Ink and Bone by Lisa Unger
For Tara Popick
Thank you for a lifetime of friendship, laughter, and love. I can’t imagine what this journey would be without you.
PROLOGUE
Daddy was on the phone, talking soft and low, dropping behind them on the path. Nothing new. He was always on the phone—or on the computer. Penny knew that her daddy loved her, but she also knew that he was almost never paying attention. He was “busy, sweetie,” or “with a client,” or “just a minute, honey, Daddy’s talking to someone.” He was a good storyteller, a bear-hugger, always opened his arms to her, lifted her high, or took her into his lap while he worked at his desk. Mommy couldn’t lift her anymore, but Daddy still could. She loved the feel of him, the smell of him. He was never angry, always funny. But sometimes she had to say his name like one hundred times before he heard her, even when she was right next to him.
Dad. Dad? Daddy!
Honey, you don’t have to yell.
How could you not hear someone who was right next to you?
If Mommy was out and Daddy was in charge, then she and her brother could: eat whatever they wanted (all you had to do was go into the kitchen and take it; he wouldn’t even notice); play on the iPad forever (he would never suggest that they read a book or play a game together); ride their plasma cars up and down the long hallway from the foyer to the living room. And it was only when they got too loud that he might appear in the doorway to his office and say: “Hey, guys? Keep it down, okay?”
He wasn’t even supposed to talk on his phone on the hike—which was his idea. As far as she was concerned, hikes were just walks that never seemed to end. A walk with nothing exciting—like ice cream or a movie—at the end of it. It was just so that they could “be in nature”—which was Daddy’s favorite place to be. And Mom wasn’t there, because it was their time to just “be with Dad.”
“Don’t tell Mom, okay?” he’d said, as he fished his phone out of his backpack.
She and her brother had exchanged a look. It made her uncomfortable when he asked her to keep things from her mom, because Mommy had made her promise never to keep secrets. She said: “Anyone who asks you to keep a secret from your mom—a teacher, a friend, a stranger, anyone—is not looking out for you. No good person would ever ask you to do that.”
She knew that her mom was talking about stranger danger and how people weren’t allowed to touch her body (ew!) or “push drugs” at her. Mommy hadn’t said anything about Daddy. She very badly wanted to ask: “What if Daddy asks me to keep a secret?” But she had a feeling that wouldn’t be a good idea.
So she and her brother walked ahead on the shady path, leaving Daddy trailing behind talking in a soft voice to someone. She couldn’t hear him and didn’t care anyway. When grown-ups talked to each other it was so boring. She didn’t understand their words, their tones, why—out of nowhere—they got angry at each other, started yelling. Or worse, got suddenly really quiet, not talking at all. Talking to each other in fake voices, then changing back to normal voices for her and her brother. Weird.
“Look, what do you want me to do?” Daddy said, his voice suddenly growing louder.
When she looked back at him, he glanced up at her quickly, then down at the ground again.
“Come on,” said her brother.
He took her by the hand, and they ran up the path. All around them the trees were thick and tall, the air clean and fresh. There were no horns and sirens, just the sweet songs of birds in the branches. The crunching dirt path beneath her sneakers felt so different than concrete. The ground was wobbly and soft; she had to watch her step. But the air filled her lungs. She imagined them inflating like balloons, lifting her up into the leaves.
Her friends—Sophia, Grace, Averi—they all hated their older brothers. Brothers who teased and made fun, who scared them and hit them when their parents weren’t looking, played innocent when their sisters cried. But her brother wasn’t like that. She loved her brother; he helped her build the Lego Hogwarts Castle she got for Christmas, let her sleep in his bed when she was scared during storms. When her mom wasn’t around (which wasn’t often), he was the next best thing. Always there. Always knew what to say, what to do. Not like Daddy, who she also loved. But Daddy didn’t know all the important things—like how she didn’t like jelly, only peanut butter, how you weren’t supposed to turn the lights all the way off at bedtime, just down really low on the dimmer, or that she wanted water only from the refrigerator, not from the faucet in the bathroom.
“What are we doing?” she asked her brother. She’d wanted to stay back with Mommy, but Daddy wouldn’t let her. Come on, kiddo. It’s our time to be together.
“Hiking,” her brother said.
“Hiking to where?” she said, leaning on the word.
“Nowhere,” he said. “We’re just walking.”
“I’m tired,” she said. And she was tired suddenly—she wasn’t just saying it so that they could go back to Mom. “My tummy hurts.”
She did say that sometimes, because that was an automatic “let’s go home” for her mom. Her dad didn’t pay attention; he knew she sometimes was faking because she was bored or uncomfortable. Just hang in there a little, okay? he’d say.