Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(42)

No, I didn’t. All I remember is waking up and hearing her railing at me for being stupid, for dating a boy like Blaine, for fighting back against those thugs, for walking down a dark alley, for every little thing I’d done that landed me in that bed.

“I couldn’t live the life they wanted for me,” I say slowly. “That wasn’t rebellion. It was just . . . living. I was never going to be the daughter they wanted. I didn’t need to be. They had you.”

“Exactly. You didn’t need to be that daughter. I did. I followed every rule. I never caused them a moment’s worry. I achieved everything they wanted. I was perfect. And they didn’t care. All that mattered was you. All they cared about was you.”

Tears well up in her eyes, and I stare. I am transported back to that hospital bed, to hearing my mother berate me for every mistake I made, while tears rolled down her cheeks. She railed at me, and she cried, and she told me never to do anything like that again, never to scare them like that again.

I had reached out and hugged her and told her not to worry. I’d be fine. I’d recover. I’d bounce back, like I always did. It was the first time I’d seen her cry. The first time I reached for a hug and got one. Mom had fallen against me as she sobbed. And over her shoulder, I saw April. Just standing there. Watching. And then turning and walking past Dad out the door. She left, and no one noticed.

I’m looking at my sister, and I don’t know what to say. No, I do know. I could sympathize and commiserate . . . or I can be honest.

“That wasn’t my experience, April,” I say softly. “To me, there were three people in our family and one interloper. One cuckoo among the warblers. You were the one they were proud of. Their success story. I was the screw-up. But, yes, I understand what you’re saying. You gave them what they wanted, and that freed me to do my own thing. If they were disappointed in me, I knew they had you. They could take comfort in you. That placed a burden on you, and I’m sorry. I honestly never saw that. I was a kid. I was so much younger than you, and I don’t think you ever realized that. To you, I was stupid and selfish and irresponsible. To me, I was the screw-up little sister you wanted nothing to do with. I could never make you laugh. Never catch your interest. Never even make you smile. No matter how hard I tried.”

Her cheeks go bright red, and I’m not sure why. Before she can speak, Kenny calls, “Uh, Doctor Butler?”

April ignores him and fidgets with the hem of her shirt.

“April?” I say. “That’s you. It’s Butler here, remember?”

“Doctor Butler?” Kenny calls again. “I, uh, spilled water on my legs and I . . . I can’t feel it.”

We look at each other and then jump up and hurry for the supply closet.





SEVENTEEN

This is the first time Kenny has been awake enough to assess his condition. He’s surfaced before this, dopey from the morphine, and April wanted to assess him, but I’d said no, hold off. I wanted him to be awake enough to understand the questions . . . and awake enough to be reassured if the answers were not what we all hoped for.

They were not.

Kenny has no feeling in his legs. No movement either. When he starts to panic, I begin the reassurances. Surgery went well. There’s still swelling. It’s too soon to tell.

April glowers at me. She wants me to prepare him for the worst. I will not. Anyone who has been shot in the back knows the worst scenario. Kenny might be the town carpenter, but down south, he’d been a high school math teacher. He is perfectly capable of reasoning through a problem on his own.

When April conducts her prick tests, I am vindicated. He has sensation. Not a normal degree, but when she pokes his legs enough, he feels it.

“So, that’s good,” he say.

When April opens her mouth, he says, “Yeah, doc, I understand what I’m facing. Damage to the lumbar region. Not paralysis but nerve damage. Loss of sensation.” He manages a strained chuckle. “Thankfully, I don’t seem to have fully lost my sense of . . .” His cheeks flush. “Bladder and bowel control, I mean. That’s a start. So what’s the next step?”

“Letting the swelling subside and seeing where we stand,” I say.

“Seeing if I can stand, you mean.”

I pass him a smile. “You should be able to. You just might need help.”

“Braces,” he says. “Lots of rehabilitation. Possible permanent loss of some motor function.”

I nod. “As soon as we see what’s what, we can transfer you down south. The council would ensure you have access to full medical care and physiotherapy.”

“And if I don’t want that?”

“Don’t want physio?”

“Don’t want to leave.”

“If Oliver Brady hadn’t shown up, you’d be gone by now, Kenny,” I say. “Your term ended. You were packed and ready to go.”

“And if I’ve changed my mind? If I want to apply for an extension?”

“I don’t believe this town is equipped to provide either medical care or rehabilitation,” April says. “I could not, in good conscience, advise that you stay. Nor could I support such a course of action.”

He looks at me. “Eric said I could get an extension. My carpentry skills plus my militia training meant I qualified to stay the full five years.”