A World Without You(32)
“It’s Rosemarie’s birthday,” I say.
Mom pauses and sits back on her heels. “Why didn’t you tell me about it before?”
“I got the dates mixed up. She’s really mad I’m not there already.”
I can tell that Mom is wavering, though her eyes glance up at the ceiling, toward Bo’s room. But rather than cave, she says, “Ask your father.”
I groan. “Come on, Mom. Don’t make me do that.”
She’s no longer polishing the coffee table, but she doesn’t look up at me either.
“Please,” I say. “It’s not that big of a deal. It’s one night, and I’ll be home before nine. Come on.”
“Fine,” she tells the coffee table in a small voice.
“Thank you!” I say, bouncing on my heels. I turn to go, but then turn back, drop to my knees, and give my mom an awkward half hug.
I rush to leave, pausing before I pull the kitchen door closed behind me. Just a few minutes ago, there was nothing but shouting and the drill and slamming doors. Now there’s nothing at all.
? ? ?
Rosemarie lives about fifteen minutes away from me if I stomp on the gas of my old clunker, but to be fair, the car barely tops fifty when I do that. This car was my reward for being the normal child. Mom didn’t phrase it like that, of course she didn’t, but it’s the truth. Bo got sent to a fancy school, and I got a car that cost less than one month’s tuition. But I love it anyway. It’s mine. And it’s freedom. Not that I would ever really go anywhere with it—knowing my luck, it’d break down if I tried to drive more than an hour at a time—but the car is full of potential. I could go. Theoretically.
It’s always so unsettling, the way everything changes when Bo comes home. During the week, when he’s gone, life is normal: school for me, work for Dad, whatever Mom busies herself with all day. After dinner every night, I sit in the den with Dad while he watches the Patriots or ESPN and I text Rosemarie and Jenny. Eventually, Mom makes popcorn and joins Dad on the couch. Sometimes, we each do our own separate thing, but there’s still always a sense of home. Of family.
Bo’s part of the family, I remind myself.
He is. He is. It’s just that he’s a part of a different family. When Bo’s in the house, everything is so much quieter, so much heavier. Except when it isn’t, like this afternoon. The family-with-Bo is like the spikes of a heart monitor—a loud burst, followed by nothing, followed by another loud burst.
To be fair, there’s always been silence in the family. Before Bo went to Berkshire, it was there to protect everyone from the toxic mix of my brother and my father. But the silence filling the house now is different. It’s informed silence. It’s a silence born from the fact that we know—we all know—something is really wrong with Bo. It’s not angry teenage rebellion that can be fixed by grounding him or taking his bedroom door down or whatever else Dad has tried. He can’t be punished into normalcy.
We’re not ignoring the problem, not really. We’re all aware it’s there, even Bo. We see the edges of this new Bo, this Bo who’s special, different. We’re not ignoring it. We’re just carefully, carefully avoiding it.
The silence in our house now is born from the need for intense concentration, as we all carefully step around the truth we wish we didn’t know, the person we can’t help that Bo became, the future we’re all afraid is collapsing around us, falling as silent and cold and crushing as snow.
CHAPTER 19
I stare at the gaping hole in my wall and wonder what Dad’s going to do with the door.
I wonder why he took the door. Dr. Franklin definitely wouldn’t tell him to do that.
Something’s not right. Whatever the Doc told Dad before we left Berkshire made him feel like he couldn’t trust me, but I can’t figure it out. Is Dr. Franklin trying to make sure I can’t work on saving Sofía?
If that was his plan, it was a stupid one. I don’t need to be at school to use the timestream. But a little privacy would be nice. I rip the duvet off my bed and bunch the top sheet in my hand, pulling it closer. Grabbing a stapler from my desk, I stand up on a chair and drape the sheet over the doorframe, stapling it into place. It’s not a door, but it’s something.
I just don’t get it. If they’re not going to trust me with a door, why bother bringing me home at all? Mom kept insisting I come for the weekend, but where is she? Downstairs, cleaning. And Dad’s just in his office. I sweep aside my sheet-door and step into the hallway, turning in a slow circle with my arms held wide. Here I am, I think. You wanted me, so here I am. But of course, no one sees. No one cares. My parents have no idea what to do with me.
Hell, I don’t know what to do with me. Phoebe’s room—with its door—stands right in front of me. I turn my back on it and return to my room. It’d be easier if I were like her. She’s everything my parents ever wanted. Ambitious, driven, studious, and—most important of all—normal. I’m sure she has her whole life planned, just like I’m sure it’s 100 percent parent-approved. Graduate, college, job. I wonder where she’ll go. I bet she’s already writing her application essays. But me? I doubt I could get into any college, and even if I could, I couldn’t go. Not unless I knew I could control my powers. And control feels a long way off right now. The truth of the matter is that I may never have control. I may never have “normal” in my grasp.