you, bud.” My dad put an arm around him and started down the hall, but stopped before he reached the stairs. “Get some sleep, Tempest. We’ll talk more in the morning.”
“It won’t change anything.” Outside my bedroom, the clock in the hall struck one. “I’m running out of time.”
“Hey, it’s tomorrow,” Mo piped up.
“It is,” my dad agreed.
“Happy birthday, Tempest.”
My throat swelled shut. “Thanks, bud,” I choked out.
“What do you want for your birthday?” he asked as my dad steered him down the stairs.
I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t. Because I wanted too much and was deathly afraid that I didn’t have a chance of getting any of it.
Chapter 9
After my dad left with Mo, I flopped on my bed and tried to block out his words. Tried to block out everything but the sound of the ocean. It didn’t work. I listened as the two made their way back up a few minutes later. I heard my dad get Mo into bed, then tensed when his footfalls hesitated outside my room.
But he didn’t knock this time, didn’t come in, and I figured he was giving me a break. I was grateful; I knew that anything more would send me into emotional overload.
I had no idea how long I lay there, minutes ticking into hours while I watched the stars through the skylight in my bedroom ceiling. I counted them again and again, as I had any number of times in my life when I couldn’t sleep.
Looked for constellations.
Made my own pictures.
Did anything and everything but think about the fact that my time was slowly winding down.
When I couldn’t count the same stars one more time, I climbed out of bed. I glanced at my clock—it was almost four a.m. and the house was quiet. I thought about painting, but for the first time in my life couldn’t work up the energy to put brush to canvas.
As I let myself into the hallway, the only sound was the ticking of my mother’s grandfather clock. The rhythmic clicking grated on my nerves as I walked past it, and not for the first time I thought about how good it would feel to smash something into it. To break the glass and the gong and everything else—until there was nothing left of it.
Maybe then, my dad could move on.
Maybe then, we all could.
For years, the stupid clock had gonged at fifteen-minute intervals, ticking off the time my mom had been gone until I’d given up counting it in minutes or hours or days—eventually even weeks and months became too short to measure by.
Six years. My mother had walked out six years ago today and now things were coming full circle. Now I might end up just like her after all—no matter what choice I wanted to make.
I thought about raiding my father’s medicine cabinet—and his supply of Ambien—but the idea of climbing back into bed and staring at the same stars for another three hours literally made me sick.
Instead, I took the stairs two at a time, grabbed a sweatshirt from the coat closet near the front door. Then I slipped out of the house and into the night.
Crossing the grass on bare feet, I absorbed the utter silence of my street. It was too early for the lawyers and doctors to be heading into the office, too early even for their spouses to be out for their three-mile jogs. Instead, the houses were locked up tight—heaters blaring and security systems engaged.
Up in the sky a full moon the color of a pure, sweet tropical pearl cast a glow over the trees, the only light besides the lone streetlamp at the end of the cul-de-sac. For a moment, I felt like the only person on earth.
Crossing the street, I ignored the gravel and small rocks that bit into my toes and heels until I could sink my feet into the blessed relief of cold winter sand.
I walked along the beach for a long time—right where the tide met the sand—unaware of time passing as the water tickled my toes. I played tag with the waves, tried to avoid the never-ending cycle of tides as they rolled in. I lost more times than I won.
I didn’t have any firm
“It won’t change anything.” Outside my bedroom, the clock in the hall struck one. “I’m running out of time.”
“Hey, it’s tomorrow,” Mo piped up.
“It is,” my dad agreed.
“Happy birthday, Tempest.”
My throat swelled shut. “Thanks, bud,” I choked out.
“What do you want for your birthday?” he asked as my dad steered him down the stairs.
I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t. Because I wanted too much and was deathly afraid that I didn’t have a chance of getting any of it.
Chapter 9
After my dad left with Mo, I flopped on my bed and tried to block out his words. Tried to block out everything but the sound of the ocean. It didn’t work. I listened as the two made their way back up a few minutes later. I heard my dad get Mo into bed, then tensed when his footfalls hesitated outside my room.
But he didn’t knock this time, didn’t come in, and I figured he was giving me a break. I was grateful; I knew that anything more would send me into emotional overload.
I had no idea how long I lay there, minutes ticking into hours while I watched the stars through the skylight in my bedroom ceiling. I counted them again and again, as I had any number of times in my life when I couldn’t sleep.
Looked for constellations.
Made my own pictures.
Did anything and everything but think about the fact that my time was slowly winding down.
When I couldn’t count the same stars one more time, I climbed out of bed. I glanced at my clock—it was almost four a.m. and the house was quiet. I thought about painting, but for the first time in my life couldn’t work up the energy to put brush to canvas.
As I let myself into the hallway, the only sound was the ticking of my mother’s grandfather clock. The rhythmic clicking grated on my nerves as I walked past it, and not for the first time I thought about how good it would feel to smash something into it. To break the glass and the gong and everything else—until there was nothing left of it.
Maybe then, my dad could move on.
Maybe then, we all could.
For years, the stupid clock had gonged at fifteen-minute intervals, ticking off the time my mom had been gone until I’d given up counting it in minutes or hours or days—eventually even weeks and months became too short to measure by.
Six years. My mother had walked out six years ago today and now things were coming full circle. Now I might end up just like her after all—no matter what choice I wanted to make.
I thought about raiding my father’s medicine cabinet—and his supply of Ambien—but the idea of climbing back into bed and staring at the same stars for another three hours literally made me sick.
Instead, I took the stairs two at a time, grabbed a sweatshirt from the coat closet near the front door. Then I slipped out of the house and into the night.
Crossing the grass on bare feet, I absorbed the utter silence of my street. It was too early for the lawyers and doctors to be heading into the office, too early even for their spouses to be out for their three-mile jogs. Instead, the houses were locked up tight—heaters blaring and security systems engaged.
Up in the sky a full moon the color of a pure, sweet tropical pearl cast a glow over the trees, the only light besides the lone streetlamp at the end of the cul-de-sac. For a moment, I felt like the only person on earth.
Crossing the street, I ignored the gravel and small rocks that bit into my toes and heels until I could sink my feet into the blessed relief of cold winter sand.
I walked along the beach for a long time—right where the tide met the sand—unaware of time passing as the water tickled my toes. I played tag with the waves, tried to avoid the never-ending cycle of tides as they rolled in. I lost more times than I won.
I didn’t have any firm
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