Page 40 of Saving Sparrow
“I-I fell down the porch steps and landed on a rake.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Miguel said.
“That’s what happened.”
“I thought you didn’t remember?” I added.
“That’s what I was told!” Elliott dropped his hands, his eyes wild and watery.
“You’re okay at football, but you’re aterribleliar, pretty girl,” I whispered jokingly.
Elliott huffed, then frowned at me, his hands going to his hips.
“What?” I asked innocently.
“I think I’m more than just okay, and you know it.” He released a breath, scanning the ceiling and walls as though the answers were written there, as if it weren’t the first time he’d tried to find them.
“I… I don’t know, okay? I don’t want to talk aboutbefore.”
“Before what?” I wanted to charge at him, to tackle him and hold him tight. Miguel’s hand on my forearm kept me in place.
“Before…” His forehead creased as he thought about his answer, as he tried to think of a specific point in time. Maybe a point when things went from bad to good. It killed me that he couldn’t think of one, that all his “befores” might have been bad. “Before meeting you,” he said hopelessly. “Both of you.”
I took the six strides to get to him but stopped myself before throwing my arms around him and squeezing. Miguel liked my roughness, but Elliott was different. If I wanted to be his friend, I’d need to learn how to care for him in the way he needed.
He liked it when I brushed and braided his hair, and when I called him “pretty girl.” He’d had enough roughness in his life, if that scar was anything to go by. And he’d had enough of not being able to be himself. That was obvious to see by looking around the bedroom that didn’t match his personality, and from seeing the way he lit up after slipping into one of the dresses he liked—even if he felt the need to pray beforehand. No amount of praying would change who he was, though, especially when he didn’t need changing.
I thought about the first time I’d seen him relaxed, the first time he didn’t look nervous and afraid. It was the day he’d napped in our bed.The day Miguel and I lay on either side of him, napping too. He’d slept like he knew he was safe there with us.
Kicking my shoes off, I climbed onto his bed before reaching out for him. Miguel watched us patiently from several feet away. Patience had always been his superpower, and I decided it would be mine too. At least for today.
It took a while, but Elliott finally crept over, reaching for my hand. I pulled him onto my lap. After the surprise of being in my lap wore off, he started crying. I wrapped my arms around him, paying close attention to how tightly I held on. I rubbed his back lightly, making sure I avoided the area with the scar tissue.
Miguel gave me a reassuring smile with a thumbs-up. I stroked Elliott’s hair with my other hand, not grabbing at the strands like I did with Miguel. That earned metwothumbs up.
Elliott raised his head off my shoulder, sniffling and holding a hand out for Miguel. Miguel climbed up beside me, stroking Elliott’s hair too.
“My mother fell through the attic window after arguing with my stepfather up there,” Miguel started. I didn’t miss that he’d used the word “fell.”
“Quentin thinks he pushed her… I mean,wethink that. Dylan denies it.” Miguel looked at me then, but only for a split second. Elliott listened closely, and so did I—even though I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to hear anything that made my father sound better than he actually was.
“What Quentin doesn’t know is my mother came to me one day and asked how I’d feel if we left.”
“Shewhat?” My pulse hammered in my eardrums.
Miguel acted as though he hadn’t heard me, like he didn’t want to lose the courage needed to finish. “She wasn’t happy, but I was, and she couldn’t take Quentin with us. So, I begged her to stay, to try working it out with Dylan. I didn’t understand that some things can’t be fixed. Sometimes I think I still don’t get it. We’d come home from school, and she’d be staring at nothing…” Miguel looked at me, and I nodded, remembering her unhappiness clearly.
“I’d say something funny to make her smile, then convince myself that I’d fixed her. I was only eleven,” he said helplessly. We were thirteen when she died. “I didn’t know those smiles weren’t real. I didn’t know I hadn’tfixed anything.” Miguel got teary-eyed, and I pulled him into my side. “Sometimes it’s easier to blame Dylan.”
“Because he’s guilty.” I held his stare, making sure it sank in. “Because he’s fucking guilty.”
“Dylan suggested therapy a while later,” Miguel said.
“The fucking nerve,” I muttered. “Anything to make us get over it.” We’d refused to go. Mostly to spite him, but we were also afraid therapy might make Miguel and me not love each other the way we did. We were smart enough to know that the way we depended on each other wasn’t healthy. We just didn’t give a shit.
I hadn’t realized Miguel’s confession was the lead-up to something. I’d thought he just wanted to show Elliott he wasn’t the only one hurting, wasn’t the only one with a past they weren’t proud of.
“Maybe therapy will help you,” he said to Elliott. “Maybe youshouldtalk. Maybe your aunt just wants to help.”
