chair has slid away from the window and tipped me onto the floor. I clamp a hand over my mouth, mortified, hoping I haven’t roused Dad. If there’s anyone I want to avoid this morning, it’s him.
But he’s gone. His bed unmade, his room empty.
I wander his room, looking for the old Dad, I guess. It’s a man’s room. A stinky room. On his side table is the oldest Harley Davidson key ring in the world, seven keys hanging off it. Wherever he’s gone, he didn’t do the driving. Someone’s picked him up. I’m guessing the sheriff, but I don’t let myself think about where they went or what they’re doing.
His dresser is cluttered with pictures, but at the front is a picture of Mom, her loose curls lying perfectly on her shoulders, the same shade as mine. The picture’s faded, so her blue eyes look gray here, but they sparkle. Like she’s madly in love with the guy taking the picture. I wonder what she was like back then.
I’m up early courtesy of that dreadful nightmare, but Jake’s still here to pick me up before I’ve even brushed my teeth. He’s looking all handsome, dressed in black, a pair of slacks and a suit shirt. He’s even wearing a thin gray tie today, and it’s hard to remember just why I needed him to leave last night.
“I’m sorry about last night,” I say.
“You needed space. You’re entitled.”
He busies himself in the kitchen, nuking me a Pop-Tart and whistling the Transformers theme song. The whistling is a habit he picked up from Canaan, and if there’s any habit of his that drives me crazy, it’s that.
Especially when I haven’t slept.
I shush him twice, warning him not to wake up Dad before I remember that Dad’s not even home.
He’s out.
With the sheriff.
All ready, I find Jake in the living room watching the morning news. Sheriff Cahill was right. Mom’s desecrated grave has made headlines. In fact, it seems to be the headline. It’s terrifying and far too familiar seeing my last name on the television screen.
I watch the big city reporter with her big city hair, but all I really see is my dad in the background standing over a mound of dirt, Sheriff Cahill’s arm around his shoulders. The sheriff’s not a tall man, so he has to actually reach up to accomplish the feat, but it’s a sentimental shot.
A rip-out-your-heart kind of shot.
And it kills me that my family’s given the media another one of those shots to splash about.
I walk to the television