Page 15 of The Story of You
Things were okay for a little while. The chemo was working. Mother turned a corner that summer. She had no hair, but she was well enough that Father took her to get the most amazing wigs. Color returned to her face; life returned to her eyes.
It was mid-July of eighty-four and Oliver was three months old. We’d bonded and I’d become protective of my little babe. He slept with me because it was way fucking easier. I got more sleep that way and so did he. Father still didn’t want him left with Mother. He was worried she wasn’t well enough even though she insisted she was. But I felt uneasy leaving him with her too. She was his mother, but it didn’t feel that way. I was glad for the rules Father made so I could tell myself I was following orders.
The truth was, I’d claimed Oliver as mine. I’d stolen her baby, and no one was taking him away from me.
“If your mother wants to look after him, you stay with her, Silas. She’s been told to rest through the day. If you need to go somewhere, you’ll need to take the baby with you.”
That was fine with me. I’d gotten used to having him with me. I’d developed a system and a schedule. In the mornings we stayed with Mother. Darius and I would make breakfast while she coddled Oliver. I mixed him a bottle, but she fed him. When he needed his diaper changed, I did that. We ate with her, and I held the baby. She took him again while we cleaned up and then she had a nap in her room. While she rested, I packed up my brothers and lunch and took them to the swimming hole near our house where we’d meet up with friends.
It wasn’t as weird as it should have been, me bringing a three-month-old, but back then, a lot of us had to tote our siblings with us to places if we wanted to hang out with friends in the summer. Our parents had jobs. Babysitters were expensive. Parents either had to do the shopping and clean the house or work. The older siblings had to look after the younger ones. It just meant I couldn’t swim unless someone was holding the baby. I let them and cringe at my younger self for leaving Oliver with a fellow teenager, but it didn’t seem risky at the time. Thankfully, nothing bad happened, but it could have.
Late afternoon we’d head back sun drunk and tired. Mother would be up by then watching TV. She’d take Oliver and I’d make Darius do chores while I worked on my own list. It was a busy life, but it was good. I accepted it and was convinced this was a bump in the road from which we’d pull through together.
Father was better too. As Mother slowly returned to life so did he, and I noticed how much my parents relied on each other to be a whole person. As much as Father needed her, she needed him. It was clear they loved each other and together they were happy. They brought out the best in each other. But when one of them began to wither the other’s happy existence got sucked away too.
I never wore crop tops again. I wore t-shirts and sweatshirts. I’d wear tank tops to the swimming hole and even take my shirt off there but not around the house. I covered up. But as time wore on, I felt silly. Father would never do what I thought he was doing. It was a pretty fucked up time. He’d just been showing me a little fatherly affection. I’d misread everything in my despair. I was tired too. Beyond tired. Helping look after my mother with cancer, my little brother, and a newborn took its toll on my perception.
By the time I’d felt comfortable again, I’d already gotten rid of the crop tops so when I was hot, I’d go shirtless. The first time I was shirtless in front of Father was an accident. It was hotter than Satan’s balls one day and the four of us were outside with our feet in a kiddie pool. When he walked up the drive, my body remembered, the tingles came but he didn’t spare me a glance, he went for Mama like she was the only thing in existence. She was holding their baby. He even kissed Oli on the head. He held Oliver for the first time since he’d come home.
I relaxed. That weird moment had been a tired hallucination. The more I thought about it, the more I realized it was just him comforting me. He’d done stuff like that before when I was younger. Yeah, it had been a while, but it had been a thing he did.
What a fucking relief.
ChapterFive
Oliver ~ May 19th, 2009
Imight not be cut out for reading this book. I’m going to, but even with knowing all the damn spoilers, my heart’s racing, and I’m scared for Silas. He was young and hopeful and brave. Someone could still save him, this Silas, the one who could still smile.
I snag the pink Valentino from my closet and then on light ballerina feet I race, book and dress in hand, across the house to Silas’s office. The door is ajar. I don’t hear anything that signals he’s with Lak. I knock, but I head inside without an invitation, the long maxi dress I’m wearing floats against my legs.
He’s there, amber liquid in a glass next to him, his white shirt undone at least three buttons, his hair mussed to hell as though he’s run his fingers through it too many times. He’s a vision that’s a far cry from the one he paints himself as in the book. Book Silas—young Silas—is tall but thin, a bright and tired beam of sunshine while the darkness encroaches but hasn’t captured him yet. He’s innocent. He has no fucking clue.
This Silas—my dad Silas—is an unthawable mountain of ice. He doesn’t remember the sun. Physically, he’s not tired but his soul is, making his every purpose-filled movement arduous.
Does he only soften for me? He must for Lakshan sometimes. He has to.
“Everything all right?” he says already standing. I imagine a Silas who doesn’t worry about me every waking second and probably while he tries to sleep too.
I have to answer him honestly. As much as I want to spare him the grief, he knows me too well, and yeah, he was in a terrible mood at breakfast. He didn’t talk to anyone. Darius tried to make jokes, but he didn’t respond. I got a greeting—at least—but even I was treated to snappish orders when he decided that I don’t eat enough. Everyone thought he was joking at first because it’s well known that I’m the house’s human trash compactor. I just have a freakishly fast metabolism and I burn tens of thousands of calories a day. I can barely keep muscle on me sometimes; fat doesn’t stand a chance.
I made the mistake of pointing this out and was threatened with an appointment with the doctor to have my thyroid checked. I got smart enough to shut up and take the lecture, promise to eat whatever he said, and then kept my own lips zipped for the rest of the meal. I escaped back to my room after that. Wyatt had come home from his workout by then and he and Darry begged off to Simon and Shane’s … and Asher’s? Guess it depends on if he stays.
“No.” I place the book and the dress on his desk. I wipe angrily at the tear that escaped. He hates when I cry. I don’t want to give him any more grief, like, ever again. I know that’s impossible.
Coming around the desk, he gathers me to him. He’s my warm place of safety. I should be comforting him. “Please don’t cry, Oliver.” He emphasizes the middle syllable as he does. He knows it’s not the loss of my pretty dress making me cry. “Which part made you cry?”
“He looked at you weird.”
He leans back and raises a brow. “I was already having doubts about this ridiculous idea.”
“I know it’s early to be in tears, but I wish I could jump inside and save you. Like, like, in a horror movie when the person hears a noise. This is the noise. It could all be over if I could warn you.”
He kisses the top of my head. “I don’t need to be saved. Come.”
Taking my hand, we leave the book on the desk. Is it weird to have your brother-dad hold your hand as you trek across the house? I don’t know. I’m not letting go. I sniffle and use my free hand to wipe my eyes. My bare feet patter through the house, keeping stride with him until we reach the living room near the kitchen. He sinks into the white sofa with the plump cushions and pulls me with him. I clutch around his waist and bury my head into his shirt.
He sighs. “I know you won’t allow me to spare you this.”
