“Yeah, barely got me.” I lie. There's a nasty, irritated line cutting into the palm of my hand and between my thumb and pointer finger where I grabbed the pan. I inhale slowly, pushing away the stinging pain and forcing a smile on my face. “You made spaghetti?” I ask him.
He nods, giving me one of his signature smiles. Gabe is a stout man, with more personality than strands of hair on his head and a heart big enough to love three misfit children and their high-strung mother. It’s hard to remember a time when he wasn’t around, or even the moment he had joined our lives. Mostly because it means having to think about my father, which isn’t something I freely ever want to do. He’s the exact opposite of my biological father, soft around the edges, encouraging and kind, sometimes annoyingly so.
“Go clean up for dinner, the first aid kit is in the bathroom, and I’ll get the hooligans to the table.” He pats me on the back gently and guides me out of the kitchen. As I go, I collect whatever dirty clothes I find and chuck them in the basket at the bottom of the stairs.
I can hear Mom pacing in her room as I reach the top, but I choose the source of the problem instead of dealing with more of her tears for the evening.
“Knock knock.” I push Reid’s door open. He’s lying on the floor staring at the ceiling with a frustrated expression. “She’s trying,” I say to him, sinking to the floor beside him and assuming the same position.
The glow-in-the-dark stars Gabe had super-glued up there for him when he was seven are still holding strong. When Reid had panic attacks or nightmares, we would lie here and count them until he fell asleep again. So many nights spent on this floor, wondering if he’d ever get to a place where his brain didn’t attack him in his sleep.
A place where the memories we didn’t ask for would fade to black for good.
“No,” he argues, “Everyone else is trying, she’s still the same.”
“Fear is a hard emotion to shake,” I say, but I can feel his upset through the carpet we lie on. “She’s just scared, and you’re her kid. It’s like a motherly instinct or whatever.”
“He’s not going to pick me off the street or from school, and I’m seventeen, I can defend myself from him,” he argues.
I swallow tightly. The problem with Reid’s logic is that he couldn’t. I was seventeen, being put through walls and down stairs; that’s why I got strong. So I could fight back. I dig my fingers into the carpet to keep the anxiety at bay and remind myself just how strong I am. He can’t get me now, can’t get us, he’s gone.
“He’s gone,” I say out loud to Reid, “but it doesn’t mean it can’t come back. You know, most teenagers would love a chauffeur for a Mom.”
“I just want to be a normal teenager, Ree,” he says, his voice straining as he uses the nickname he used to call me when he was little. He turns his face to me, and he looks sad.
“You get to be one because Mom survived, the least you can do is let her drive you around.” I remind him.
“We all survived, not just her. She wasn’t even there that day, and you don’t have a twenty-four-hour surveillance on me,” he pouts.
I dig my phone out of my pocket and hold the screen up that shows his location, “air-tag, in your backpack.”
Reid blinks slowly and then looks at me. “Right.” He sighs, rolling over and sitting up. “I’ll go apologize,” he says, “but she’s gotta relax a little, I can’t do this with her for much longer.”
He’s saying all the things I said to myself before I moved out, and I get it. I understand his frustrations and worries, but he would be okay, and he’s safe because of her concern, not despite it.
Thirteen years ago, I shot my Dad.
I sit up and watch Reid wander from the room.
Thirteen years ago, I shot my Dad tosave my brother.
My hands tremble against the carpet as I start to count the stars on the ceiling.
I could still see him straddling Reid’s tiny body in the backyard. Reid hadn’t done anything wrong… he just swung the stick too hard, and the puck hitting the shed sounded like a gunshot. Dad flipped a switch, and Reid was the enemy. Everything had happened so fast.
He survived, no charges were pressed, and he was put in a home for men like him who needed more help with their PTSD. He went in, and we never heard from him again— until Mom got the divorce papers in the mail. He had served almost twenty years in the military, and the trauma consumed him so badly that when he was triggered, everyone was a threat. Including his wife and children.
For thirteen years, we’ve all waited for him to find us, to remind us why we were afraid of the dark. Some days are better than others, but Mom is always on edge, especially with Reid.
“Are you coming down for dinner?” Rue’s head pops into the room, and her smile instantly makes the noise quiet.
“Help me up, I’m old and turning to dust,” I whine, and pretend to be heavier than I am.
“Ree, you weigh a thousand pounds!” Rue grumbles.
“Wow, now I’m fat.” I slap her hand away playfully and scramble to my feet, chasing her through the upstairs and allowing her giggles to push away every bad memory that seeps in.
“Major Black. Nice of you to join us.” Landon leans against a column, watching the guys set up chairs in the old church. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
