Broken Soup by Jenny Valentine

against the war in Iraq and it happened anyway because ten people had already decided it would.
    I said, “Who decided Jack would die and we would never get over it?”
    He didn’t say anything to that. He just left the room, which was Dad’s answer to everything.
    It’s both of our faults. I should have asked him for help, and he should have known without me telling him. He should have opened his eyes instead of pretending a couple of fun afternoons a week was enough parenting for anyone.
    When we got home, Stroma watched TV in the sitting room and tried to get Mum to notice her hand. I went upstairs and ransacked my drawer for Jack’s postcard. I pulled the whole thing out and dumped all it held on my bed, shoved half of it onto the floor while I was searching. I knew it was in there. And I knew before I found it that I was right. It was exactly the same as Bee’s. I turned it over and my heart stalled a little at the sight of Jack’s handwriting, black and erratic, like something crawling across the page.
    SIS, THIS PLACE IS WACK. DRY AND HOT. THE LAKE’S THE ONLY PLACE TO KEEP COOL. EATING FRENCH BREAD ALL DAY, SITTING IN A PEDALO. AND IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE WORK! X JACK
    I wanted it to be a coincidence.
    I imagined turning Bee’s postcard over and seeing someone else’s note, someone else who’d been there and thought about home. Subject closed, mystery over. That’s what I wanted.
    Jack’s picture was against the wall by my pillow, resting on the baseboard so you couldn’t see it even if you looked under the bed. I pulled it out and stared at him. I willed him to tell me what the hell was going on. I pictured him in the room, breathing and thinking and talking and helping, not staring me out in black-and-white, perfect, elsewhere, full of secrets.
    At first after it happened I pretended to myself that Jack was still away. He was skiing and scuba diving and climbing Machu Picchu. He was working for a relief organization in Sudan. He was living a wild and dangerous and knife-edge life because he had nothing left to fear.
    I almost fooled myself. Sitting there on my bed trying to get his photo to talk to me, I wished I could start pretending all over again.
    When Stroma came up and started pushing on my door, I dragged myself off the bed to help her open it. I stapled a smile on my face and listened to her jabbering on about bandages and clapping games and some kid who pushed her in the line last week and wouldn’t they be sorry.
    Mum was still in the sitting room with the door closed. I let Stroma in my room for a bit and then I ran her a bath. She made a big deal about keeping her bandage dry. I had to prop it up on towels. The soap was too big for her to roll it around in one hand.
    I read her a quick story and stayed to listen to a couple of lullabies. Then I went back to sitting in my room, missing Jack, wondering about Bee, feeling like someone had just turned all the lights out.

Thirteen
    Dad and Harper met by accident.
    He’d come to pick up Stroma. We’d had one of those mornings. I had to make sure Mum got dressed. Everything was a bit tense because I needed it so badly to look normal. Stroma was sitting on the arm of a chair, chewing a piece of toast, staring dully through the sitting-room window. She started making faces at me, jerking her bandaged hand around.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Dad said, and then I looked out and saw Harper, getting out of his van, crossing the road.
    I stood up too fast and said, “I’m just popping out quickly.”
    Dad said “Now?” like I was spoiling a priceless family moment.
    I said something about the fridge being practically empty, which was true, and I got to the door maybethree seconds before Harper did. Another one and he would’ve been reaching out to knock. He grinned, and my stomach clenched and flipped and I grinned back. I put my finger to my lips to tell him not to