Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
I turn the knob and push the door open. The blinds are closed, the room dark. I reach around the corner for the light switch, then skim down, because it’s been years since I’ve been in this room, and the switch is a lot lower now that I’m a good foot taller.
I exhale in a whoosh as I take in the space. “Maybe the whole room is a portal to another dimension,” I mutter. “Nothing has changed. It looks the same as it did the day he died.”
I run a hand through my hair and grip the back of my neck. All the should-haves and what-ifs are surfacing. I should have known about this. I should have been there for my mom instead of letting her push us all away.
Kitty’s palm settles between my shoulder blades. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.” I clear my throat before I continue. “It’s like a time capsule. A snapshot of our life right before it changed forever.”
“I’m here to listen if you want, or if you need a minute on your own, just let me know.”
She drops her hand, and I reach behind me and find the sleeve of her shirt. “If you aren’t just being nice and you mean that, I want you to stay.”
“I’m not just being nice. Tell me what you need, Miles.” She squeezes my forearm gently.
“My mom always kept this door closed whenever I visited, and I never checked his room before now,” I admit. “It brings up a lot of painful memories.”
“I imagine it does. How old was your brother when he passed?”
“He was eight.”
“Was he sick?” Her voice is soft and warm, like a blanket I want to be wrapped in.
I shake my head. “No. He got hit by a car.”
She gasps and her fingers wrap around mine, squeezing once before she releases my hand. “Oh, Miles. That’s awful.”
I nod slowly, not wanting to step back in time with the memories I’ve tried so hard to shove in a box and bury, but the lid pops off and the past surfaces all the same. “He’d just gotten a brand-new bike. I was playing video games in the living room, and he asked if I could go outside with him because he wasn’t allowed to ride without supervision. My mom was in the backyard in the garden, picking tomatoes. Those are the small details I remember. I found the tomatoes later, scattered all over the patio. She must have dropped them when she heard . . . ” I shake my head, wanting to stop the words, but needing to get them out more. “She’d asked me to keep an eye on Toby. My dad was out playing golf with a client. I told Toby I just needed to beat this level, and then I’d come out and watch him. I must have taken too long.” I cross over to the dresser, where a stack of books sits. A thin layer of dust coats the top, enough to tell me that my mom must clean his room fairly regularly.
“His helmet wasn’t on properly, and it was close to dinnertime. One of our neighbors ordered pizza, and the driver took the corner too fast. Toby didn’t suffer, at least.”
“That must have been so horrible for you.” Kitty’s voice trembles with the same emotions that swirl in my gut. It’s an odd comfort, knowing your pain is shared with someone.
“I felt responsible. Still do, I guess. Beating that level was such a trivial thing. Sometimes I wish I would have pressed Pause. Then Toby would still be here. And maybe our family wouldn’t have fallen apart, and my mom wouldn’t be so lost in the past.”
Kitty’s hand settles on my shoulder. “You were a kid, Miles. It’s not your fault. But the what-ifs are the hardest to let go of.”
I clear my throat again. I don’t know how to respond to that, because in a lot of ways I feel like a different choice may have changed everything. “Seeing this . . . maybe she wanted to stay in the past, where she still had a family.”
“Where the good memories were?” Kitty asks.
“Yeah. It sort of seems like that could be possible. I wish she would have let me help more. I wish I’d known she was struggling like this.”
“Sometimes we keep our pain to ourselves because it’s too hard to share,” Kitty says softly.
I’ve shied away from the reality of our family’s loss, because there’s so much guilt tied to it. “That’s remarkably true.”
Prince Francis weaves between our feet and heads straight for the closet door. He plunks his naked butt on the carpet and meows loudly, then looks over his shoulder at us and meows again, unaware of the conversation he’s interrupting.