Page 7 of What’s Left of Us

“Sure I can,” I whisper. “But it doesn’t matter. I’ll never see him again.”

“Don’t say that.”

So I don’t say anything. I put on the movie and we watch in silence until we both fall asleep.

Chapter 3

age eight

Mom and Dad were fighting, so Nat was in my bed. Her alarm clock—a junky old thing that doubled as a radio—played the only station it reliably got. There was more static than there was music, but I didn’t mind. The noise was enough to make Dad’s shouts garbled, to make them sound like they weren’t words at all.

“I didn’t get a chance to tell you,” Nat mumbled against my ear. She was curled around me, and it was getting too hot. Neither of us moved an inch. “Mrs. Watson died.”

I flipped over so fast I accidentally knocked our foreheads together.

“Are you sure?” I whispered. My bedroom was mostly dark, but I could see the silhouette of her face. She was rubbing her temple and grinning at me despite it.

“Yep. I walked over there and everything. Asked Mrs. Lewis.”

We lived in a gated neighborhood, nestled in a subdivision by Hayden Lake. All the homes were big and beautiful with massive lawns and fancy cars in the driveways. Mr. and Mrs. Lewis lived two doors down, and Ms. Watson was the grumpy old lady who lived between us.

She was awful. I wasn’t necessarily happy she died, but…

“When do the new ones get here?”

“Dunno.” Nat rolled me back onto my side and tucked tighter against me. “Maybe a few weeks. A month. Depends how long ‘til someone buys it.”

“It won’t be long,” I said, more out of desperate hope than anything else.

Our cul-de-sac only had six houses, and so far, we were the only kids on the whole street. If Mrs. Watson, the mean old lady who gave out expired fruit snacks for Halloween, was gone, that meant there was an opening. And if there was an opening, that meant we might finally end up with kid neighbors.

Something broke downstairs. Glass, it sounded like. Too heavy to be a dish. Maybe the vase Mom bought last weekend at the antique store. I was getting good at telling the difference between all sorts of things. Plates versus wine glasses. Lamps hitting the wall versus the floor. A woman being pushed versus slapped.

“Try to sleep,” Nat whispered against my ear.

“Okay,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t. That she wouldn’t either. When the yelling faded, when it was impossible to know what was happening, I let out a small sob. “I hate him, Natalie.”

I rarely used her full name. I wasn’t sure why I used it now.

“Me too.” She tightened her hold. Last month, she tried to stop him, and it made everything worse. That was what Dad said. That was what Mom said too, as we got ready for bed the next night.

I need you girls to stay in here, she’d said. Then, looking at my big sister, she added, Can you do that, Nat? Can you keep Violet up here?

“Just think about the new neighbors,” Nat said. “I bet there will be two girls. One eight. One eleven. We’ll all be the best of friends, and someday, we’ll move far, far away. And we’ll be really happy.”

“And Mom will come with us.”

“Sure. Mom will come with us.”

Downstairs, the front door slammed and Dad’s truck rumbled to life.

Nat turned up the radio as loud as it would go.

It was an entire nine weeks before the moving van arrived. Nat and I watched from my bedroom window, breaths held as we studied our new neighbors. There was a woman. Short and curvy and wearing a pretty sundress. A man appeared next. Big and muscular and serious looking. He reminded me a bit of Dad, and my lip snarled before I could stop it.

It only lasted a second though, because a third person climbed from the truck. A girl.

“I think she’s my age,” Nat said. “Don’t you think?”