In Her Wake (Ten Tiny Breaths 0.5)(11)
But has that all changed for Kacey?
Chapter 6
August 2008
“For Sale.”
I feel like someone slammed the sign into my gut.
“I never imagined they’d sell. Susan loves that house.” My mom sidles up behind me and wraps her arm around my waist as I look out on the Daniels property from our step. “Up one day and the agent already has multiple offers.”
I search for the right words but there are none, so I settle on trying to clear the lump in my throat.
“It’s nice to see you out here, Cole. You could use some sun.” Her hand reaches up to touch my cheek. “And a shave.”
The sound of my own name irritates me. At first, it just earned a few raised hairs. Then a prickle. Then a wince. Now, though, I hear “Cole” and I feel like I’m being reprimanded for something horrible that I’ve done. In my head, that paramedic’s voice still says it over and over again, as she tends to me while my friends lie dead mere feet away. While Kacey sits trapped in that car.
When I hear my name, a fresh wave of guilt flows through me.
I wish she’d stop using it.
“I saw Madison earlier. She was asking about you. She said you had a fight?”
Aside from a few check-in texts, I haven’t talked to her since she ran out of the rec room almost three weeks ago. She’s heading back to Washington next Thursday.
Two days before I leave for Michigan State.
There’s no physical reason why I shouldn’t go back to school. My ribs and my collarbone have set, based on the latest doctor’s appointment and X-rays. The doctor even mandated weights to build my muscle back up. He’s cleared me for football practice.
Too bad I’ve already quit the team.
Coach had been sending me emails periodically over the summer, checking in. I finally told him two weeks ago. I don’t think he was too surprised. Of course, I haven’t told anyone else yet. It doesn’t really matter, in the grand scheme of things. I’d just rather forget about football and move on.
I have been studying, though. If I took the exams today, I could probably get by with C’s.
“Why don’t you go over there and talk to her? Apologize,” my mom says with a gentle push against my back.
I sigh, knowing it’s time that I got this over with.
■ ■ ■
I remember the last time I actually knocked on this door. I was seven and had just had a huge fight with my dad. Naturally, I snuck out my bedroom window with a bag of clothes and my G.I. Joe figurines, intent on running away. Even more naturally, I headed straight for my second home. I figured knocking on the door was the best opener before I pled my case about why Sasha’s parents should let me move in with them. How I didn’t eat much and Sasha and I could share a room.
It’s the exact same door, only now it’s painted black instead of forest green.
It takes a few minutes for it to open and, when it does, it’s not Madison standing before me. It’s the woman who knows me as well as my own mom does.
“Hello, Cole,” Susan Daniels says. I always used to tease Sasha, saying that his mom may “stay at home” but she had a side profession working as a phone sex operator. Pissed him off something fierce. I don’t hear the sultriness in her voice now, though.
Her sadness must have stifled it.
Without meaning to, I count the seconds of awkwardness. Three. They feel like thirty.
But then she steps forward and wraps her arms around my neck, forcing me to stoop as she pulls me down into her short body, her grip tightening around my recently healed collarbone.
“I’m so happy to see you,” she whispers as she shifts away, her hands stalling on my scruffy cheeks, holding my face in place as she stares up at me, searching. As if those eyes that both of her children inherited are trying to communicate silently to me.
I wonder if she can read the apology within mine.
I don’t think I’ll ever stop saying I’m sorry.
She smoothes her shirt down over her hips as she backs up, making room for me to walk in. I have to hold my breath as I step over the threshold, as if I can’t possibly handle breathing and striding into Sasha’s home simultaneously.
She must sense it because she quickly takes my hand and leads me forward, down the hall, past the living room that I hung out in almost every Saturday night of high school, before heading out to a party or a movie or general teenage boy shenanigans. Gone are the stacks of DVD cases and clutter of family photos sitting on the mantel. Gone are the collections of knickknacks and trophies from the bookshelf. The “office” in the corner—a desk normally buried with stacks of papers and stationery, where Cyril does the bulk of his accounting work—is missing. The Daniels home now sits tidy and coordinated and void of its personality, hiding its pain, ready to welcome an oblivious new family.
“Aren’t you going to miss it here?” The breath I’ve been holding escapes with my words, making me sound all husky and emotional.
Her fingers clamp around mine. “I think we could all use a change,” is all she says.
Even though I have a damn good idea where she’s leading me, my feet still stall as we step into Sasha’s room.
Or, what was Sasha’s room. “It looks different in here.” My gaze absorbs the light gray walls, once army green and mottled with dents from the tennis ball Sasha liked to bounce off them, both to relieve stress and to drive his sister—her headboard just on the other side—nuts. The TV and Nintendo, the sports posters, the blue-and-green plaid bedding that he’s had in his room since we were thirteen . . . gone.