Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“Where’s Mom and Dad?” I plucked the controller from his hands.
“Hey! I don’t know.” He lunged for me.
I tossed the controller onto the floor, and Chad dove for it like a lifeline. Feeling frantic and confused, I checked the basement, the backyard, and finally the garage. Upon hearing raised voices, I cracked open the side access door less than an inch.
“I’m sorry, Becca …” I barely recognized my dad’s voice, the desperation and the way each word sounded like a stutter because he was crying. It was the first time I witnessed my father crying.
Mom stood in front of him with a blank expression, gaze fixed on his chest like it was too unbearable to look up at him.
“Honey …” He grabbed her shoulders, and she jerked away from him, stumbling back a few steps until the Volkswagen door stopped her from going any farther. “It just happened. It wasn’t planned.”
“Did you fuck her?”
Mom didn’t swear … ever. And even if my young mind could have imagined a cuss word falling from her lips, it never would have been the F-word. The king of all swear words. I felt pretty sure I was not only forbidden to say it, but forbidden to even think it.
What confused me the most was what she meant when she said it. I had heard the word a few times. I knew it was bad and forbidden. But I’d never asked anyone for a definition. The few times I had heard someone use it was “fuck you.” And not in a nice way. It was an angry “fuck you.” So if my mom was asking my dad if he fucked “her,” the woman I assumed he kissed, then he must not have liked said woman that much. So why did he kiss her?
I had so much to learn, and hindsight ended up being one very haunting bitch.
“Becca …” my dad said, just above a whisper. I didn’t recognize him. The strict father. The militant coach. The man of the house.
“How c-could y-you?” She sobbed.
Things were bad. How bad? I didn’t know until I started to close the door and the hinges squeaked, drawing their attention to me.
“Jesus Christ …” Dad mumbled, wiping his face while turning his back to me. “Go to your room!”
“Colten …” Mom chased me as I did what my father told me to do.
In the house.
Up the stairs.
Door slammed shut.
Face planted into my pillow.
And then … I cried.
“Wait up!” Josie called as I marched toward the bus stop the next morning.
Mom tried to console me for nearly an hour the night before, but I didn’t want to talk, so I pretended to fall asleep.
The next morning, there was no sign of Dad. Mom’s eyes were swollen, but she put on a fake smile and tried to serve Chad and me French toast like everything was okay. I wasn’t hungry. And it wasn’t okay.
I envied Chad’s ability to tune out the world so easily, or so I thought. Come to find out, Chad absorbed everything; he just processed it differently. Not better, but differently.
“Colten?” Josie’s shoes slapped the sidewalk, and she ran to catch up to me. “Hey, why are you ignoring me?”
“I’m not ignoring you. I’m getting on the school bus.”
“You’re ignoring me. Is this about last night?”
“Just … shut up, Josie. I don’t want to talk about it.” As soon as the school bus pulled up to the curb, I raced onto it, taking the first available seat.
Two seconds later, Josie plopped down next to me, hugging her pink, black, and green camo bag to her chest. Slumped next to the window, I closed my eyes, hoping she would not say another word.
A few blocks later, she slid her hand under my bag and grabbed my hand, giving it a squeeze while keeping her eyes trained to the front of the bus and her mouth shut.
I lost track of how many times Josie squeezed my hand over the next few years after my dad moved out.
After my mom had a breakdown.
After my brother tried to set a stranger’s house on fire.
Every little silent squeeze seemed to say I’ve got you. You’re not alone. This will pass.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“You’re welcome,” Dr. Cornwell says to me the second I arrive in the conference room to go over reports for the day. The other pathologists greet me with hairy eyeballs. Yes, I’m a little late. Neugen Cronk gives me the hardest glare. We were hired at the same time, but he has more experience. Cornwell thinks I have more of … everything else, and that pisses off Cronk.
Cornwell is quicker than the rest of us at deciding which ones will require autopsies and which ones won’t. Sometimes the cause and manner of death can be determined just by reviewing the medical record.
“What should I be thanking you for?” I ignore my colleague’s silent animosity and pour a cup of coffee.