Gutted: Beautiful Horror Stories by Clive Barker, Neil Gaiman, Ramsey Campbell, Paul Tremblay, Mercedes M. Yardley, Richard Thomas, Damien Angelica Walters, Kevin Lucia Page B
Authors: Clive Barker, Neil Gaiman, Ramsey Campbell, Paul Tremblay, Mercedes M. Yardley, Richard Thomas, Damien Angelica Walters, Kevin Lucia
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window, she gives a wry smile. Hannah is so like her father that way, always wanting a window open at night, even when it’s chilly. Leanne prefers a downy pile of blankets, regardless of the weather.
She reaches for the door again and again hesitates. Take a deep breath before making a decision. A bit of advice from her mom, one Leanne’s passed down to Hannah. Silly, perhaps, to think a lungful of air caught then expelled could help so much, but it always does. Leanne knows it from years of practice.
If she goes in now, will they be able to talk without it turning into another argument? Maybe it’s better to wait until the morning. Everything looks better after a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow is Saturday. No rushing in the morning, no watching the clock. She can make waffles with raspberries and powdered sugar—Hannah’s favorite—and help her work through whatever’s upset her. She’ll listen, no matter how silly everything seems; she’ll let Hannah cry or yell, whatever she needs.
Leanne stares down at the shadows her feet have made on the floor and takes a deep breath. With a shake of her head, she heads back downstairs and texts David: Hannah and I had a big fight tonight. His reply comes a few minutes later: On my way home. I’ll talk to her when I get there. Everything will be OK. Love you.
She paces in the living room, scrubs her face with her hands, and takes to the stairs. Maybe letting David swoop in and take care of everything isn’t the best decision. Maybe this time it’s on her to fix things. Standing outside Hannah’s room, she says, “I’d like us to talk now, babygirl. Or I can talk and you can just listen, but if you tell me to go away, I will.”
There’s no answer and Leanne sighs in relief, picturing Hannah lying in bed with her one hand under her cheek, listening. She sits with her back against the wall next to Hannah’s door, pulls her knees to her chest and rests her chin atop folded arms. “Okay, then, here goes.”
She closes her eyes.
“When you were little, I told your dad I wanted to roll you in bubble wrap. He thought it was because you were clumsy, but it wasn’t. I just wanted to protect you from everything, from the world. Sounds so silly, doesn’t it?”
Hannah doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t need to because it does sound silly. You can baby-proof a house; you can’t life-proof a child. A tiny breathless laugh slips from Leanne’s lips. “You know, the last time I did this, sitting outside your door like this, you were six, almost seven. We got home from your cousin Felicity’s birthday party, and it was late and you were tired and said you wanted ice cream.
“We said no. For one thing, it was way past your bedtime and for another, we didn’t have any ice cream. We didn’t remind you that at the party, you said you didn’t like it, even though we knew you did. You shrieked at the top of your lungs that we were the meanest parents ever, and you stomped into your room and threw yourself down on your bed, crying like nobody’s business. I sat outside your room talking for a long time until you calmed down.
“The funniest part was that we offered you ice cream the next day and you said no, you didn’t like it anymore. That lasted about a week, I think. Such a goofball you were.”
Leanne shakes her head. Blinks away tears.
“I’m so sorry for tonight, babygirl. I’m sorry I didn’t listen better and let you talk. I’m sorry if I made you feel like I was making light of what you said. I didn’t mean to. The last thing in the world I want is to hurt your feelings or make you feel like they’re not important, because they are, and I want you to be able to talk to me about anything. Like the way you can talk to your dad.
“It was hard for me to talk to my mom, too. She always told me not to worry about things so much, instead of just listening to what I had to say. I made the same mistake tonight, and I promise I won’t do that anymore.
She reaches for the door again and again hesitates. Take a deep breath before making a decision. A bit of advice from her mom, one Leanne’s passed down to Hannah. Silly, perhaps, to think a lungful of air caught then expelled could help so much, but it always does. Leanne knows it from years of practice.
If she goes in now, will they be able to talk without it turning into another argument? Maybe it’s better to wait until the morning. Everything looks better after a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow is Saturday. No rushing in the morning, no watching the clock. She can make waffles with raspberries and powdered sugar—Hannah’s favorite—and help her work through whatever’s upset her. She’ll listen, no matter how silly everything seems; she’ll let Hannah cry or yell, whatever she needs.
Leanne stares down at the shadows her feet have made on the floor and takes a deep breath. With a shake of her head, she heads back downstairs and texts David: Hannah and I had a big fight tonight. His reply comes a few minutes later: On my way home. I’ll talk to her when I get there. Everything will be OK. Love you.
She paces in the living room, scrubs her face with her hands, and takes to the stairs. Maybe letting David swoop in and take care of everything isn’t the best decision. Maybe this time it’s on her to fix things. Standing outside Hannah’s room, she says, “I’d like us to talk now, babygirl. Or I can talk and you can just listen, but if you tell me to go away, I will.”
There’s no answer and Leanne sighs in relief, picturing Hannah lying in bed with her one hand under her cheek, listening. She sits with her back against the wall next to Hannah’s door, pulls her knees to her chest and rests her chin atop folded arms. “Okay, then, here goes.”
She closes her eyes.
“When you were little, I told your dad I wanted to roll you in bubble wrap. He thought it was because you were clumsy, but it wasn’t. I just wanted to protect you from everything, from the world. Sounds so silly, doesn’t it?”
Hannah doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t need to because it does sound silly. You can baby-proof a house; you can’t life-proof a child. A tiny breathless laugh slips from Leanne’s lips. “You know, the last time I did this, sitting outside your door like this, you were six, almost seven. We got home from your cousin Felicity’s birthday party, and it was late and you were tired and said you wanted ice cream.
“We said no. For one thing, it was way past your bedtime and for another, we didn’t have any ice cream. We didn’t remind you that at the party, you said you didn’t like it, even though we knew you did. You shrieked at the top of your lungs that we were the meanest parents ever, and you stomped into your room and threw yourself down on your bed, crying like nobody’s business. I sat outside your room talking for a long time until you calmed down.
“The funniest part was that we offered you ice cream the next day and you said no, you didn’t like it anymore. That lasted about a week, I think. Such a goofball you were.”
Leanne shakes her head. Blinks away tears.
“I’m so sorry for tonight, babygirl. I’m sorry I didn’t listen better and let you talk. I’m sorry if I made you feel like I was making light of what you said. I didn’t mean to. The last thing in the world I want is to hurt your feelings or make you feel like they’re not important, because they are, and I want you to be able to talk to me about anything. Like the way you can talk to your dad.
“It was hard for me to talk to my mom, too. She always told me not to worry about things so much, instead of just listening to what I had to say. I made the same mistake tonight, and I promise I won’t do that anymore.
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