The Dark Divine(17)

FOUR AND A HALF YEARS AGO




It was a hot May night. I’d opened my window before bed and was awakened by echoing voices around two in the morning. Even now, when I can’t sleep, I still hear those voices—like phantom whispers on the night wind.

My bedroom was on north end of the house—the side facing Daniel’s home. His window must have been open, too. The shouting got louder. I heard a crash and the sounds of ripping canvas. I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t stay put. I couldn’t stand to be in my own skin until I did something. So I went to the one person I knew I could rely on most.

“Jude, are you awake?” I peeked into his room.

“Yes.” He sat on the edge of his bed.

Jude’s room was the one next to mine at the time—before my parents turned it into a nursery for James. Those horrible voices wafted in through his open window. They weren’t as loud as they had been in my room, but they were just as chilling. My parents’ bedroom was on the far south side of the house. If their window wasn’t open, they probably wouldn’t hear a thing.

“We have to do something,” I whispered. “I think Daniel’s father hits him.”

“He does worse,” Jude said quietly. “Daniel told me.”

I sat next to Jude on the bed. “Then we have to help him.”

“Daniel made me blood-brother swear I wouldn’t tell Mom and Dad.”

“But that’s a secret, and secrets are wrong. We have to tell.”

“But I can’t,” Jude said. “I promised.”

A vicious roar erupted in the background, followed by the loud cracking of splintering wood. I heard a muffled plea cut off by a horrible smacking sound—like the noise the mallet made when my mom pounded out meat on the kitchen counter.

Six hard smacks and a thundering crash, and then it fell silent. So silent I wanted to scream just to break it. Then there was this tiny sound—a whimpering, doglike cry.

I clutched at Jude’s arm and leaned my head on his shoulder. He brushed his hand through my tangled hair.

“Then I’ll tell,” I said. “So you don’t have to.” Jude held me until I had enough courage to wake my parents.

Daniel’s father split before the police arrived. But my father persuaded the judge to let Daniel stay with us while his mother figured things out. Daniel was with us for weeks, then months, and then a little over a year. But even though his fractured skull healed miraculously fast, he never seemed the same to me. Sometimes he was happier than I’d ever seen him, and then other times I would catch this pointed look in his eyes when he was with Jude—like he knew my brother had broken his trust.





DINNER




I sat at the table and ate dinner by myself for the first time in ages. Jude said he wasn’t hungry and went down to the basement, Charity was in her room, James had already gone to bed, and Mom and Dad were in the study with the double doors pulled closed. As I picked at my plate of reheated macaroni casserole and beef Stroganoff, I suddenly felt smug toward Daniel, like I was glad he was wrong about my perfect family dinners. Then I knew thinking that was wrong. I shouldn’t want bad things to happen to my family, just to prove something to Daniel. Why should he make me feel guilty or stupid for having a family that wanted to eat together and talk about our lives?

But tonight, it was too quiet to eat. I scraped my leftovers down the disposal and went to bed. I lay there for a while until those phantom voices found their way into my head. But then I realized the loud tones came from my own home. My parents were shouting at each other down in the study. They weren’t violent shouts, but angry and annoyed. Mom and Dad occasionally disagreed and argued, but I had never heard them fight before. Dad’s voice was low enough that I could hear his despair, but I couldn’t understand his words. Mom’s voice got louder, angrier, sarcastic.

“Maybe you’re right,” she yelled. “Maybe it is your fault. Maybe you brought this on all of us. And while we’re at it, why don’t we add global warming to the list? Maybe that’s your fault, too.”

I got up and closed my door all the way, slipped back under the covers, and pulled a pillow over my head.





CHAPTER SEVEN

Obligations





TUESDAY MORNING




Dad usually went jogging early in the morning, but I didn’t hear him go out while I was getting ready for school. The light was on in his study as I passed the closed doors on my way to the kitchen. I almost knocked but decided against it.

“You’re up early,” Mom said as she shoveled a stack of chocolate chip pancakes onto my plate. She’d already made two dozen of them even though none of us—except Dad—usually made our way down to breakfast for another thirty minutes. “I hope you slept well.”

Yeah, with a pillow over my head.

“I have a meeting with Mr. Barlow this morning.”

“Mm-hmm,” Mom said. She was busy wiping down the already glistening counter. Her loafers reflected in the sheen on the linoleum floor. Mom had a tendency to get a little OCD when she was stressed. The harder things were for the family, the more she tried to make things sparkle. Like everything was perfectly perfect.

I poked my finger into one of the melting chocolate chips that formed a symmetrical smiling face in my pancake. Mom normally only made her “celebration pancakes” for special occasions. I wondered if she was trying to soften the blow for a discussion about Maryanne—prep us for one of Dad’s sermons about how death is a natural part of life and all. That is, until I saw the look of guilt in her eyes when she placed a glass of orange juice in front of me. The pancakes were a peace offering for her fight with Dad last night.