house, her skin pale in the light of the front porch. Her hands search me, brushing back my wet hair, looking at the cuts on my cheek.
“I was trying to swim,” I say, and meet her tired eyes. “I know I’ve been horrible to you lately, and I thought maybe this could make up for it.” My mother has always wanted me to learn how to swim, even though I was scared of the water. Once my brother was gone, I vowed never to learn. But I hope this lie makes her feel better. “I’m sorry,” I add, lowering my head.
“Oh, Sloane,” she says, hugging me. “You can’t do things like this. I was so worried, I almost called the police to look for you.”
I stiffen. “Did you?” I’m suddenly terrified that she used the number on the pamphlet next to the phone. That my own mother would turn me in.
“No,” she says. “Your father said you’d be back. That you were just . . . venting.” She pronounces the word as if she can’t remember what it means. I shoot a look at my father, but he keeps his eyes downcast. I wonder exactly how much he knows about where I’ve been.
“It was an accident,” I say to my mother, trying to sound as peaceful as possible. “I thought it’d be great to learn, something to surprise James with when he comes back. But then I got pulled downstream. I’ll be more careful next time.”
“We should probably get you to the emergency room for that arm,” my father cuts in. My mother gives him an alarmed look, as if he’s stealing me from her.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I know how much you hate hospitals.” I smile then, trying to make her feel better. Or maybe I’m putting up the facade again: I’m healthy, Mom. See? The guilt from my outburst at dinner nags at me, the promise of James coming back strengthens me. I can make it through six weeks. James will be here and we’ll be together. We’ll beat The Program.
My mother hugs me again, and I wince at the pressure on my aching arm. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m just so happy you’re okay. I can’t . . . I can’t lose you, too.”
Her words strike my heart and remind me of Brady, how she cried for weeks after he died. How my father would drink too much, and then they’d scream at each other. I’d tried to comfort my mother, until my own grief got the best of me. And then James became the only person I could trust to see that side of me.
“I’m okay, Mom,” I say, sounding light, surprised how easily the lie comes out. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
She nods, clearly relieved, and I walk around the car as my father gets in the driver’s seat. I raise my good arm and wave good-bye. Then I climb in and pull my seat belt tight. My father starts the car and backs us out of the driveway, smiling at my mother reassuringly as we pass her. But once we’re in the street, he looks sideways at me.
“Sloane,” he says, his voice low, “I know you weren’t trying to swim. But what I need to know right now is if you’re going to do it. If I have to call The Program to make sure your mother’s last living child doesn’t die.”
“Dad—”
“Don’t lie to me,” he says, not angry. Just tired. “I just need the truth now. I don’t think I can bear anything else.”
“I won’t hurt myself, Dad. I . . . couldn’t.”
He stares out at the road as we head toward the hospital. “Thank you.”
And I watch my father, remembering how funny he used to be when Brady and I were kids. How he’d take my brother to R-rated films when he was in middle school, and me out forice cream when I felt excluded. Now he looks older, wilted. The loss of my brother was too much for him, and sometimes I feel like he barely notices me at all anymore—except to make sure I’m still breathing.
When we get to the emergency room, I tell them the trying-to-swim story, staying mostly believable. I have a small, clean break, and they tell me I’m lucky. Lucky .
Once my cast is set, we leave the hospital to go back
“I was trying to swim,” I say, and meet her tired eyes. “I know I’ve been horrible to you lately, and I thought maybe this could make up for it.” My mother has always wanted me to learn how to swim, even though I was scared of the water. Once my brother was gone, I vowed never to learn. But I hope this lie makes her feel better. “I’m sorry,” I add, lowering my head.
“Oh, Sloane,” she says, hugging me. “You can’t do things like this. I was so worried, I almost called the police to look for you.”
I stiffen. “Did you?” I’m suddenly terrified that she used the number on the pamphlet next to the phone. That my own mother would turn me in.
“No,” she says. “Your father said you’d be back. That you were just . . . venting.” She pronounces the word as if she can’t remember what it means. I shoot a look at my father, but he keeps his eyes downcast. I wonder exactly how much he knows about where I’ve been.
“It was an accident,” I say to my mother, trying to sound as peaceful as possible. “I thought it’d be great to learn, something to surprise James with when he comes back. But then I got pulled downstream. I’ll be more careful next time.”
“We should probably get you to the emergency room for that arm,” my father cuts in. My mother gives him an alarmed look, as if he’s stealing me from her.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I know how much you hate hospitals.” I smile then, trying to make her feel better. Or maybe I’m putting up the facade again: I’m healthy, Mom. See? The guilt from my outburst at dinner nags at me, the promise of James coming back strengthens me. I can make it through six weeks. James will be here and we’ll be together. We’ll beat The Program.
My mother hugs me again, and I wince at the pressure on my aching arm. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m just so happy you’re okay. I can’t . . . I can’t lose you, too.”
Her words strike my heart and remind me of Brady, how she cried for weeks after he died. How my father would drink too much, and then they’d scream at each other. I’d tried to comfort my mother, until my own grief got the best of me. And then James became the only person I could trust to see that side of me.
“I’m okay, Mom,” I say, sounding light, surprised how easily the lie comes out. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
She nods, clearly relieved, and I walk around the car as my father gets in the driver’s seat. I raise my good arm and wave good-bye. Then I climb in and pull my seat belt tight. My father starts the car and backs us out of the driveway, smiling at my mother reassuringly as we pass her. But once we’re in the street, he looks sideways at me.
“Sloane,” he says, his voice low, “I know you weren’t trying to swim. But what I need to know right now is if you’re going to do it. If I have to call The Program to make sure your mother’s last living child doesn’t die.”
“Dad—”
“Don’t lie to me,” he says, not angry. Just tired. “I just need the truth now. I don’t think I can bear anything else.”
“I won’t hurt myself, Dad. I . . . couldn’t.”
He stares out at the road as we head toward the hospital. “Thank you.”
And I watch my father, remembering how funny he used to be when Brady and I were kids. How he’d take my brother to R-rated films when he was in middle school, and me out forice cream when I felt excluded. Now he looks older, wilted. The loss of my brother was too much for him, and sometimes I feel like he barely notices me at all anymore—except to make sure I’m still breathing.
When we get to the emergency room, I tell them the trying-to-swim story, staying mostly believable. I have a small, clean break, and they tell me I’m lucky. Lucky .
Once my cast is set, we leave the hospital to go back
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