by Nicole Snow
“I...I don't know, honeybee. Ask your father. Those are big questions.” I'm being dead honest. I reach for the towel, ready to lift her out of the tub, hoping she forgets the conversation once she's dried off and dressed.
She's very quiet as I get her ready for the night. But I figure it's just my imagination once I hear her familiar sing-song humming, just as I finish sliding on her PJs.
Her little hand is tucked in mine when I open the bathroom door. My heart leaps into my throat and collides with a gasp. Marshal blocks my path, his steely blue gaze a few seconds away from lighting something on fire.
“I'll take her from here. Good dinner, Red,” he says, bending to take honeybee. I watch as they disappear into her room, and linger in the hall until I hear his deep voice soften, asking if she remembers what chapter they stopped at last night.
Story time never had so many unanswered questions. None of them have anything to do with the mischievous genie and magic wishes he reads to her either.
I've lost my fight. I don't want to confront him anymore over earlier, much less dig at secrets that will just piss him off more.
Exhaustion hits in a wave. I head straight for my room and shut the door, turning out the light.
It's cooler than ever underneath the blanket. I fall asleep still trying to get warm, half-hoping the icy silence in this house just brings peace. It certainly isn't making anybody comfortable.
The next day is a blur. He's already in his shop before I wake up, leaving a list on the table with a few random groceries written down.
PICK UP. PLEASE.
At least he remembered the important word.
Progress? Who the hell knows.
I head out early, grabbing Mia.
She loves being out and about, bundled up in her new purple coat. We turn a few heads in the crowded store. The people who notice us take a sixty second break from their holiday shopping sprees to stare, wondering what the hell I'm doing with the Castoff's daughter.
I give them daggers right back, especially the ones who linger uncomfortably on the little girl.
She doesn't deserve this, pricks. Leave her the hell alone. I keep it to myself, but barely.
The others don't recognize us because it's too weird for them to contemplate. Or maybe they're just sucked into their own worlds.
When we get home, he's parked at the table, a thick mug of dark roast steaming between his hands. “You got the ham like I asked?”
I empty it onto the table, glaring as Mia crawls onto his lap. “Yeah. Ten pounds, like you asked. Seems like a lot for the three of us.”
“Always freeze the extra for soup and casseroles. Plus I'll want to have my fill tomorrow. Thanks for the groceries, Red.” He stands, carrying the slab over to the fridge. I hold Mia while he puts the groceries away, rubbing a mewling Whiskey under the table.
“I wasn't expecting you back so early,” I say. He gives me a look like I should have. “What's wrong? Are you actually taking a day off?”
“Work can wait. It's too damn cold out there now and I need to chop more wood for the stove. Besides, it's New Year's tomorrow. I'd be an idiot if I missed it with my favorite person.”
Mia chirps happily and laughs in my arms. He walks over, ruffles her hair. I've never noticed how many features they share. The little girl is truly his. Dark haired, blue eyed, and beautiful.
Almost nothing inherited from her mom, wherever she is.
“I'd like a chance to check in with my family if you'll be here most of today. I've only been by a couple times this week. Also have a couple books I really need to pick up from the library, before it closes early.”
Marshal nods. He takes Mia off my lap, bouncing her in his arms until she giggles. “Go. I've got our food covered tonight and tomorrow. You're welcome to the midnight snacks. Whatever you want. We're just missing champagne.”
His eyes go to the sparkling cider on the table. It's non-alcoholic, of course, a likely concession to his daughter. Not that I've seen him drink much, which surprises me, considering the rudeness strapped to him like a boulder.
“I'll be back in a few hours,” I say, feeling a weight lift as soon as I'm in my coat and out the door.
The drive to my parents' place goes fast. Our small town skews older, and plenty of people are spending extra time indoors, enjoying the transition from one year to the next with peace and quiet. I grab my books at the library and then head over.
I park in my usual spot, walking in on a familiar scene. Mom and dad are in the living room, in front of the TV, watching an old movie on Netflix.
It's more surprising Jackson and Ginger are here, especially since their car wasn't in the driveway.
“Nice of you to join us, sis. I was beginning to wonder.” Jackson's voice makes me tense.
Well, tenser. I'm in no mood for his crap today. If he still wants to fight over the job I've taken, I swear to God...
“Happy New Year, dear. Or is it too early?” Mom stands, hugs me, strangely tired today. “Sit down. You're just in time for the Hitchcock marathon.”
I smile, flashing dad a look. He actually seems hopeful today. There's good reason. Watching artsy films all day on New Year's is a tradition stretching back to my childhood. Something mom has always done.
I take a seat, grabbing a soda off the counter, careful to keep my distance from Jackson. We watch the black and white film in silence.
Hitchcock is a master of unease, but that isn't why I'm biting my lip by the end credits.
My brother won't stop casting glances. Each one leaves me guessing, wondering what he's really up to.
“Think I'll head upstairs for an hour or two,” mom says quietly, once the movie ends. “I'm feeling oddly inspired. Something about the year rolling over, I suppose.”
It's hardly that, judging by the smirk she's been wearing since I stepped in. I don't want to contemplate what's happening in her head, or if it'll lead to a new outburst. Dad smiles at us and rises with her, whispering something about keeping her company.
My eyes go straight to the big painting on the wall. It's an elk standing quietly in a snowy forest, a cabin behind it, tucked into the pristine blue mountains beyond.
Probably a scene mom remembers from growing up in Montana. It's been there since I was fourteen, one of her finest works, a relic from her natural phase that also sold like crazy.
“I remember that year,” Jackson says. He's caught me looking. “Happiest I've ever seen her. Mom's muse was strong then. She had something new coming out every week, sent pictures of everything to base. Only thing I looked forward to more than cookies, I think.”
Smiling, Ginger nuzzles into him, rubbing his arm. It's the one that's deformed, forever scorched by the hellish sacrifices he made on Afghan soil. Asshole or not, I appreciate him, even if he spends his hero capital a little more freely than I'd like.
“Yeah, well, maybe she'll get back to it someday.” I hope to God I'm right. “Is it just me or does she seem...normal today?”
“Give it a few more hours, closer to midnight. Dad made her stop those timed work exercises because they made her so anxious. Stressed her the hell out. Her sense of time is all screwed up, but who can blame her? There's no stopping the future. It grinds on and people do whatever the fuck they want.”
My eyes narrow. I fold my arms, suddenly sensing cold. “Care to explain what you're getting at?”
“Nothing, sis. Nothing at all.” He pauses. “I've basically accepted your decision, in case you wondered. No point in getting bent out of shape anymore. You're a grown woman. You'll make your own mistakes. If you want to make bank for awhile babysitting for the bastard who almost broke my jaw, be my fucking guest, Sadie.”
He's always been a jack(ass) of many trades, but I think the one he's mastered is leaving me speechless, choking on my own guilt. I sit there helplessly as he stomps past, swiping a beer from the kitchen, a sad looking Ginger shooting me apologetic looks.
They get to me more today than h
is disgusting attitude for some crazy reason. “I think I'd better go. Mom and dad won't be coming back down, anyway.” I grab my purse, digging in the front pocket for my keys.
“Stay! I'm sure my lovely husband didn't really mean anything by it...” She's fighting so hard. Probably because she wonders what things will be like next year, with a newborn. Fair, I suppose, as much as it annoys me. “I said he didn't mean anything – did you, honey?”
Jackson aims an annoyed look at his wife. His eyes are on her as he rejoins us, stopping short of the sectional end where she's parked for the evening. He turns, his pissed off gaze softening. “Ginger's right. I've been a royal asshole, and I'm sorry. Stand up, sis, will you?”
I humor him. I'm glad I do because a second later, Jackson does something he hasn't done since his pre-army days, when he was still that smiling, lean kid with a chip on his shoulder and big dreams.
He embraces me. And he means it.
Hello, heartbreak.
“I'm sorry. You deserve better than I've given the last few months. That's done.” Jackson's arms go tighter, bringing me back to a kinder, gentler brother I thought I'd lost in the war.
The tears break, rolling heavy down my cheeks. “No, no, I'm sorry, too. I should have come clean right away, working for him.”
“Forget it.” He's smiling when he pulls away, an understanding I didn't think he had on his lips. “Things keep changing. Mostly shit we can't control. Mom, dad, babies getting closer by the day...maybe it's just the season making me think, but I've realized something lately, sis. I need to roll with the punches. Shut up and adapt. Because there's no use trying to control how they land. Usually just makes it harder.”
Grabbing his hands, I give them a squeeze. Ginger comes up behind him, very moved, and wraps her hands around his waist. There hasn't been a family moment like this for...God knows.
I still feel a little guilty, but it's that soft, antsy butterfly guilt. A refreshing break from the forced kind my brother usually makes me feel.
I don't want to leave.
“How long will you be around tonight, Sadie?” Ginger asks, a hopeful note in her voice.
I open my mouth to answer, but I'm silenced by the earthquake upstairs.
Mom screams. Something crashes on the floor so loudly it rattles the whole house. Dad's voice, frantic and fighting to stay controlled, trying to calm her. The usual.
Hell is here after a break, leaving us gawking at each other, frozen.
Jackson is the first to go running. Ginger and I follow behind him, taking the steps by twos, only a few paces away. We barge into their bedroom and see the mess – a bigger one than usual.
There's an entire canvas on the floor, a fist-sized hole punched through it, dripping wet paint everywhere. Mom steps over it, gives us a dirty look, and skirts past us, muttering. “This is why I can never get any work done. Too many damn spectators.”
“What happened?” Jackson finally asks, stepping forward. We join in, helping our father lift the huge canvass off the ground, and prop it against an overstuffed bookcase.
“Oh, you know. She tried to work, I encouraged her, and she freaked. Artist's block.” The same cold patience he's had forever sticks in his voice, but it's unusually frayed.
Dad looks away, but not before I see him nudge up his glasses, wiping a secret tear. My heart goes to pieces for the second time tonight, this time without any warmth.
“What can we do?” I ask, laying my hand gently on his shoulder. Ginger backs me up, stepping around us to bend down on the floor, collecting smaller debris.
“Just...everybody out. Enjoy yourselves. It's New Year's Eve, dammit. It's nobody else's problem but mine.” He's trying so hard to be brave. Then he moves to the spot where Ginger is. Something crunches under his shoes and I wince.
“I can't leave you alone, dad,” Jackson growls. “Let me clean this up, unless you want me to go down there and calm her?”
“That's the only thing I'm good at. Most of the time. You stay here and sweep, if you're really bent on helping. Thank you, son.” He reaches into their closet and pulls out a broom, passing it over.
Our father heads out, but I don't hear footsteps making it downstairs right away. He's made a detour to the guest room, the only place he can get a moment alone. Somehow, it makes this worse.
“Here, let me help,” I say, taking Ginger's place on the floor, picking at the mess of beads, pebbles, and fallen brushes. I feel like a helpless idiot just standing and watching.
Grunting, Jackson pushes another canvass over, smaller than the last. There's a huge paint blob stuck to the floor, more dried than the rest. He swears under his breath, then looks at his wife. “Shit. It's gonna take a while to get this off. Sadie, you wanted to help?”
I nod.
“Do us a favor, we're planning to spend the night here anyway with the car in the shop, but Ginger's got a doctor's appointment the day after tomorrow. Dee's place is closed for New Year's. Probably won't have time to grab our other vehicle. Can you swing by again? Just park the truck for Ginger while I'm at work, and she'll pick it up?”
“Sure can.” I smile. I like feeling useful. “Just text me the time and place. Blank check, too, if you want me to square it away with Dee.”
“Beautiful. I owe you one, sis.” He returns my look, the new understanding we cultivated over the past hour still there. “Oh, and I'll keep my distance. I'll leave the vehicle trade off to Ginger. If that means you've got to bring along the Castoff or his kid, so be it.”
Ouch. I haven't contemplated how I'll handle that. Especially with Marshal ramping up for his mystery trip, supposedly ASAP after the holiday blows over.
“No worries. I'll be by to grab it. Anything else?”
My brother shakes his head. Ginger hands me the keys and thanks me again. Then I head downstairs, casting a quick glance at dad, still licking his wounds in the guest room. He's sitting on the bed.
I worry about him. It hurts that I'm not here anymore to share the punishment, but I gave it six months. I had to move on. Medicine and this nanny gig are a future. They're also the first time I enjoy getting out of the house because I'm accomplishing something.
But still, I can't help it. Guilt burns like napalm in my chest.
I stop, staring at my father's silhouette. Why does he look so small and alone?
I take a few steps inside, rapping at the door gently. “You're sure you'll be okay?”
He turns, a fake smile on his pale lips. “It's nothing, babe. Just another day. Your mom will be better tomorrow, and so will I.”
I try to return his warmth, but it isn't easy. What he really should say is, nobody knows.
Mom's moods are near unpredictable. Avoiding her triggers isn't easy. Nothing helps enough, short of taking her away from the only thing she loves. No matter how hard this gets, none of us have the heart to force her into a facility.
“Take care of yourself, please. Not just her.” I round the bed while he leans in, grudgingly presenting his cheek for a kiss. “I'd better go. I'll check on her before I'm out the door just to make sure everything's okay.”
“You're a good girl, Sadie. I'm sorry as hell you had to put up with this for so long.” Whatever guilt I carry around, it's nothing compared to the looks he gives me at times like this. “I wish we hadn't pulled you out of school. It was a damn waste. I never should've let Jackson strong-arm you.”
“Nonsense, dad. It was my choice.” Maybe not completely, considering the intense pressure, but no one ever forced me to fall into line. Family matters most. I don't regret putting life on hold to help, however hopeless it turned out to be. “Jackson's been very nice to me today. Whatever happened months ago, or just the other week, it's water under the bridge.”
His eyes flicker hopefully beneath his bushy salt and pepper eyebrows. “I'm glad. Happy New Year, Sarah.” He uses my real name and sends butterflies dashing through my belly.
“Happy New Year.” My fingers give his a parting sq
ueeze, and then I head down. “It'll be better than the last. It has to be.”
Mom is in the kitchen fixing tea. She watches the kettle slowly steaming, her lips an impatient line. “Leaving already? That figures.”
I stop next to the door. What do I say to this crazy person I still love?
“I've got to go, mom. Work. I'll be by next week. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Wait!” She barks the one word that makes me freeze with my hand on the doorknob. I turn, a chill darting up my spine, wondering what's next. “How is he?”
She doesn't mean dad. Jesus, she can't mean...
I give her a rough look, trying to understand. Her head is a mess since she started losing it, true, but I can't fathom why she'd want to know anything about Marshal.
“The Castoff, I mean,” she says, stepping forward, confirming my worst fears. A freshly poured mug smokes in her hand. “Don't be coy with me, dear. Surely, you know what makes him tick by now.”
“Mia, I suppose.” It's as good an answer as any.
“Hm, yes, the little girl. I figured he'd be the weird, overprotective type.”
“Mom, it isn't like that. He really loves her. It could be a whole lot worse, for both of them, I mean.”
She wags her eyebrows, taking a pull off her tea. “So, he's lonely. Compensating for some great tragedy by showering affection on his darling girl. A shame.”
What the hell does she mean? I blink, a small voice in my head begging this to end. Whatever this even is.
“It's terribly predictable. I thought your squeeze would be a lot more interesting with the big dark secret that made him lash out at your brother, turning the town against him. These men, always the same.”
Did she just say...squeeze? “Whoa.” I put my hands out, every part of me in full flight at the mere suggestion. “He's my boss, mom. I'm his nanny. Nothing more.”
She shrugs, taking another sip so full I'm surprised it doesn't scorch her mouth. “So you say. Come back when you're ready to deal with a few more hard truths, Sadie. I'll be waiting.”
I'm so done. “Happy New Year to you, too, mom.”
I don't remember the last time I was so glad to climb into my car.