Made You Up(90)

“She was real,” my mother said. Her voice had gone tight, strained in a way I’d never heard it before. “But she died. Four years ago.”

Dad stood up as well. I didn’t like that everyone was standing.

“Charlie died before she turned five. As—” Dad’s voice broke. “Asphyxiation,” he said. “I should never have let her play with my chess set—”

I backed away, shielding Charlie from view. She whimpered again. The chessboard tumbled from her hands, and now all the other pieces joined the black pawn on the floor.

“I’m calling Leann.” My mother went for the phone. “We shouldn’t have waited so long. This has gone too far. There’s got to be a stronger medication she can prescribe.”

“She doesn’t need stronger medication.” A hand wrapped around my arm. Miles stood where Charlie had just been, glaring at my mother. Anger radiated off him, deep and cold. “She needs parents who give a shit about telling her what’s real and what’s not.”

My parents stared at him, both of them rooted to the spot and completely silent.

“Miles,” I whispered.

“How could you not tell her?” He got louder by the second. “Charlie’s been dead for years, and you think it’s okay to pretend she’s not? Did you think Alex wouldn’t find out? Was she too crazy for that?”

“No, it’s nothing like—” my mother began.

“Like what? What could justify that?” Miles’s fingers dug into my arm. “It better be pretty damn good, because that’s f*cked up. That’s really f*cked up. You’re the ones she’s supposed to be able to trust—you’re supposed to be the ones she can go to when she can’t tell. But instead she has to take a bunch of pictures because if she tells you anything, you threaten to send her to an asylum!”

Tears filled my mother’s eyes. “You have no right to come in my house and tell me how to treat my daughter!”

“Oh, really? Because I know terrible parents, and you’re one of them!”

“We tried,” Dad finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “We tried to tell her. Alex was in the hospital at the time—she’d just had an episode, she wasn’t doing well—and no matter what we said, it just . . . rolled off.” He looked at me. “Like you couldn’t hear us. At first we thought you were just in shock. We thought you understood. But then you came home, and you were talking to her, and we realized that . . . that you didn’t.”

The room was too small, too close, too hot. An awful sob escaped my throat before I could catch it. I clapped my hand over my mouth. It seemed to break Miles’s anger; his face rearranged itself into a soft expression of pity that I hated. I didn’t want that look from anyone, least of all Miles. Never him. I darted across the kitchen to the back door. I could hardly see, but I knew exactly where I was going.

I wrenched the door open, tripped down the steps, and sprinted across the backyard.

When I got to Red Witch Bridge, I slid down the embankment of the creek and climbed under the bridge, where no one could see me. My lungs burned, and my eyes stung from the tears.

Blue Eyes. Bloody Miles. Scarlet. The 8 Ball. And now Charlie.

Charlie. Charlemagne. My own sister. If Charlie wasn’t real, then what was?

Was everything made up? Was this whole world inside my head? If I ever woke up from it, would I be inside a padded room somewhere, drooling all over myself?

Would I even be myself?

Charlie had been a constant. Never once had I suspected she wasn’t real. She’d always been real. Soft and warm and there when I needed her.

I couldn’t breathe. I pressed a hand to my stomach and sucked in air, but bile rose to block it. My throat closed up.

“Alex! Alex, calm down!” Miles slid down the embankment, planted himself in front of me, and grabbed my shoulders. “Breathe. Just breathe. Relax.”

He took my hand and pressed it to his chest, over his heart. It beat frantically under my palm.

Was that real? His heart? Was he real?

I stared back at the blue eyes I’d always thought were too good to be true. So were they? Was Miles real? Because if Charlie wasn’t real and he wasn’t real, I didn’t want this anymore. I didn’t want any of this.

“Hey.”

“Are you real?” I asked.

“Yes, I am,” he said resolutely. He pressed my hand harder to his chest. His heart beat like a drum.