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Authors: Joshilyn Jackson
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can’t take Thalia here,” he said. “Not right now. It’s too many things. There’s too many things already.”
She nodded. “I know it’s a bad time. It was an awful night, and this week is huge for you at work. But I need help.”
“I’ll help you,” he said. He sounded matter-of-fact, as if not helping her had never been a possibility.
“How?” she said.
“I don’t know. I need to think about what you said. But I will think. And then I’ll help you or get you help. Trust me, okay?”
“Okay,” she said, but even to her, she sounded uncertain.
He leaned in closer and held his rough cheek against hers, turning his face to press his nose into her neck. If he was sniff-testing her for truth, then she passed. He leaned back, pushing with his feet to roll his chair toward his desk, and she had the sense of him moving again, that same underwater feeling; she was drifting down, and he was walking away. She caught his leg before he could swivel. Laurel looked down at her hand on his knee. Washed clean.
“Baby,” he said, “you need to rest. I’ll figure out what to do. Lie down, okay?”
There was an old quilt that Laurel had thrown over the back of the futon, three rows of identical Sunbonnet Sues watering flowers in a nine-patch garden. Mother had made it with her when she was a girl, teaching her to sew. Laurel put her head down on one of the throw pillows, and David pulled Mother’s quilt up around her. Then he turned back to his monitor. He put on a headset and turned off his speakers, so she could no longer hear the shooting or the whoosh of the planes or the voice of the woman all the way across the country.
She lay quietly, listening to him telling the woman to bank left, to try upping the difficulty level, to switch to keyboard controls. The whole night felt like it had happened in pieces, so she was left with scraps, their edges shredded so she could not fit them into a seamless whole. She was sinking again, and still his voice went on, only this time it was sinking with her. He’d said he would think about it. Maybe he’d realize they needed Thalia after all. Through the thin film of her sleep, she heard it happening.
He was saying, “Sorry to wake you, but I do think you should come. Laurel needs you.”
It was a warm invitation, issued in a tone she hadn’t heard him use with her sister in years. Maybe not ever. Laurel found herself relaxing into a deep and peaceful darkness.
Thalia was on the way.
CHAPTER 4
L aurel dreamed her parents’ house, half an hour away in Pace. It was in the center of the block, on a busy street lined with brick ranches that squatted low under the wind. The rain was falling, and Marty’s ghost stood by the porch, lurking in the faint gray-on-gray shadows of a drizzling sunrise.
Marty tied his tether to her father’s bumper, and then Laurel’s parents were on the move. As their car pulled out, the warm backwash of air pushed Marty high, sent him rising up until the identical black slate roofs camouflaged the one that had been his. The small yards were brown with summer grass, perfectly square and all the same. The Buick towed Marty like a pale kite on an endless string toward Laurel’s house in Pensacola.
The gargoyles in the eaves saw him coming, and the weathervane spun as he passed over. The Buick pulled in to the driveway, and Marty drifted down to settle by the backyard fence. He found himself a knothole in the wood and oozed inside it, seeping down into the buried part of the post until he was an abscess at the root of it.
He’d come to stay.
Laurel woke to the sound of her mother’s low heels tapping across the hardwood floors above. The pleasant hum of Mother’s voice drifted down the stairs. Laurel couldn’t make out the words, but already the house felt blanketed, cozy with decorum.
She sat bolt upright, saying, “David, you didn’t!”
But David was gone. There was a note duct-taped to the backside of his leather chair that
She nodded. “I know it’s a bad time. It was an awful night, and this week is huge for you at work. But I need help.”
“I’ll help you,” he said. He sounded matter-of-fact, as if not helping her had never been a possibility.
“How?” she said.
“I don’t know. I need to think about what you said. But I will think. And then I’ll help you or get you help. Trust me, okay?”
“Okay,” she said, but even to her, she sounded uncertain.
He leaned in closer and held his rough cheek against hers, turning his face to press his nose into her neck. If he was sniff-testing her for truth, then she passed. He leaned back, pushing with his feet to roll his chair toward his desk, and she had the sense of him moving again, that same underwater feeling; she was drifting down, and he was walking away. She caught his leg before he could swivel. Laurel looked down at her hand on his knee. Washed clean.
“Baby,” he said, “you need to rest. I’ll figure out what to do. Lie down, okay?”
There was an old quilt that Laurel had thrown over the back of the futon, three rows of identical Sunbonnet Sues watering flowers in a nine-patch garden. Mother had made it with her when she was a girl, teaching her to sew. Laurel put her head down on one of the throw pillows, and David pulled Mother’s quilt up around her. Then he turned back to his monitor. He put on a headset and turned off his speakers, so she could no longer hear the shooting or the whoosh of the planes or the voice of the woman all the way across the country.
She lay quietly, listening to him telling the woman to bank left, to try upping the difficulty level, to switch to keyboard controls. The whole night felt like it had happened in pieces, so she was left with scraps, their edges shredded so she could not fit them into a seamless whole. She was sinking again, and still his voice went on, only this time it was sinking with her. He’d said he would think about it. Maybe he’d realize they needed Thalia after all. Through the thin film of her sleep, she heard it happening.
He was saying, “Sorry to wake you, but I do think you should come. Laurel needs you.”
It was a warm invitation, issued in a tone she hadn’t heard him use with her sister in years. Maybe not ever. Laurel found herself relaxing into a deep and peaceful darkness.
Thalia was on the way.
CHAPTER 4
L aurel dreamed her parents’ house, half an hour away in Pace. It was in the center of the block, on a busy street lined with brick ranches that squatted low under the wind. The rain was falling, and Marty’s ghost stood by the porch, lurking in the faint gray-on-gray shadows of a drizzling sunrise.
Marty tied his tether to her father’s bumper, and then Laurel’s parents were on the move. As their car pulled out, the warm backwash of air pushed Marty high, sent him rising up until the identical black slate roofs camouflaged the one that had been his. The small yards were brown with summer grass, perfectly square and all the same. The Buick towed Marty like a pale kite on an endless string toward Laurel’s house in Pensacola.
The gargoyles in the eaves saw him coming, and the weathervane spun as he passed over. The Buick pulled in to the driveway, and Marty drifted down to settle by the backyard fence. He found himself a knothole in the wood and oozed inside it, seeping down into the buried part of the post until he was an abscess at the root of it.
He’d come to stay.
Laurel woke to the sound of her mother’s low heels tapping across the hardwood floors above. The pleasant hum of Mother’s voice drifted down the stairs. Laurel couldn’t make out the words, but already the house felt blanketed, cozy with decorum.
She sat bolt upright, saying, “David, you didn’t!”
But David was gone. There was a note duct-taped to the backside of his leather chair that
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