He keeps his eyes on the road. “I’m sure they did.”
I stare at him intensely and can’t resist a spiteful dig. “Martina must have been in a state without you. How will she ever manage?”
He glances at me and frowns. “She’ll manage just fine. And everyone knows what’s going on. They understand why I can’t be there.”
Great comeback,I think to myself.A perfect deflection.
Exhausted, I rest my head against the window and stare at the houses as we pass. There are so many hateful things I could say about Martina right now—pretty Martina with the Italian accent, who sends him texts with little heart emojis. I wonder if Mom ever noticed that.
But then I find myself thinking about all the haters on social media who, at this very moment, are accusing Dad of cowardice and murder. He’s been slammed with enough vitriol tonight, so I decide to bite my tongue.
And I still don’t believe he would ever try to hurt Mom.
Or maybe I just don’t want to talk to him anymore or open up to him about my feelings. I certainly don’t want to talk about Martina. I just want to be quiet and stay mad.
As soon as we arrive home, Oscar greets us with enthusiasm at the door, his tail swinging, his nose nuzzling. He rises up on his hind legs and paws our thighs, desperately seeking affection. Connor and I kneel and make a huge fuss over him. We stroke his back and scratch behind his ears.
It’s exactly what we both need—this little bundle of merriment that lets us escape our hardships for a few brief seconds.
“Do you want to go outside to pee?” I ask, and Oscar bounds toward the back door. He skids to a halt on the family room carpet, spins in a circle, and prances around while I remove my backpack.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I say as I lead him across the room.
A short while later, I come back inside with Oscar. Dad sits at the kitchen island with his burger and fries, scrolling through his phone.
I don’t have the emotional energy to talk to him about the day or what horrors he might be reading online, so I simply say good night and retreat to my room.
Oscar follows. As soon as he trots into the room, I shut the door behind us. “What an awful day.”
He jumps onto my bed.
I watch him for a few seconds, then move to sit down on the edge of the mattress. He lays his furry little chin on my thigh and blinks up at me with sweet brown puppy dog eyes that melt my heart. But as I pat his soft head, I start to feel sick at the thought of Mom in the ICU,alone, with a plastic tube down her throat and a breathing machine keeping her alive.
What if she never comes back? No one loves me like she does. Who will I depend on?
Becky, I suppose. She’s like an aunt.
But it’s not the same.
I wonder suddenly if Mom named Becky as our guardian in her will. If she did, could Becky take care of us, even if Dad was still alive?
Does Mom evenhavea will?
I glance at the clock. It’s late. I shouldn’t text Becky now, but I decide to text her in the morning and ask if she and Mom ever discussed anything like that.
What a horrible conversation. Why am I even thinking about this? I need to stop imagining the worst.
At four in the morning, I wake, heart hammering in my chest because a ghost is moaning in the house. I sit straight up in bed.
Oscar is awake, on the carpet, sniffing under the door. He’s pacing, desperate to be released into the hall, which fills me with fear.
It takes a few seconds for me to gather my senses before I realize it’s not a ghost. Someone is crying. It’s Connor.
I toss the covers aside, leap out of bed, and pull my door open. Oscar dashes out, and I hurry to help my brother through this horrific experience. But when I reach his room and open the door, the lights are out. He’s sleeping soundly.
Confused, I back out of the room, careful not to wake him, and close the door softly behind me. Then I spot Oscar sitting outside my parents’ bedroom, sniffing again under the closed door.
Does he think Mom’s in there? Is he missing her?
