Contents (85)
- Contents
- Part I
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Part II
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Part III
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Seventy-One
- Seventy-Two
- One
- Two
- Reading Group Guide
- A Conversation with the Author
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
I can taste it almost.
And then I do what I always do. I force my thoughts to Max.
It needs to be about him. Him before me. Always.
So I take a deep breath, count to three, then exhale. I put the two pills back, place the vials back under the sink, then make my way to my bedroom.
Under the covers.
Close my eyes.
Wait for a sleep that may not come.
Twenty-Nine
My eyes strain to see within the dark of the room. I may have been screaming.
Sweat covers me in a hot, thick glaze, as if my bed’s just given birth to me. I’m not confused as to where I am—I’m here, in this house. And I’m not thankful to be awake after a nightmare—wakefulness is no shield from memory.
I reach back and wipe a layer of moisture from the back of my neck. Touch my pillow; it’s soaked. Every time I have this dream, I must lose two pounds of water.
Whatever self-prescribed therapy I thought would work isn’t. Writing about what happened only created more problems. Coming back to this house has only made the memories more vivid. Even sitting there, at the base of the stairs, apologizing to any ghosts willing to listen, hasn’t made me whole. Still the dream comes.
There’s too much guilt.
I reach over to the bedside table and grab my phone, squinting at the time. Just before three.
Grasp for my water bottle, take four huge gulps, replace some of what I lost.
I shimmy to the other side of the bed, where the sheets and pillow are as cool and dry as moonlight. I’m too awake to fall asleep, and I’m too physically drained to do anything but let my mind have its way with me. I won’t be falling asleep again tonight. I rarely do when this happens, and never when the dream is as vivid as it just was.
So I lie here and silently scream as the claws of two decades ago reach around and tear me open.
Part II
Thirty
September 18
Twenty-Two Years Earlier
Friday night. The digital clock on the kitchen microwave reads 8:19.
I’m fifteen years old and too exhausted to think about going out.
I’ve just been dropped off home from a later-than-usual JV soccer practice. I unload my school backpack and soccer gear in the kitchen and set about heating up the homemade mac and cheese left for us by Lucinda, our part-time housekeeper. The house is silent. I know Dad’s not here… His car wasn’t in the garage, and he usually doesn’t even leave his office in Boston until after eight. Cora’s car was in the driveway, but I don’t hear her. Could be out with friends. The front door was locked when I arrived, though the security alarm hadn’t been set. That’s a little unusual.
All the sweat from the soccer drills has dried, leaving my skin with a salty top layer. My hair remains in a tight ponytail, the matted tip swishing against the back of my neck as I grab a Coke from the fridge. I need to shower, but food takes priority. Dinner, shower, TV, bed. Not an exciting Friday night, but it’s what I want and need.