Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87155 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87155 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
I just wanted to go home. It was supposed to be over. Her hospital bed and monitoring equipment had been removed from our living room. The rental company had picked it up not long after she’d died. Our home had returned to its warm and welcoming façade, filled with smiling pictures and bright-colored art. The handrail in the hall bathroom my father had installed when she was still mobile enough to get around was the only proof left that my mother had been ill at all.
But the memories of those nights, listening to her struggling for survival, would stay with me forever.
The ladies from the neighborhood brought us dinner every day for a week. Dad had no appetite, and we eventually ran out of room in the fridge. Sometimes I’d throw it away. Sometimes I’d freeze it. But I’d never be able to eat spaghetti again without tasting the stale, putrid flavor of my mother’s death.
The desserts were pretty great though, and since I couldn’t escape The House of Despair due to my bum leg, I spent the last week of my miserable summer vacation sitting in front of the window with a spoon in my hand and whatever chocolaty delight had been delivered that day in my lap.
That was when I saw him.
The boy from the tree.
It was the first time I’d seen him since my father had carried me out of the Wynns’ hayfield. That boy had followed us to the car, saying he was sorry with every step. I had been too concerned with my foot facing the wrong direction to entertain any kind of apology—or plan my revenge.
Right then, however, he was outside my house, riding his bike with a little girl who looked so much like him that it was impossible she wasn’t his sister. He was wearing the same faded jeans. Same worn-out shoes. Same shaggy hair. More than likely the same obnoxious personality too. He was having a grand old time, while I was stuck inside, downing half of a chocolate pie, with my worthless leg in a cast, requiring help just to go to the bathroom.
And it was All. His. Fault.
Nothing, not even the two cups of sugar I’d consumed, was enough to sweeten that kind of bitterness.
“Hey!” I yelled, pounding my fist on the glass.
The boy abruptly stopped his bike at the end of my driveway, almost causing his sister to run into the back of him.
“Get out of here!” I shouted, making a shooing motion with my spoon and dropping chocolate all over my shirt. “Go home! Nobody wants you here!”
I assumed he couldn’t hear me because the jerk did a head twitch to get his hair out of his eyes and then shot me a grin as he chewed a mouthful of gum and waved. Using his best charades skills, he inquired about my ankle. At least that’s what I thought he was doing as he hopped around one foot, pointing at his leg.
I wanted to kick it out from under him.
“You look like an idiot!” I yelled.
He gave me two thumbs-up and a huge smile. He had spied on me, broken my leg on the same day my mother died, and ruined the rest of my summer, and now he was giving me a thumbs-up. He could take that thumb and shove it up his—
“Thea?” my dad called as he walked into the room.
I jumped, nearly knocking the rest of my pie onto the floor. He hadn’t been back to work at the barbershop since she’d died. And short of my doctor’s appointments, he hadn’t been out of his room much since the funeral.
“Hey,” I replied, taking in his pajama pants and mismatched T-shirt hanging off his thin frame. He’d lost so much weight in such a short time.
Nine days to be exact. I hadn’t yet switched to weeks to count the length of time she’d been gone. But there was no time like the present.
She’d been dead for a week. Over a week actually.
No. No. I liked counting in days better. More precise and torturous. Like the seconds on my watch.
I peered up at him as he walked to the window. The scruff on his face had grown out enough to be considered a beard, and he reeked of sweat and filth—or maybe it was tears and grief. I couldn’t be sure. Regardless, it was terrifying. When she’d been alive, it was rare I’d see him in anything other than pressed slacks and a white button-down. He was always clean shaven, and his hair was meticulously styled. That was the way my mom liked him. So that was how he’d dressed.
I swallowed hard, wondering if he was going to die too. Could people really die of a broken heart? I wasn’t exactly his biggest fan at the moment, but he was the only parent I had left. Watching one die had been enough.