In an Instant(42)

The power diminishes with each strike as my dad’s strength drains, until finally, too wasted to lift his crutch again, he stops. “You arrogant little prick. You led her out there, and you left her.” His breath wheezes, making the words barely audible.

Vance actually nods in agreement, which enrages my dad, and he finds the strength to hit Vance across his forearm with the crutch, metal cracking against bone. My dad stumbles with the blow and nearly collapses, catching himself awkwardly on his crutch as his chest heaves. “You goddamn son of a bitch. She almost died because of you. My girl almost died.” Mucus and tears stream down his face. Unsaid but blaring is the statement, Finn died BECAUSE OF ME. Chloe almost died BECAUSE OF ME. Oz died BECAUSE OF ME.

Vance curls tighter, says nothing, and wisely doesn’t nod again.

If my dad had the strength, he would continue, but he’s barely able to hold himself. “Rot in hell, Vance. Rot in fucking hell.”

Like a drunk man, dizzily he staggers away.

A foot from the door, his eyes catch on the pills on the dresser, and he glances back at the destroyed boy sobbing behind him. His face curls in disgust, and he swipes the pills to the floor, then continues out the door. And as I watch him go, I wonder if this brutal act of vengeance helped, if it diluted his rage or if this is only the first step toward greater destruction. I feel a chill shudder my spine, the answer etched in the ugly expression on my dad’s face.





51

My mom walks into an empty house, and it takes her a second to remember it’s not supposed to be empty.

“Jack?” she calls.

His wheelchair is beside the couch, his crutches gone.

Bingo follows her into the kitchen and then out the sliding doors to the backyard. Her pace quickens as she climbs the stairs and looks into her bedroom and into Oz’s room. At Chloe’s door she stops, takes a breath, then steps inside.

Chloe turns her face from the window and says nothing.

“Where’s your dad?” my mom says.

Chloe turns away.

“Damn it, Chloe. Where the hell’s your dad?”

Chloe’s head snaps back, her eyes hard and dark.

“Answer me.”

Chloe squints in hatred, and my mom squints back, the fierceness of their gazes clashing with such force it’s nearly audible. Then, for the first time since the accident, Chloe speaks to my mom. “How the hell am I supposed to know?”

The answer stuns my mom, and I can tell she can’t decide whether she should hug Chloe or yell at her. She chooses the latter, since it’s what got the response in the first place. “Well, get out of bed and help me look for him,” she barks.

Chloe blinks several times rapidly, like my mom just asked for her right kidney instead of her help in finding my dad.

“Get up,” my mom says again. “This is serious. Your dad is gone.”

Surprisingly, Chloe does. She wavers a little as she pushes herself up, slightly dizzy from the sudden redistribution of blood.

My mom pretends not to notice. “Go down to the beach to look for him. I’m going to drive around the neighborhood.”

Chloe continues to blink like a warning light but also continues to respond. She grabs a hoodie from the hook beside her bed and pulls it on as my mom heads out of the room.

As Chloe shuffles past the dresser, she startles at the sight of herself in the mirror. Her hair is very strange, an inch of bronze and an inch of black, like the ends were dipped in ink. Her skin is ghostly pale, hollowed blue circles ring her eyes, and the scar on her forehead is broiled and pink. And she’s lost so much weight her cheekbones stick out sharply from her face. She tilts her head, sticks her tongue out at herself, tries out a couple of cockeyed expressions, then continues on her way.

By the time she reaches the stairs, my mom is already storming out the door. At first I think this is mean. After all, Chloe is still weak, her toes are damaged, and it hurts when she walks on them, but then I realize that this is the only way it can work. Without an audience, Chloe ignores all those things. As a matter of fact, she pays so little attention to them I wonder as I watch her if her toes even hurt at all or if it’s just an act so she can continue stockpiling her pills.





52

From her house, Mo must have seen Chloe hobbling down the ramp toward the beach, because she is running to meet her.

The Kaminskis live in a home overlooking the ocean, and Princess Maureen has a gorgeous view from her room.

Mo hasn’t seen my sister since the night of the accident, and she stops short when she sees her up close for the first time—the strange hair, emaciated body, her slippered feet wrapped in gauze. Mo erases the shock from her face and hustles to catch up, which isn’t difficult since Chloe shuffles forward tentatively, unsure of her three-toes-short-of-whole grip on the sandy concrete.

“Clover,” Mo says, using the nickname she’s called Chloe since we were toddlers.

Chloe turns, her face set in a mask of determination. Something like relief washes over her when she sees it’s Mo. Mo is like the easiest person in the world to be around.

Chloe surveys Mo for damage, scanning her head to toe. Mo helps her out. She holds out her hands front and back, then kicks out her bare feet. The skin on her hands is peeling, a mottled relief of waxy-yellow dead skin chafing off over new pink skin. Her feet are uglier; the digits are still attached, but patches of brown and vermillion still bruise the tips. Chloe holds up her own wounds, and Mo frowns and nods when she sees how much Chloe’s decision to follow Vance cost her.