“There is no way,” I say slowly, “that I’m ever going to Dr. Overton again.”
“Addie,” Caleb says, “you have to.”
“I don’t have to do anything.”
I turn and start for the stairs.
“Stop being dramatic, Addison,” Mom says now, following me up. “We need to know why you’re seeing him. It could be something really serious.”
“Or something not so serious,” my dad adds quickly. Mom is always jumping to conclusions, anticipating the worst.
“Most likely it has something to do with the bus crash,” my brother says.
“I’m not going,” I say again, and slam my door shut. I fall onto my unmade bed, my whole body heavy from exhaustion. That sinking feeling I sometimes have, of watching everything around me vanish, wraps around me and won’t let go. I ache for sleep, the kind of peaceful, uninterrupted sleep I haven’t had since the bus crash, but it won’t come.
I think about reaching in the dark for my viola, but for once, I am too sad to play.
AFTER
January
My father stays the night. Or arrives bright and early the next morning to begin the work of wearing me down. I’m not sure which.
He knocks several times on my door, begging me to please open it.
I ignore him until at least midday. It’s Saturday, after all.
Finally I don’t hear his voice, but I see a shadow under the door, and I hear him breathing in and out. I draw the door toward me and put my face through the crack.
He is dozing, sitting on the floor with his knees pulled up, his mouth slightly open, but he jerks awake immediately.
“I need to tell you some things,” Dad says, getting to his feet. I open the door, even though I’m fairly certain I don’t want to hear this.
“If you’re going to lie to me, we don’t have to bother with this conversation.”
“I’m not going to lie to you,” he says, actually holding my gaze. I step back and let him in.
He sits on the edge of my bed and surveys my room like he hasn’t seen it in years. I don’t think he has. He looks like a giant sitting on a piece of furniture that’s too small for him and might break at any second.
I lean back against the wall by my door. I have so many questions for him, but I’m afraid I might cry, so I let him go first.
“You’re built too much like me,” he says.
I shoot him a weird look. What is he talking about? We’re nothing alike.
“It’s always been my biggest fear,” he continues, “that you might end up in some of the places I have.”
I’mtoo much like him? Does he not see how much Caleb looks like him? How much Caleb wants to fly?
“Dad,” I say impatiently, but he holds up a hand.
“I’m getting there,” he says. “I’ve suffered from pretty bad depression all my life. My brothers, too. You know about Uncle Mark.” I nod and glance away. He killed himself his second year of college, before I was born. “I had dark times, too. Your grandmother would look at me and say, ‘Open your eyes. Wake up.’ And for the longest time, I had no idea why she said that. I thought she meant that I always looked like I was falling asleep.”
I bite my lower lip.
“For the most part, after your mother and I were married, I was better. Most airlines need you to be stable for a minimum of a year before you can fly, and I was. I started—and am still on—meds, but I was finally happy. And after you kids were born, I was really happy. And then Rory died….” He takes a breath in like he’s been punched.
“That’s why you left,” I say. “You blamed me.”
