Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 81845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
“I know,” she whispers, taking the envelope from me. “As soon as it’s done, I’ll call you and tell you where I am.”
“Sure,” I agree, not really believing her, but hoping she’s being honest all the same.
“Promise.” She holds her pinky out to me. Feeling tears fill my eyes, I place my pinky around hers and hold her eyes. Releasing me, she gets out of the car quickly without saying another word. I wait there for a few minutes until she and Amy are long gone then pull out of the parking spot and head toward downtown, praying Sven will understand why I had to help her.
“You didn’t call,” Sven informs me in a tone I’ve never heard from him before as I push through the threshold into his office.
I take him in as he sits at his desk with a pen in his hand and his head bent toward a paper before him, but his eyes don’t lift to meet mine, not even as I close the door and mutter, “I know, I—”
“Did you know this morning you were going to go meet up with your sister?” he asks, cutting me off before I can finish my sentence.
“I did,” I tell him truthfully, freezing in place when his eyes finally lift to meet mine.
“I’m so fucking mad at you right now,” he whispers, and I sink into the chair in front of him, at a loss for words. I knew he would be mad, but this is more than mad, and more than pissed. The warmth he normally holds in his eyes for me is gone, and in its place is a completely blank look, one that scares me more than his anger.
“I know,” I agree, feeling my lip tremble.
“My mom almost killed my dad, and then she tried to kill me,” he says, stunning me. My body stills completely; everything in me stops. I swear even my blood ceases pumping through my veins. I have asked Sven more times than I can count about his parents and his family, but he has always changed the subject, never giving anything away. I thought that maybe he lost them and it was still too painful for him to talk about. I never, ever would have thought he went through something like that.
“I—”
“She was schizophrenic. I was a kid, so I didn’t know, but my dad did. She was taking medication for it, to keep it in check, but then one day she quit taking her meds, started tossing them in the garbage, convinced that my dad was trying to kill her. She would show up at my school and flip out, or flip out at the house and call the police, tell them that my dad or I were trying to kill her. He knew she had a problem, but he was in denial about it. He convinced himself that she had it under control once and could get it back under control if he helped her.
“I would avoid being home with her. I couldn’t even be in the same room with her without feeling like I was going to piss myself, because I was so afraid she would freak—something she did often.”
“I’m so sorry, honey,” I whisper, but I don’t even think he hears me as he continues on, the blank, distant look in his eyes never changing.
“I didn’t know until later, until it was too late, that a multitude of doctors told my dad that my mom needed to be placed somewhere she could get help. He didn’t listen to them, thought that if he loved her enough he could love her through her issues, but that’s the thing. You can’t love someone through shit like that. Sometimes people are beyond help. My dad found out the hard way, when my mom stabbed him twelve times in the chest while he slept next to her.”
Covering my mouth with my hand, I feel a sob crawl up the back of my throat and tears stream silently from my eyes.
“I woke up that night thinking someone was in the house. I didn’t know the sounds I heard weren’t someone breaking in, but my mom hacking away at my dad’s chest. When I made it to their room, the door was cracked, and I saw my mom standing over my dad, covered in blood.”
“Please stop,” I whisper, feeling like he’s punishing me with his words. The thought of Sven as a small boy witnessing something so gruesome kills me. I hate that for him. I hate he went through something like that. And I hate more that this is the time he’s choosing to share this with me.
“How many times have you helped your sister, stood by her, bailed her out?” he asks, tilting his head to study me. Swallowing through the pain, I shake my head. Our stories are not the same, not even close. “How many?” he repeats on a rumble.