Page 24 of The Last to Let Go
She did. She shut up.
Without another word she got up and switched the light off, turned the computer speakers down.
By morning Mom had cleaned everything up, like nothing had ever happened, and Dad was sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal, already showered and dressed in his uniform, looking clean and composed, polished and calm. I used to love the way he looked in the mornings, almost like it was truly a new day, like maybe things could be different, like maybe we could all start over and be better.
He looked up from the paper as we walked in.
“Hey, kiddo,” he called out to Callie.
To me, he gave a single sharp nod.
“Hi,” Callie mumbled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
I rushed out past her, trying to ignore the cool suspicion on my father’s face as he looked at me. My wet hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail that swung from side to side, smacking me in the face as I lugged both of our backpacks out and set them down by the front door. “Callie, go get dressed first, then eat your cereal. You have twenty minutes, so hurry—I’m not going to be late again!”
“Calm down,” Dad said through a mouthful of cereal. “You have plenty of time.”
“Not really.” I sighed as I bent over to tie my shoes tight. I looked up just in time to see Dad shoot me a warning look, a courtesy he never afforded Mom.
“Both of you come sit. Eat your breakfast,” he ordered. “Aaron!” he shouted.
“Dad, I still have to make our lunches,” I protested. “And Callie takes for-everto eat.”
“I said”—his face flamed pink for a moment—“come sit.Now.Aaron!” he yelled again.
We sat. And finally Aaron emerged from his bedroom. Thankfully, because I was about to run in there and drag him out if he made Dad call his name one more time. He didn’t say anything as he slumped into his seat at the table. Dad’s face cooled off then.
“Shouldn’t we wake up Mom?” I asked.
This time Callie shot me a warning look.
“Let her sleep,” he said, folding the paper in half and setting it on the table next to his bowl.
“But...,” I began, my eyes fixed frantically on the time on the stove. “But isn’t she going to be late if—”
“What did Ijustsay?” He brought his fist down against the table so hard that my spoon jumped out of my bowl. Aaron sat up straighter. I could see him clench his fist in his lap, preparing to step in if this suddenly blew up.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“Don’t be sorry, stop with the worrying. Let the parents do the worrying. You be the kid, all right?”
I could feel my jaw muscles clench as I nodded carefully, clamping down on the words already in my mouth, begging to come out.
“Good morning,” Mom yawned, coming out of their bedroom wearing her fuzzy purple bathrobe and matching slippers—the ones we picked out from some catalog for Mother’s Day two years earlier. I turned around in my seat to look at her. Her eyes were still puffy from last night’s crying, but that was all. No marks on her face, which was always good.
Dad looked up but didn’t speak to her. “Say good morning to your mother,” he ordered us instead.
“Good morning, Mommy,” Callie and I said in unison.
“Morning,” Aaron added, a second too late and a tad too unenthusiastically. Which, we knew, was all it really took to set Dad off when it came to Aaron.
Dad grabbed Aaron’s wrist abruptly, making him drop his spoon, splattering milk across the table. “What’s this?” he asked, inspecting Aaron’s hand in his own.
“What? Nothing,” Aaron mumbled, quickly using his free hand to sop up the stray drops of milk with his napkin.
“You need to cut your fingernails.” It wasn’t a simple observation, though; it was an accusation. “What have I told you about that? And what did you do, sleep in those clothes? You look like you just rolled out of bed. You don’t take any pride in your appearance.”
Aaron snatched his hand back and ran it over the front of his shirt. “No,” he said quietly. “It’s just wrinkled.” Then he smoothed his hair back and tucked the unruly strands behind his ears, all of us anticipating what would come next. I tightened my ponytail, in case Dad happened to examine my appearance.
