Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(56)

Jolting into motion, I cross the yard again. Suddenly Francis’s shouts turn into wails. It’s a sound so desolate, so piercing that I feel it in my chest. Briana manages to catch hold of her mother’s right hand, and I come up to take her left. My friend looks at me and we pull Francis to the house in silent agreement. She fights us, but barely, as though she knows there’s no point but she has to try anyway.

Once we reach the threshold I pause, wondering if Briana still wants me to go. A mosquito hums past my ear. Briana guides Francis into the living room. She’s still mumbling about cigarettes.

“We don’t have any,” Briana says gently, helping lower her to the chair. She kneels and adjusts the blanket so it’s over Francis’s boney knees. “You quit when I was born, remember? You told me the story, about how—”

“I don’t care about some damn story,” Francis mutters. Abruptly, she stands and wrenches free. She runs to the china hutch along the far wall and yanks a drawer open. The contents inside rattle. “I want my f*cking cigarettes!” She swears again, her fingers trembling. She keeps opening drawers and cupboards.

Briana follows but doesn’t try to stop her this time. “Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll run to the store?” she suggests, helpless. “Maybe I can get Ian to unlock the door.” Francis responds with more words that are hot and foul. Greasy hair falls into her eyes as she searches for something that she won’t find. But I know she won’t stop, give up, acknowledge the futility of it. This is what it is to want something that’s wrong or impossible.

So we trail Francis from room to room, watching her tear them apart. Throwing clothes to the floor and upheaving furniture and shattering anything that’s made of glass. All the while Briana pleads and coaxes, mentioning rest or a new flower or talking to Bill. But it isn’t until Francis shoves the garbage bin over and a potted plant falls out that she finally shatters. She drops to the tiles, her skin making a slapping sound on the cool surface, and crawls to it. Touches it with the tip of her finger. The leaves are withered and brown. She doesn’t cry, doesn’t sob, doesn’t speak. She just looks down at the dead flower.

Slowly, Briana kneels next to her mother. “Let’s get you into bed,” she says. Francis doesn’t argue, and she lets Briana pull her up. Together they walk down the hallway and into the bedroom at the very end. I can hear my friend singing to her, as if Francis is the child and Briana is the one with the responsibility. We should be consumed with things like college applications and growing up, yet here we are, tucking mothers in and holding guns. Life isn’t fair. If I’ve learned anything, it’s this.

To pass the time until Briana comes out, I tidy up the living room. There are plates with crusted food on the coffee table, a broken picture frame on the floor, a sticky substance dripping down the glowing television screen. I get a washcloth and the trash bin from the kitchen and fix what I can. The sounds of a Jeopardy rerun drown out the noise of my thoughts. Minutes pass, or maybe an hour, I don’t know.

Eventually, feeling eyes on me, I straighten. Briana stands in the doorway, watching me with a fathomless expression. There are no Emotions around her to give away what she’s feeling, but I can guess.

“What happened?” I ask quietly, pausing with the trash in my hands. Something clinks.

This seems to pull her out of her reverie. Briana folds her arms and hunches her shoulders, moving to sit on the couch. I put the trash bag down and settle on the cushion closest to her. “We fought,” she mumbles. “When I came home, she was already upset about that stupid flower. I just exploded, Alex. I told her she was a shitty mother and that she cared more about her plants than me. She didn’t say anything. So, wanting to hurt Mom just as badly as she’d hurt me, I blurted out the truth that she’s always pretended not to see. Even then, she wouldn’t speak. I told her I hated her and stomped off. By the time I came back out, she was like this. Mom doesn’t do well with confrontation or change.”

There’s a shocked pause as I take this in. All these years, Briana has never told her parents? Georgie and I thought they knew. We thought everyone knew. Suddenly, all the strain and resentment between Briana and her mother makes sense. How could I have missed it?

“Why tonight?” I finally whisper, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.

“Because I’m leaving.” A bitter smile curves her lips. “Because I was running out of time, and I wanted to be heard.” I’ve never seen her smile like that, not once in our entire lives. It frightens me.

At a loss of what to say, I wrap my arm around her. She’s stiff at first, but then she relaxes into my side. “Where’s your dad?” I ask next, putting my temple against hers.

“On his way.”

Silence. We both look at the TV but don’t really see it. Briana sniffs. I hold her close, wishing the world were simpler. More seconds pass us by, making me feel like we’re two kids stranded on the highway with all these cars whizzing past and refusing to stop. Now Love and Sorrow haunt Briana, beautiful specters that linger longer than most. Some might think it strange, these two Emotions coming together, but I’ve seen it so many times in the course of my life. Sorrow accompanies Love just as often as Joy does. That’s the thing about love; it may be permanent, but it’s never the same. One day it brings light and smiles, and the next it becomes pain and shadow. Yet we still risk it, letting love into our lives. Because that light is worth facing the darkness.