A World Without You(66)

“Let the boy go, Martha,” Dad says, turning to the sports section. He sighs. “It’s more peaceful like this anyway.”

Peaceful. This house is so peaceful that it’s practically dead.

Mom sort of crumples into her seat and listlessly picks up her fork. She eats her food in a circle, starting with the green beans and moving to the mac and cheese before cutting the chicken into tiny pieces. Dad eats absentmindedly, reading the paper. I stab my food and swish it around the plate, but hardly anything winds up in my mouth.

“George,” Mom says.

Dad looks up.

“It’s dinnertime.” She looks pointedly at the paper. He scoots it to the side of the table, where Bo would normally sit, but his eyes linger on the text.

We all chew our food.

I want nothing more than to pick the chicken carcass up off the table and slam it into the ground. The white porcelain platter would shatter beautifully, sending shards across the dark hardwood floors, splattering chicken grease everywhere.

I reach for the bowl of mac and cheese even though I haven’t eaten what’s on my plate yet. I wonder what Dad would do if I turned the bowl upside down on his head. Just that. Just turned it upside down and let the yellow, slimy noodles drip down the side of his face, and then walked back to my room as if nothing happened.

Like Bo did.

What would it be like to be Bo? To be already broken, to have no expectations laid upon me? Because as much as I’d like to burn this whole dining room to the ground, I know I won’t. I won’t ever. My parents can handle one child who walks as if he’s in a trance, taking what he wants and leaving without a word.

They can’t handle it from me too.

The chicken tastes like dirt in my mouth. I’ve never seen Bo act this way before, as if he could pretend he was alone and make it so. I’ve never seen him this far gone, this wrapped up in his own little bubble.

I’m so messed up. I’m so messed up, because right now, I’m sort of jealous.

I don’t have the luxury of allowing myself to break. Bo is Bo. He can do what he wants, be who he wants. But not me. I have to be the good daughter. I have to come home every night. I have to get good grades and have a decent appearance and goals and ambitions that line up with my parents’.

Because if I break, they’ll break too.

It’s a responsibility I’d never really felt before, or at least I never thought about enough to name. But Bo’s actions just cement my place in my family. He can walk away from the dinner table.

I can’t.

? ? ?

After helping Mom wash the dishes before she puts them in the dishwasher, I head back to my room. Bo’s curtain is to the side, so I can see the way he sits in the center of the bed, almost as if he’s meditating, his legs crossed, his head bent. His arms reach out in front of him, as if he’s trying to grab something, but his fingers meet nothing but air.

“Hey.”

Bo opens his eyes, and he seems a little surprised that I’m there.

I pick up his dirty plate from the edge of the bed. “Mom’s doing dishes,” I say as an excuse for interrupting him. He gives me a dismissive jerk of his head.

I turn to go, but then he moves, and I pause, and it feels as if we’re both part of an awkward play, waiting for the other to give a cue.

“Is everything okay?” he asks finally.

I stare at him. Everything but you, I want to say, but we both know that’s not true. Not true at all.

Instead, I try to smile. “I’m glad you’re back home,” I say, and I don’t let myself think about whether or not I’m telling the truth.

Bo’s gaze slides away from mine. It’s obvious he doesn’t feel the same way.

“So, listen,” I say, shifting the plate from one hand to the other. I want to say . . . something. Talking with that doctor a few days ago has made me think a lot about the past, like when I broke my arm. It’s made me wonder when things went wrong. And that’s made me think about when things were right.

“Thanks,” I say.

“For what?” Bo looks confused.

“For, um, teaching me how to drive.”

Bo laughs a little. “What? I didn’t do that. It was Dad or . . .”

“No.” My voice is quiet but certain. “It was you.” When I meet his eyes, it’s obvious he still doesn’t understand. “We were on the road trip, remember? In Colorado. And Dad wanted to ‘take us off the beaten path,’ so he drove us to this really scary, winding road. It wasn’t even a real road; it was for loggers or something. Mom wouldn’t look out the window, and she held on to that bar on the side of the door.”

“Oh yeah,” Bo says, a smile playing on his face. That trip had been our last family vacation. Driving and camping had been fun when we were younger, but we were both in high school then, and it was annoying to have to share the car charger with everyone and hope my phone’s signal lasted in the woods.

“And then Dad stopped the car and told me to drive.”

I still remember the crisp, cold air and the scent of evergreens when Dad and I swapped places in the car. I was fifteen at the time, so it wasn’t technically legal, but the road probably wasn’t technically legal either, and no one was around. Just us and the mountains and the trees. Mom had been nervous, but I was excited—my first time behind the steering wheel. But as soon as I got in the driver’s seat, I sort of freaked out. Not on the outside, of course, but my brain was screaming in panic.