Page 154 of The Otherworld

“You should have let me take her.”

“Oh, I’m sure that would have helped a lot.” I snatch my bowsaw from the ground and slice through the tree trunk. “We both know you can’t control your temper, Jack. You would only have made the situation worse.”

“Oh yeah? And you’ve, what—made the situation better? Seems to me you’ve done nothing but cause her more grief. Orca was happier when she thought her mother was dead!”

“Orca wasn’t happy,” I argue, sawing more violently. “She wanted a sense of belonging, identity—she wanted more than a date to the movies and a bikini and to go see the fireworks. She wanted more than just a vacation.” I throw another chunk of wood onto my pile.

Jack stares at me, shaking his head. “You’re such a jerk sometimes, you know that?”

“You’ve told me that a few times, actually.”

“I’ve done way more for Orca than you ever have,” Jack seethes, lowering his voice as he narrows the distance between us. “You might think you’re some kind of hero just because you don’t take sides—you want to defend her dad, her mom, look at everyone’s side of the story. Well, sometimes, there’s only one side of the story, Adam. Sometimes you’ve gotta take the side of the person you care about and have the balls to fight for them, no matter what.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You think I’m not on Orca’s side?”

“I think you try so damn hard to be the middleman that you forget that some people are just screwed up. Like Orca’s mom. She’s a selfish bitch. I could have told you that yesterday. I did tell you that, but did you listen to me? No, you had to go put her through hell instead—”

“For the hundredth time, I was only trying to help her.”

“But you haven’t helped her! Have you?”

I step over the log and pick up the ax again, my back to my brother as his words hammer into me like a mortar round.

You haven’t helped her.

“No,” I admit, defeated. “No, I haven’t.”

* * *

Orca stays in her room for the rest of the evening. She doesn’t even come out for supper. Jack tries to tempt her with take-out waffles, but she claims she’s not hungry, and Mom eventually says, “Leave Orca be. She’ll come out when she’s ready.”

Jack takes this opportunity to shoot daggers at me and add, “I’m not the one you should be telling to leave her alone.”

I don’t rise to it. Ever since our quarrel earlier, Jack has been in attack mode—locked and loaded, looking for a fight. But I’m not going to give him the satisfaction. He’ll cool off in a few hours; he always does. Nothing deflates my little brother’s anger like an empty fighting ring, no enemy in sight.

He takes off in his Mustang, and I figure that’s the last I’ll see of him tonight. He’s been known to run off when things aren’t going his way—usually to hang out with his friends. Someone who will listen to him complain. He’ll return tomorrow morning with a hangover and a hundred apologies for how angry he was the night before.

Still, Mom waits for him to come home, curled up on the couch with the TV on low. I’m sitting at the kitchen table, going over some business stuff I’ve been neglecting—specifically, balances that don’t balance. But it’s hard to concentrate on work when Jack’s accusations from earlier keep lashing through my mind.

Seems to me you’ve done nothing but cause her more grief… Orca was happier when she thought her mother was dead.

He’s right, and I resent that. I did encourage Orca to search for her family. I am the one who blew it.

If only we hadn’t called her aunt. If only we hadn’t looked for her mother’s name in the church register. If only I hadn’t seen that damn picture in her father’s dresser drawer.

How far back would I have to go to fix the damage I’ve done?

Would Orca have been better off if I’d never crashed near her island in the first place?

The next time I look at the clock, it’s eleven thirty, and Mom is fast asleep on the couch. I spread a blanket over her and turn off the lights, silently making my way down the hallway to the guest room. When I ease open the door, I find Orca curled up on the bed in her nightgown, looking cold and lonely.

At first, I think she’s asleep—but when I start to cover her up with a quilt, she whispers my name.

“Adam.” Her hand reaches out for mine. “Don’t leave.”

“I thought you were asleep.”

“No… I can’t.”

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