Page 5 of Wonderstruck

Of course, she saw it. I didn’t even need to second-guess it.

And it was more than just sometwin thing. We’d been through too much together not to read each other like our favourite books. The way our smiles sat too straight, like we’d stapled them in place. The way we never let them crack wide enough to show what was happening underneath.

What sounded like a picture frame falling from the end table pressed play onour movements, leaving the kitchen and turning the corner until both of us stood before Dad.

So many thoughts came to my head when I sawhim sprawled across the floor, like a debate team in my head.

What an embarrassment to let your kids see you like this.

It isn’t his fault. He’s heartbroken.

But does that excuse forgetting to raise us past the age of twelve? Does thatgive him the right to exist like this? Wasting the rest of his life in crappy bars instead of helping his kids pack for their sophomore year of college? Hell, does it excuse him from barely contacting us during our freshman year?

It’s because she’s not here. He’s not the man he was without her.

So does that mean we’re not enough?

“Grab his other arm.” Daisy sighed, the swell of tears showing in her voice. I didn’t think she cared if I knew she was crying. We’d done this so many times now she probably thought it didn’t bother me to watch her face get coated in tears.

Little did she know that seeing her cry was one of the things that made me cry.

But I swallowed the lump in my throat. I’d cry later.

As she bent down to take his right arm, I grabbed his left, hauling him to his feetand wrapping his arm over my shoulder, as Dais mirrorred me. We shuffled our way to his bedroom, thankfully on the ground floor of the house. He and Grandpa switched, or rather Grandpa made him switch, after walking in and catching us doing this once when we were fifteen, except we had to haul him up two flights of stairs.

I choked down the memory as we neared his door.

“You got him?” Daisy asked me.

“Yeah,” I struggled as I twisted the handle.

We shuffled in, our groans mixing with his drunken murmurs, before laying himacross the red flannel sheets. I took off his boots while Daisy fluffed a pillow behind his head.

It’s embarrassing. We’re his kids. We shouldn’t be doing this.

Would he do it for you if you’d taken Mom’s death this bad?

I was twelve, I was hardly at risk of getting a drinking problem.

But still, if the grief was this bad, wouldn’t he do the same for you?

Our griefwasthis bad, and where the fuck was he?

“Finn?” Daisy’s voice snapped my eyes into focus.

“Yeah?” I asked, finding her at the foot of his bed, by my side.

Neither of us says anything, we just stare. We didn’t need to talk about it. Whatwas the point when he was too far gone to get better?

Her eyes cast back down to Dad for a second, watching, studying, and I did thesame.

We never thought it would get this bad. No kid wants to imagine their parent,theironlyparent, morphing into this. The grief counsellors our middle school assigned us when it happened told us that Dad might not be himself for a while, and that it was important, whilst keeping ourselves above water, not to let him drown too.

In my mind, that meant helping with breakfast, talking about the happymemories with Mom instead of the sad ones, and doing well at school, at hockey. But never did I picture this.

I looked back to Daisy, her eyes hazy as she took in Dad, snoring away in hisbed, his eyelids half open. On another planet entirely.

She didn’t need to see this.

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