Harder (Caroline & West #2)(76)

“Frankie.”

I tap her door again. “Open up.”

“Leave me alone!” she shouts.

“Franks, honey, it’s Christmas. You’re crying. I’m not leaving you alone.”

“I’m not crying!”

She throws something at the door that hits hard enough to make me take a step back. Caroline’s behind me, hands cupping her elbows.

“You want me to try?”

Twenty minutes. Twenty lousy minutes on the phone with my mom on f*cking Christmas Day, and me in the next room the whole time monitoring the call, but it still ends up this way—with my sister flinging the phone down, busting out in sobs, and running from the room.

Mom didn’t even call until right before Frankie’s bedtime. I tried her earlier, hoping to get it over with, but she answers the phone when she feels like it, and Christmas is no exception.

Usually, we get her when she’s on her way somewhere in the car and she wants to fill ten minutes with pointless chatter.

How are you guys doing? she’ll ask, but she doesn’t want to know.

Frankie has a harder time than I do with the calls. Some afternoons I’ll come in from working with Laurie to find her shut in her room, her hand-drawn STAY OUT sign taped to the door, and I’ll look at Caroline and mouth, Mom called?

Yeah, she’ll mouth in response.

Then she’ll make cookies, or I’ll download an episode of a show Frankie likes and use it to pry her out of her isolation.

Tonight, Mom was more emotional than I felt like dealing with. “I miss you guys, oh my gosh,” she said when I was on the phone with her. “Like f*cking crazy.”

There was a looseness to her speech, the way it spilled out of her, that made me reluctant to turn the call over to Frankie, but I figured, it was Christmas. I couldn’t really say no.

I should’ve said no.

“I don’t know what to do,” I say.

“You could give her a minute to cool off.”

“She’s not mad, though. Not really. She’s hurt, and I don’t want to leave her be.”

I tap at the door again. “Frankie. Open up, or I’ll take the knob off the door and let myself in.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I can, actually.”

“You’re not my dad!”

“I’m your brother and the guy who’s paying the rent around here, so open the door, Franks. I’m serious.”

“No.”

“For f*ck’s sake.”

“West—” Caroline says.

I turn around, put my back to the door, and slide down it. “I don’t know how to be her father,” I say.

“You’re doing great.”

“I’ve been at it for weeks. Asking her questions. Being here, trying to let her know I’m listening, talking to the f*cking counselor, talking to the gifted-and-talented teacher, filling out the f*cking paperwork, but I’m not getting anywhere.”

Caroline slides down next to me. Touches my arm. “You are.”

“She won’t even let me in the f*cking room.”

“It’s just the holiday,” Caroline says. “Talking to your mom. Her feelings are running high, but she’s going to come around.”

“She’s pissed at me for taking that top away from her.”

“It was the right thing to do.”

The top was from Mom, low-cut and completely wrong for a ten-year-old.

We sent Mom a photo book. It was Caroline’s idea. We picked out the best snapshots of Frankie and took some more of Iowa, the farm and the sculptures, me with Laurie, Caroline with Frankie, and put them together in an album.

So she’ll see what she’s missing, Frankie said.

When I asked if she got it, Mom said, “It’s nice,” then changed the subject.

She’s back with Bo, fighting with my uncle Jack, on the outs with most of the Leavitts. She told me Leavitts have no loyalty.

I guess she forgot I’m a Leavitt. That her daughter is, too.

I just don’t want her in my life anymore—for my own sake and for Frankie’s. I don’t want her carelessness, her gusts of passion, her brief forays into thoughtfulness that leave you feeling like shit when she forgets all about you. I want Frankie to have more.

Through the door, I can hear the soft sound of her crying.

I stand up. Tap the door again. “Frankie, look. I need you to open this door. I’m going to count to ten. That’s all you get. Ready? Ten—”

Caroline interrupts, “Are you sure you don’t want me to try?”

“Nine.”

“West?”

“I’m sure. Eight. Seven.”

“Can I do anything?” Caroline asks.

“Yeah. Go get me the screwdriver out of the junk drawer in the kitchen. Six.”

“Flathead or Phillips?”

“Five. Phillips.”

She rises to her toes, presses her lips against mine, and says, “I love you.”

“Four. Love you, too, baby. Three.”

Frankie cracks the door open on two. Her eyes are red. “What do you want?”

“To borrow your new purse. Jesus, Franks, what do you think I want? To talk to you. Let me in.” Gently, I push her shoulder so she’ll move aside, and then I walk into her room and close the door.