Page 79 of Wild For You

Suddenly, he gets up and walks out into the backyard. I don’t know whether he wants to be alone or whether he expects me to follow, so I follow him, keeping two steps behind. The air around us is quiet, as if every bird, every tree is listening. A cold breeze begins to blow. I rub my arms, but not to keep myself warm.

The haunted look in his eyes makes me shiver.

We sit down on a bench, our gazes focused beyond the vast fields, on the dense woods stretching as far as I can see.

“Dad was already the sheriff. On the day my mother died, he left the house like usual. I knew where Dad kept the keys to his office, so Ryder and I stole his gun from its place to play with it in our backyard. We were just a bunch of stupid kids who didn’t know that it was loaded or…real. We thought we were cool just like Dad, pretending to be adults.”

Fuck!

I can almost see where this is heading, but my mind can’t comprehend it.

I open my mouth, then close it again, waiting for Cash to continue, as my heart begins to slam hard against my chest.

“We had other kids over all the time. I can’t remember where Ryder was when it all happened, but suddenly all the other kids wanted to hold the weapon. I tried to fight them off when I saw my mom running toward us, probably to check what we were up to. I don’t know whether the gun slipped from my hand or whether someone dropped it. All I know is that when it hit the ground it went off and my mom was hit.” His eyes narrow, focusing on something in the distance, a memory from the past only he can see. “At first, we didn’t know what happened. There was a loud bang, and then there was silence. Everyone was staring at my mom lying on the ground, a lifeless heap surrounded by a thick red liquid that wouldn’t stop pouring from her.”

He falls silent again. I stare at him, his words echoing in my mind, burning me, twisting inside me like a poisonous snake.

I feel sorry for the little boy who didn’t know any better. I feel even more sorry for the adult who’s probably blaming himself every single day.

“She was calm. So calm,” Cash says slowly. “I remember her telling Ryder to go and bring dad, then her eyes moved to me. As I leaned over her, she took my hands in hers and kept telling me over and over again that she was fine. She told me that she loved us and that she was proud of us. She claimed to be lying on the ground because she was tired, but I knew better. I knew something was wrong. I could see in her eyes that she was in pain.”

A tear rolls down my cheek at the magnitude of his words. I wipe it away, but more follow in its wake.

“When Dad arrived, she was still warm. The first thing I said to my father was, ‘Don’t worry, Dad. Mom’s just sleeping.’ I really believed that. I thought letting her sleep would make her pain go away. I was only four years old. Such a stupid kid.”

He turns to me, and for the first time, I see the tears gathered in his eyes.

My chest begins to tighten, my lungs fighting for oxygen. But I can’t seem able to draw breath. My pain’s choking me.

“At that time, I didn’t understand what it meant to die. For a long time, my brothers and I were under the impression that Mom was on vacation and that she’d come back. She told us so.”

“She?”

“My sister. Clara was the one who carried the burden of my mom’s death. She was always the strong one. We’d ask every day when Mom would be back, and Clara would always come up with a story about some road trip. She encouraged us to write letters to tell her what we were up to, the good and the bad things included, and she made sure to send fake birthday and Christmas cards, even gifts, to make us believe Mom was still alive.”

“Did it work?”

“Yes.” He smiles bitterly. “Surprisingly well, actually. I was nine years old when I finally realized it had been Clara’s handwriting all along. That she was the one who always replied to our letters. I’m pretty sure Kellan knew by then, maybe even Ryder. I think everyone protected me, kept me in the dark for as long as possible.”

Cash smirks, his face twisting with pain, and eventually a tear rolls down his cheek.

“What about your dad?” I ask gently.

He shrugs. “He took the fact that he couldn’t save her badly. He blamed himself for a long time. I think he still does. Once he told me that he should have been more careful where he kept the key to his office, but the truth is we boys used to spy on him. We knew every crevice, every hiding place in the house.” His hands ball into fists as he shakes his head. “We were such stupid kids.”

“You were too young to understand.”

“Still. I wish Ryder and I never got the idea of playing grownups.”

“I’m so sorry.” My hands reach out to him, touching him, the gesture meant to convey the compassion my words cannot convey.

Cash nods gravely. “That’s life. You say sorry, and then you move on because you have no choice. Even I did. My father never moved on after her death. We’ve all been waiting for him to remarry, but he’s remained true to her. Even so many years after her death he talks about her like she’s still with him.”

“Sounds like he never stopped loving her.”

“She was his life. That’s what he always told her.” He looked at me. “My mom’s death hit us hard, but we learned to cope. After all Clara did for the family, it’s a shame she died so young.”

My throat chokes up again as I remember looking at the family pictures in the hall upon my arrival. They tell the story of a happy family. They don’t show the tragedy and the tears. I had guessed nothing of those before Margaret revealed Clara’s story—a soldier who died in a bomb blast.

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