Page 38 of Secrets That Bind Us
“God!” She huffs. “Why don’t you ever just fucking believe me? I hate this fucking house; I hate this town– all you’ve done is make everythingworse!Instead of being a better wife, you made Dad leave. Now he’s dead, and now we’re stuck in this fucking hick town because of you!I hate you!”
The lights over us flicker and hum at her outburst as I stare long and hard at my daughter. Panting, she gulps as tears of frustration stream down her face, and suddenly her eyes widen as though she’s realized what she’s said. “Mom, I’m sorry.”
“I think…” I breathe, letting it all sink in, and then clear my throat. I wasn’t ready for the firstI hate youto come from my daughter yet- if at all, really. Having lost my appetite, I turn away from her and throw the remainder of my sliced peach in the trash, then wash my hands. I look out the window that faces the front yard and brace my hands on the edge of the counter. “I think you need to pack up your art supplies.”
“No, Mom, wait-“
I hold up a hand to stop her from talking, unable to face her. It’s weird when you think you’re doing okay as a parent, and then you learnexactlywhat your kid thinks of you. “Three F-bombs, so that will be three weeks of being grounded. No art. Camera, too. In the bin. In the basement. Now, please.”
It’s cruel, but Savannah isn’t like other kids. Taking away her phone doesn’t mean anything to her. Her art, though? Might as well be medieval torture.
“This is so unfair! He took my stuff!”
This time, I do turn to face her. “Three weeks. Bin. Basement. Now. And when you find your paintbrush set, I expect a fully handwritten,sincereapology to your brother.”
“Fine!” I don’t turn to face Noah until I hear Savannah’s footsteps upstairs– still heavy. Still angry. Yeah, well, me too, kiddo.
“I don’t hate you, Mommy.” He says softly, getting down from the barstool by the island and coming to hug my thigh, rubbing the remnants of his banana against the fabric of my sweats at my hip.
Not yet, I want to say, rubbing his back, but I swallow it down along with the clump of unshed tears and sadness to the back of my throat. Does the mom thing ever get easier? It feels like all I do is keep failing them. And Savannah is right. In a way. When Micah was alive, and at home, they had someone that could simply be with them. Well, when he chose to be around,anyway. Now it’s just me, feeling like I’m being pushed and pulled every which way imaginable with no end in sight. I search the ceiling for patience… or… something. Anything.
But all that stares back at me is the small chandelier, slightly swaying. I look down at Noah and bend a knee to hug him properly, relaxing in his small, tight, warm embrace. When I pull away, I wipe off the last of the banana still on his chin.
“Thanks, kiddo. How about a movie?”
It’s an hour later. We’re watching Hercules, Noah is beside me, singing along. My mind is on the next chapter I need to write when I hear Savvy coming back down. The basement still isn’t fully finished, nor is it furnished, but we don’t have a garage like we did in New Haven yet, so the basement will just have to hold her items. I’ll have Will’s crew work around it. The bin isn’t big, it has compartments, so nothing gets ruined– but I’m sure it’s still heavy with all of her stuff inside. I should offer to help; it’s rude of me not to. But when she glares at us, I put my offer on hold.
“Did you find your paint brushes?”
Her lips form a thin line as she rolls them inward. God, she looks so much like Dean it makes my heart seize a bit. I need to find the ovaries to tell him. To just… sit down with him and tell him. A cup of coffee. Or… dinner. No. Not dinner. My knee bounces at the anxiety of facing him full on.
“I’ll write my apology tomorrow,” She says, with a scowl.
I don’t bother asking where she found them. I just turn my head to face the television as she makes her way to the basement door under the stairs, flicking on the light switch just outside the doorway and starting down. I’m so glad I told Will to connect the wiring to a place we could reach fromoutsideof the basement as well as inside instead of going all the way down andthenhaving to pull the light string. I hated that as a kid– having to feel my way down by the walls.
“Mom!” The shattering scream and a crash comes from below.
I jump up and race down the steps through the still-open door to find Savannah shivering, standing by the bin on the floor, facing the corner of the room. See-through tarps– like before, when Will had different parts of the house sectioned off and divided– hang. “What! Are you okay?”
“Mom…” tears stream down her cheeks, shoulders slumped, rubbing her arms like she’s standing in the middle of a blizzard and can't get warm. “I think I’m going crazy.”
“What?”
“Mom, I swear I saw someone in here. My paintbrushes were exactly in the spot I left them, but I couldn’t find them before. My stuff always goes missing and turns up somewhere else, and I swear I hear wheezing. Mom, I’m going crazy.” She cries. “I think I have what Grandma had.”
I approach my daughter with an outstretched hand, like she’s an injured animal, and place it on her shoulder. “Savvy, Grandma had a sick mind at the end because of the pain medication she was on. Dementia doesn’t run in our family.”
“What about Dad’s?”
“No.” I reply honestly. Dean’s parents are alive and well, from what Zoey’s casually told me over the years. His father retired and moved to Key West, and his mother is sober and living in Houston with her fourth husband. His grandparents died of natural causes or old age.
She nods and bites her lip, like she has more on her mind but is taking my word for it. “I don’t like it down here.”
I huff out a laugh. “It’ll look less scary when it’s finished, I promise. I showed you the blueprints, remember?”
“Can we go? The smell down here is awful, and it’s freezing.”
Looking around, I take a whiff. I don’t smell anything, and the temperature is fine, but I do take her word for it. “C’mon. Let’s go back up.”
