Splintered (Splintered, #1)(9)

“What did you do?” Dad opens my car door, worry apparent on his face.

I swing out my legs slowly, gritting my teeth against the throb as blood rushes to my ankle. “The usual. Skateboarding is trial and error, you know?” I glance at Jeb as he comes around to the passenger side, mentally forbidding him to tell Dad about the worn-out knee pad.

Jeb gives his head a shake, and for a second, I think he’s going to turn on me again. Instead, our eyes lock and my insides tangle. What made me touch him like that earlier? Things are weird enough between us as is.

Dad helps me stand and crouches to look at my ankle. “Interesting. Your mom was convinced something happened. She said you’d hurt yourself.” He stands, an inch shorter than Jeb. “I suppose she just assumes the worst any time you’re late. You should’ve called.” He cups my elbow while I position the crutches under my arms.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Let’s get you inside before she does something—” Dad stops himself in answer to my pleading gaze. “Uh, before our ice cream melts to cheesecake soup.”

We start toward the sidewalk lined with peonies. Bugs dance atop the flowers and white noise grows around me, making me wish I had my earbuds and iPod.

Dad throws a glance over his shoulder when we’re halfway to the door. “Could you park the car in the garage, in case it rains?”

“Sure thing,” Jeb’s voice answers back. “Hey, skater girl …”

I pause behind Dad and pivot on my good foot, fingers tight around the cushioned crutch grips as I study Jeb’s expression in the distance. He looks as confused as I feel.

“When do you work tomorrow?” he asks.

I stand there like a brainless mannequin. “Um … Jen and I are on the noon shift.”

“Okay. Get a ride with her. I’ll come by then to look at Gizmo’s engine.”

My heart sinks. So much for hanging out like old times. Looks like he’s going to avoid me now. “Right. Sure.” I bite back my disappointment and turn to hobble with Dad up the path.

He catches my eye. “Everything all right between you two? I can’t remember a time you didn’t tinker in the garage together.”

I shrug as he opens the glass door. “Maybe we’re growing apart.” It hurts to say it, more than I’ll ever admit out loud.

“He’s always been a good friend,” Dad says. “You should work it out.”

“A friend doesn’t try to run your life. That’s what dads are for.” Raising my eyebrows to make my point, I limp into the air-conditioned building. He steps in behind me, silent.

I shiver. The hallways here unsettle me with their long, empty stretches and yellow blinking lights. White tiles magnify the sounds, and nurses in peppermint-striped scrubs blur in my peripheral vision. The uniforms make them look more like candy stripers than certified health-care professionals.

Counting the barbs painted on my T-shirt, I wait for Dad to talk to the nurse behind the main desk. A fly lands on my arm and I swat at it. It swoops around my head with a loud buzz that almost sounds like “He’s here,” before darting down the corridor.

Dad pauses beside me as I stare after the fly. “You sure you’re all right?”

I nod, shaking off the delusion. “Just don’t know what to expect today.” It’s only a half lie. Alison gets too distracted around plants and insects to go outside very often, but she’s been begging for fresh air, and Dad talked her doctor into trying. Who knows what might come of it?

“Yeah. I’m hoping this doesn’t unbalance her too much …” His voice trails off, and his shoulders slouch, as if all the sadness of the last eleven years weighs on them. “I wish you could remember her the way she was before.” He places a hand on my nape as we head toward the courtyard. “She was so levelheaded. So together. So much like you.” He whispers that last part, maybe in hopes I won’t hear.

But I do, and the barbed wire tightens once more, until my heart is strangled and broken.





Other than Alison, her nurse, and a couple of groundskeepers, the courtyard is deserted. Alison sits at one of the black cast-iron bistro tables on a cement patio that’s been stamped to look like cobblestone. Even the decor has to be chosen carefully in a place like this. There’s no glass anywhere, only a reflective silver gazing globe secured tightly to its pedestal base.

Since some patients are known to pick up chairs or tables and throw them, the legs of the furniture are bolted into the cement. A black and red polka-dotted parasol sprouts up from the center of the table like a giant mushroom and shades half of Alison’s face. Silver teacups and saucers glisten in the sunlight. Three settings: one for me, one for Dad, and one for her.

We brought the tea service from home years ago when she first checked in. It’s an indulgence the asylum caters to in order to keep her alive. Alison won’t eat anything—be it Salisbury steak or fruit cobbler—unless it’s in a teacup.

Our pint of chocolate-cheesecake ice cream waits on a place mat, ready to be scooped out. Condensation rolls down the cardboard packaging.

Alison’s platinum braid swings over her chair’s back, almost touching the ground. She has her bangs tucked beneath a black headband. Wearing a blue gown with a long bib apron to keep her clothes clean, she looks more like Alice at the Mad Hatter’s tea party than most of the illustrations I’ve seen.