Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(53)
“Mom, what’s wrong?” I stand next to her in my pajamas. Rain lashes against the window and makes the room quiver in silvery shadows.
She stops rocking and blinks, as though she’d forgotten where she was. “Nothing, honey. I’m just tired,” she tells me. Her smile is tremulous and she tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Wow, it’s getting long,” she says suddenly. “We should probably cut it.” She tilts her head and purses her lips, studying me. “But it’s so pretty. It would be a shame. Maybe we’ll just start braiding it, huh?”
“Okay.” I shuffle closer and she hauls me up, sets me on her lap even though we both know I’m too big for it. We gaze out at the storm together. “When is Dad coming home?” I murmur.
Her expression darkens again, and instantly I wish I hadn’t asked. Someone appears in front of me, kneeling so he’s at my level. He clutches the tip of my bare foot between his thumb and forefinger. I’m used to my invisible friends popping into the room, but I don’t recognize this one. I almost open my mouth to ask him who he is, remembering just in time that Mom doesn’t like it when I talk to them. The man answers the question anyway. “I’m Regret,” he says, his voice raspy, like he smokes too many cigarettes or says too many words. “And I have a feeling you’ll bring me back to this dying place again.”
There’s no chance to ask him what he means, because the brightness of headlights sweeps through the room. Dad is home. I feel Mom’s heart quicken, too, and she hastily puts me down. She grips my shoulders and turns me to face her. Her eyes are so wide that I feel like I’m falling into the mines where Dad used to work. “Alex, I want you to go to bed and stay there, all right? Promise me. Honey, look at me and promise.”
I tear my attention away from all the invisible people hovering around her chair, touching my mother with their hands. “I promise,” I say, uncertain, wondering why she’s afraid of Dad. Her eyes flicker—she must hear the waver in the words—but the sound of a door slamming outside is more important. She sends me to my room with another stern instruction to stay in bed. Stay, stay, stay. She stresses that so much that it becomes trapped in my head, fluttering like a bird in a cage.
Before I move to obey, I pause in the hallway and watch her. She’s standing now, twisting her hands together as she waits. That’s when I realize there are suitcases against the wall. Are we going on a trip? The front door opens, and I forget the suitcases as I scurry into the safety of my room. Like most nights, I press my ear to the door and listen. Worry squats next to me, using my shoulder for balance. He smells like sweat.
“ … had enough. I’m taking the kids,” Mom says, her voice as hard as cement. “We’re going to stay at my sister’s for a while.”
“She lives hours away! You can’t take them that far.”
“Will—”
“No. Listen, something happened today, and I was already planning to stop. I won’t do it anymore. Just don’t leave. Don’t take them. Okay?” A brief silence falls. Then Mom sighs. Hurriedly Dad continues, “They can sleep over at Saul and Missy’s tonight, just to get them out of here while it passes from my system.”
Suddenly Mom gasps. “Is that … blood on your shirt? Will, what happened?” The rain answers. Dad doesn’t. When the wordlessness goes on too long Mom finally says, her voice strangled, “If we’re really going to do this, then I want them to go to Andrew’s. That way they won’t hear anything or try to come over.”
“Yes, fine, okay. Let’s go.”
I blink, and I’m back in the attic again. More alone and confused than ever. To escape the hollow feeling inside me, I lurch from the rocking chair and climb down the ladder.
Smoke fills the apartment. Following the sound of the smoke detector, I stop in the kitchen doorway. “Shit!” Missy is fumbling for the dials that control the stove. There’s a book in her other hand. She was trying to read and cook again.
“Let me do it,” I say, coughing and rushing to her side. The pan is steaming—bordering on catching fire—and she gets out of the way just in time for me to remove it from the burner. There’s no saving the bacon, so I seize the spatula lying on the countertop and stir the ruin of eggs. They look like scorched rubber. Missy stands there with a defeated slump to her shoulders while I grab the broom and wave the end of it at the shrieking detector. The moment it goes silent I open every window in the apartment.
When I return to the stove, Missy still hasn’t moved. With watery eyes I scrape the eggs onto two plates, dig the bag of grated cheese out of the fridge, and sprinkle it over the mess. Two forks, and we have breakfast. “See? Some things can be saved.” I bump Missy’s hip with mine.
It’s as if her strength has burned away instead of the bacon. “We should just move to a town where we can order pizza,” she mutters.
I’m about to respond when a familiar noise drifts through the open window: a trash can crashing to the ground. Missy doesn’t react, but I don’t want my stray to be discovered. Animals aren’t exactly pampered or sacred around these parts. “Do you mind if I eat outside?” I say quickly. “It’s nice out, and I could use some fresh air after being in that attic for so long.”
As an answer, she hands me one of the plates. I falter, wishing for the millionth time that there was a magical combination of words that could fix us. Since there are none, I kiss her cheek. Missy jumps. Before she can comment, I leave.