Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
“I know, honey. It’s okay. You did the right thing. It’s okay.” She opens her arms, and he steps into her embrace. She cups the back of his head and turns toward Mommy.
They share a look that makes my stomach hurt.
After everyone is calm, Lainey takes Kodiak home, and Mommy takes me to my bathroom and draws me a bath. I sit on the closed toilet lid while she wipes my face with a warm, wet washcloth. I don’t really understand why since I’m getting in the tub.
Now that it’s just the two of us and no one is yelling anymore, I get my words back. “Kodiak was telling the truth.”
“I know, baby. Kody isn’t a liar.” She gives me a soft smile, but her eyes are sad. Big, fat tears well, and she blinks a lot, like she’s trying not to let them fall, but they do anyway.
I lift a hand, wanting to wipe her sadness away, but I stop when I see my palms are crusted with dried blood. “I hurt my hands.” I did it before, when I got lost at the carnival.
Mommy covers them with hers gently, her bottom lip trembling. “It’s okay. That’s my fault. I should’ve trimmed your nails for you earlier this week.” She stands and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Let’s get you in the bath and ready for bed.”
“I’m sorry I had an accident,” I mumble as we peel off my still-damp pants.
She tosses them into the corner. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, baby.” The cracks in her voice scare me.
I don’t want her to be upset with me or Kodiak. I finish getting undressed, and she helps me into the tub. Everything hurts, and my hands sting when the warm water hits them. I start crying again, because now that I’m not as scared, the hurt is bigger. Little bubbles of memory float to the surface and pop before I can hold onto them. Queenie says it’s okay not to remember, so I don’t chase the memories because I think there are monsters hiding in them.
Mommy lathers up a cloth and washes my back. She tries to sing one of my favorite songs, but her voice keeps breaking, so I tell her it’s okay. I usually get changed on my own at bedtime, but tonight, she helps me into my jammies when my bath is done. She puts antibacterial ointment on my hands and my lip, which is sore too. She winds gauze around my hands. The sides are bruised from banging on the door.
“You must have been so scared,” she whispers, brushing my hair back again.
I nod. “I thought the monsters were going to get me. I thought all I would have is the dark and what was inside my head. I kept trying to scream, but the fear ate all my sounds.”
She hugs me so tight, it’s hard to breathe.
She gives me Tylenol and asks me where I want to sleep tonight.
“Is River okay?”
“Should we go see him? I know he’s worried about you.”
I want to hold her hand, but mine hurts so I settle for rubbing the edge of her sleeve between my fingers. It’s damp from my bath. “Maybe I could stay in his room tonight.” I already know he feels bad, and for some reason there’s an uncomfortable weight making my chest heavy. It’s not the worry monster clogging my throat. It’s more like that feeling I get when we sneak cookies before dinner and then we aren’t that hungry for good-for-us food. It feels like I’ve done something wrong, but I haven’t.
Mom knocks on River’s door and pokes her head in. “Is it all right if we come in?”
“Sure.” It’s Daddy who replies, not River.
Mom slips in the gap, and I follow, my stomach churning as I see River, curled up in his bed with Daddy. It looks like he’s been crying. His hair is all messy, and his eyes are tired. He has a line between his eyebrows that deepens when he’s upset, and it’s there now, deeper than ever.
River doesn’t cry often. He gets mad and throws things, breaks his toys and then feels bad about it, but tears aren’t that common for him, which is how I know he’s really upset about what happened.
He sits up, eyes filling again. He swipes at them irritably. “I’m sorry.”
I cross the room, gravitating to my other half. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”
He shakes his head furiously but opens his arms, pulling me against his wiry, hard warmth. “I should’ve known you weren’t okay,” he says into my hair. “I should’ve been the one to find you. I’m supposed to be your trampoline.”
That’s River’s way of telling me he loves me. He’s my trampoline—with him I know I’m always safe to fall. He’s going to beat himself up over this—not just because they forgot about me, but because it was Kodiak who found me and not him. Being a twin is tough sometimes. We’re connected in ways people don’t understand. I feel his anger and frustration. I feel his guilt. We know when things aren’t okay with each other.