Read Online How to Break a Heart by Kiera Stewart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kiera Stewart
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hate algebra,” he says. Somehow that’s easier to say. “I
hate
it. It royally sucks.”
“Well, maybe it’ll be better in a real classroom—”
“No, it won’t,” he says. “There’s no way you can take the suck out of algebra.”
She sighs and goes back to the papers.
“Is Mom awake?”
“Yeah,” Aunt Nora says, and looks up. “But wait—I need you to do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Try not to bring your mood in there,” she says, nodding in the direction of his mom’s room. “She’s kind of in a funk today, too.”
“Okay,” Thad says, and exhales hard.
He walks into the room. She is lying on her side away from him. “Hi, Mom.”
“Oh, hey,” she says, lifting her head, and attempting to roll over to her back. He sees her struggling and steps toward the bed, wanting to help her.
“No,” she says, waving his hands away. “Let me try on my own.”
He steps back, watches her wriggle around. His throat tightens so much that he has to look away just to take his next breath. His eyes settle on the wheelchair. It’s folded up in the corner—she hasn’t used it today.
“Okay,” she says, facing him now, a little more upright.
He tries to ignore the fact that her legs look twisted.
“Would you mind rearranging my pillows?” she asks.
He’s relieved to have something simple to help her with, something like pillows. He plumps them up and stacks them under her head.
“Perfect,” she says, smiling at him. “Hey, how’s your hand?”
“It’s good,” Thad says. He’s been taking good care of it, keeping it clean and covering it with fresh gauze. Wearing the gloves whenever he goes outside of the house. There’s
no way
he’s going to end up in the hospital.
“Can I see?”
He holds his hand where she can see it and unwraps the gauze a little. His knuckles look like a road map. There’s an interstate etched across the thumb side of his fist. She cringes.
“It’s fine. It doesn’t really hurt,” he tells her. Which isn’t really true—his hand
does
hurt sometimes. But there’s Tylenol in the bathroom cabinet. And at least if he keeps this wound clean, it’ll heal. It’s the invisible ones that are harder to treat.
She asks for her hairbrush. He doesn’t want to watch it fall from her hands, or see it get stuck in her hair. That’s torturous. So he says, “I can brush it, Mom.”
She gives him an amused look. “You want to brush my hair?”
“I—I mean, I can.” He stares at the bedside table.
“I’ve got a few tangles.”
“Yeah.” He smirks. “That’s why I’m offering.”
She gives him a tiny smile. “Okay.”
He gets the brush from the top of the dresser, where Aunt Nora must have left it, and moves the chair toward the head of the bed. He starts to brush her hair close to the ends, like he’s seen Aunt Nora do. He works on a small tangle right above her shoulder, being overly gentle, afraid to hurt her even just a bit, afraid of the pain in his right hand if he were to squeeze the handle of the brush too tight.
And then she says, “You think—I don’t know—that he’s celebrating somehow?”
“Dad?” he asks, his brushing hand momentarily paused. Sometimes she seems like a little kid. Just how is his dad supposed to be celebrating? He’s a box of ashes. A box of ashes that cost ten dollars and seventy-two cents to ship. His mom doesn’t know that part—Thad signed for the delivery on his own. He just opened the door and there was the mailman, ringing the doorbell, holding a box. Just like any other box. And a Harriet Carter catalog—the place that sells things like toilet paper cozies. Thad had accepted them both together, his head swimming.
“Yeah. What do you think he’s doing?”
Sitting in the front closet, in a black box, that’s what.
But he thinks about what Aunt Nora said—about not bringing an attitude in with him. And his mom’s smiling now, sort of. Thad can’t see her face from where he stands brushing
hate
it. It royally sucks.”
“Well, maybe it’ll be better in a real classroom—”
“No, it won’t,” he says. “There’s no way you can take the suck out of algebra.”
She sighs and goes back to the papers.
“Is Mom awake?”
“Yeah,” Aunt Nora says, and looks up. “But wait—I need you to do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Try not to bring your mood in there,” she says, nodding in the direction of his mom’s room. “She’s kind of in a funk today, too.”
“Okay,” Thad says, and exhales hard.
He walks into the room. She is lying on her side away from him. “Hi, Mom.”
“Oh, hey,” she says, lifting her head, and attempting to roll over to her back. He sees her struggling and steps toward the bed, wanting to help her.
“No,” she says, waving his hands away. “Let me try on my own.”
He steps back, watches her wriggle around. His throat tightens so much that he has to look away just to take his next breath. His eyes settle on the wheelchair. It’s folded up in the corner—she hasn’t used it today.
“Okay,” she says, facing him now, a little more upright.
He tries to ignore the fact that her legs look twisted.
“Would you mind rearranging my pillows?” she asks.
He’s relieved to have something simple to help her with, something like pillows. He plumps them up and stacks them under her head.
“Perfect,” she says, smiling at him. “Hey, how’s your hand?”
“It’s good,” Thad says. He’s been taking good care of it, keeping it clean and covering it with fresh gauze. Wearing the gloves whenever he goes outside of the house. There’s
no way
he’s going to end up in the hospital.
“Can I see?”
He holds his hand where she can see it and unwraps the gauze a little. His knuckles look like a road map. There’s an interstate etched across the thumb side of his fist. She cringes.
“It’s fine. It doesn’t really hurt,” he tells her. Which isn’t really true—his hand
does
hurt sometimes. But there’s Tylenol in the bathroom cabinet. And at least if he keeps this wound clean, it’ll heal. It’s the invisible ones that are harder to treat.
She asks for her hairbrush. He doesn’t want to watch it fall from her hands, or see it get stuck in her hair. That’s torturous. So he says, “I can brush it, Mom.”
She gives him an amused look. “You want to brush my hair?”
“I—I mean, I can.” He stares at the bedside table.
“I’ve got a few tangles.”
“Yeah.” He smirks. “That’s why I’m offering.”
She gives him a tiny smile. “Okay.”
He gets the brush from the top of the dresser, where Aunt Nora must have left it, and moves the chair toward the head of the bed. He starts to brush her hair close to the ends, like he’s seen Aunt Nora do. He works on a small tangle right above her shoulder, being overly gentle, afraid to hurt her even just a bit, afraid of the pain in his right hand if he were to squeeze the handle of the brush too tight.
And then she says, “You think—I don’t know—that he’s celebrating somehow?”
“Dad?” he asks, his brushing hand momentarily paused. Sometimes she seems like a little kid. Just how is his dad supposed to be celebrating? He’s a box of ashes. A box of ashes that cost ten dollars and seventy-two cents to ship. His mom doesn’t know that part—Thad signed for the delivery on his own. He just opened the door and there was the mailman, ringing the doorbell, holding a box. Just like any other box. And a Harriet Carter catalog—the place that sells things like toilet paper cozies. Thad had accepted them both together, his head swimming.
“Yeah. What do you think he’s doing?”
Sitting in the front closet, in a black box, that’s what.
But he thinks about what Aunt Nora said—about not bringing an attitude in with him. And his mom’s smiling now, sort of. Thad can’t see her face from where he stands brushing
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