Blindness(24)

After two hours of studying, I’m making great progress, and am down to one final calculus problem when the sunlight finally runs out. My blanket is littered with snack wrappers and empty juice boxes—it seems when Trevor’s gone, I take on the eating habits of a fourth grader.

Feeling pretty satisfied with my studies, I close up my books and lay back with my arms tucked under my head. The sky is a deep orange, and the color is fading fast, blues and grays filling in where the warmth was only seconds before. I can still see a few of the brightest stars through the clouds, but I know they’ll be covered soon, too, and it makes my chest heavy.

This was our thing—Mac and I would lie on the hood of his car and wait for shooting stars. It was a nightly tradition we started the summer right before he died. He had heard about a big meteor shower one night and thought we might be able to see a few from our driveway. We didn’t see a single shooting star that night, but we ended up talking until the sun came up.

Mac told me stories about his family, about my grandparents whom I never met. And he talked about Caroline with great affection. He worried over his sister—constantly. And lying there, listening to his stories, made me realize for the first time exactly how big his heart was.

His big heart was how he met mom. She had been struggling with drugs. Dad was new to the force, and he met her at a bar one night after a long shift; she was pretty strung out. He said there was something about her that made him feel like he had to fix her, so he begged her to get help. And she did. Mom got sober for almost six months, and in that time, they started dating.

Dad never used the L word when talking about his time with my mom. It wasn’t a word he used a lot, actually, minus the few times he said it to me. I think part of him loved her, but she was so gone—so twisted—by the end of their relationship; it was hard to imagine anyone loving that. Sabrina got pregnant—with me. And she started using again. I put the facts together on my own, never really needing Mac to come right out and say it. Mom wasn’t really the kind of woman who wanted kids—clearly not the right material. And my existence? Well, that drove her over the edge.

Sabrina ran off soon after she found out she was pregnant, never telling Mac about me until she dropped me off seven years later. It was a miracle I came out without any deformities, too, because I’m sure she got high the second the pregnancy test came back.

When we looked at the stars, Mac asked a lot about my time with mom. I know he was feeling guilty that I had to grow up there, but I assured him that I wasn’t emotionally wounded or scarred. I know he always felt responsible anyhow, though. He took in everyone else’s failures and made them his responsibility to correct. He didn’t know any other way to be.

God, I missed him. I was usually really good at pushing down my hunger to hug him once more, to hear his raspy chuckle, and smell his smoking pipe. But every now and then it snuck up on me—like a beast I just needed to feed for a while so I could function. When it happens, I look to the stars. I don’t have to talk out loud, though sometimes I do. I know he hears me either way. And tonight I just need the clouds to stay away—just long enough.

I choke a little when the first drop runs down my face. It’s the same thing every time I feel the threat of tears. I breathe deeply and will them away. I feel another drop, and then another, and I realize that my skin is feeling the sky open up. There won’t be any talking tonight—the stars are gone, the darkness of the clouds all that’s left, illuminated by the full moon.

The downpour comes on fast, and I’m scrambling to wrap my homework, pillow, sweater, and shoes in the blanket. Suddenly I feel the weight of the comforter lifted from me.

“I’ve got this, you run inside—fast!” Cody says.

I do what he says, only because the wind is kicking up, and the heavy drops are starting to sting my face. I rush to the front door and hold it open from the force of the wind as he follows me inside. I shut it behind him and follow him to the den down the hall. He drops my blanket filled with my books and wrappers on the floor, and then stops for just a second to look at me before he turns his attention back to his feet, passing by me closely with his head down.

I’m instantly irritated, and I let him know it while I follow him into the kitchen. “What the hell?” I say, catching the swinging door that he doesn’t hold for me as I enter the kitchen behind him.

He’s not talking to me, instead just moving to the fridge and pulling out a packet of sandwich meat before moving on to the pantry to look for bread. He’s making a sandwich—unbelievable! I haven’t seen him in days, and then he shows up, just in time to save me from what I’m sure he’ll say is the storm of the century, and all he can do now is slap some ham on wheat?

I’m livid.

“Uh, hello?” I say, waving my hand in his line of sight. I’m being a child, but I don’t care. He stops what he’s doing and looks me in the eyes because of it, and I feel satisfied.

“You’re welcome,” he says, then turns his attention back to his food.

I stand there next to him, my mouth open, and my fingers digging into the counter to prevent me from shoving him off balance. I don’t know what it is about him that makes me want to shake him. And I hate that he feels vindicated, like I needed his help in any way. I’m about to scream from the pressure building inside me when Shelly slides into the kitchen—just in time to halt what I’m sure was going to be a string of choice words.