Unhinged (Splintered, #2)(56)
The concern doesn’t leave his expression as he picks up shards piece by piece, careful not to get sliced. “I didn’t notice any cuts. Why didn’t she tell me about this?”
“Maybe she figured I’d already cleaned it up.” I bend to help him, but he lifts a hand in a forbidding gesture.
“Let me take care of this, Allie.”
He’s always done this—he’s always taken care of us, cleaned up our messes. And we’ve done nothing but keep secrets.
Once he drops the final piece of glass into my trash can and sets my empty mirror frame upright, he turns to me. “I’m sorry, sweetie. It’s just … I was afraid it was happening again. She used to break mirrors a lot. On purpose. She wouldn’t allow one anywhere near you since you were a tiny baby.”
The sun creeps up, and the orangey pink light softens Dad’s edges, making him look as young as Mom does. He’s never talked much about how it was when Alison started “losing her mind.” It had to be horrible for him.
“Dad …” I touch his arm, stroking his tattered sweatshirt.
He lays his hand over mine. “I couldn’t bear for it to start again. I can’t be away from her anymore.”
Nodding, I brave a question. “Did she ever try to explain her aversion to mirrors? Did you ever ask?”
He sits on the edge of my bed. After another puzzled glance at my boots, he shrugs. “It was a looking glass thing. Her explanations weren’t sane.”
Of course her rantings would sound demented to someone who didn’t know the truth. Why didn’t she prove it to him when I was little, show him her powers? She had years to find a way to do it.
“If she had given you some real proof that Wonderland existed,” I say, going out on a limb, “you would’ve believed her … right?”
He shakes his head. “The blood on her hands when she cut them on the mirrors. The blood on our baby girl when she attacked her with the garden shears.” He looks up at me, his expression pure agony. “Allie, that was tangible. That was real. That was all the proof I could handle. You just don’t know.” He rubs his face, hiding his eyes behind his palm. “She kept screaming that she had to fix you. Like you were something she could glue back together. But she was acting so erratic, so high-strung—and she had just hurt you, so … I couldn’t let her near you. That was the last straw, but things had been bad for a long time before that. Even I started having nightmares about Wonderland. I knew we had to get some help … you needed one parent who was sane. One who was safe.”
So that was why Mom didn’t heal my palms. My grudge against her thaws an infinitesimal degree.
Dad bends over to pick up my dress bag. It must have fallen to the floor last night. He lays it across his lap.
“Did you actually see her bump the mirror?” He runs a fingernail along the bag’s zipper. “I mean, it doesn’t make sense. She would’ve had to throw it against the dresser to cause that much damage.” He glances at the trash can. “Maybe she should talk to her doctor.”
His suggestion makes me bristle. I won’t have her tied up in a straitjacket or drooling under sedatives again. I love her, regardless of the rift between us, and she’s suffered enough for a lifetime.
“Wait, Dad.” I sit down next to him, feeling out my options. “I’m going to tell you something … I just don’t know how you’ll react.” Staring down at the earbuds on my floor, I consider animating them, having them wrap around his ankle like an amorous cat.
I stare so hard, my eyes sting.
“Allie, you’re making me nervous. What’s going on?”
My heartbeat hammers loud enough that I hear it in my ears. I’m so close to breaking loose, so close to showing him my magic. The earbud cords tremble—a movement so minute, only I can see it. Then I lose my nerve and look at my eels instead, breaking my concentration.
“Mom and I had a fight yesterday,” I mutter. “I—I pushed her, and she fell into the mirror. That’s what made it hit the dresser. That’s why I shut myself up in my room. And she told you I wasn’t feeling well to cover for me so I wouldn’t get in trouble. I’m really sorry.”
Dad’s skin flushes dark pink. “You pushed your mother?” His gaze deepens with disappointment and apprehension—a look that makes my confidence shrink to the size of an ant. “What’s with these violent outbursts?”
“Outbursts? This is the first one.”
“It isn’t. I heard you yelling at your mom in your hospital room. Was this over Jeb again? Did you sneak out last night to see him? Is that why you’re wearing your shoes in bed?” The color in his face isn’t a blush anymore. It’s bordering on purple.
I stand up. “No! None of this is about Jeb.” I can’t have him doubting Jeb again, not now that they’ve finally worked things out. “I took a couple of sedatives after my fight with Mom. I guess they kicked in before I had time to undress.” A full-blown lie.
When he keeps watching me, unconvinced, I add, “I hate that we fought, that I almost hurt her.” Even more, I hate that I’m defending her when she should be defending herself to both of us.
Dad’s fingers drum the dress bag—unconsciously keeping rhythm with the nervous twitch in his eyelid. “What was this fight about? It had to be big, to make you push your mother into a mirror.”