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I open my mouth to answer, but I’m silenced by the earthquake upstairs.
Mom screams. Something crashes on the floor so loudly it rattles the whole house. Dad’s voice, frantic and fighting to stay controlled, trying to calm her. The usual.
Hell is here after a break, leaving us gawking at each other, frozen.
Jackson is the first to go running. Ginger and I follow behind him, taking the steps by twos, only a few paces away. We barge into their bedroom and see the mess – a bigger one than usual.
There’s an entire canvas on the floor, a fist-sized hole punched through it, dripping wet paint everywhere. Mom steps over it, gives us a dirty look, and skirts past us, muttering. “This is why I can never get any work done. Too many damn spectators.”
“What happened?” Jackson finally asks, stepping forward. We join in, helping our father lift the huge canvass off the ground, and prop it against an overstuffed bookcase.
“Oh, you know. She tried to work, I encouraged her, and she freaked. Artist’s block.” The same cold patience he’s had forever sticks in his voice, but it’s unusually frayed.
Dad looks away, but not before I see him nudge up his glasses, wiping a secret tear. My heart goes to pieces for the second time tonight, this time without any warmth.
“What can we do?” I ask, laying my hand gently on his shoulder. Ginger backs me up, stepping around us to bend down on the floor, collecting smaller debris.
“Just…everybody out. Enjoy yourselves. It’s New Year’s Eve, dammit. It’s nobody else’s problem but mine.” He’s trying so hard to be brave. Then he moves to the spot where Ginger is. Something crunches under his shoes and I wince.
“I can’t leave you alone, dad,” Jackson growls. “Let me clean this up, unless you want me to go down there and calm her?”
“That’s the only thing I’m good at. Most of the time. You stay here and sweep, if you’re really bent on helping. Thank you, son.” He reaches into their closet and pulls out a broom, passing it over.
Our father heads out, but I don’t hear footsteps making it downstairs right away. He’s made a detour to the guest room, the only place he can get a moment alone. Somehow, it makes this worse.
“Here, let me help,” I say, taking Ginger’s place on the floor, picking at the mess of beads, pebbles, and fallen brushes. I feel like a helpless idiot just standing and watching.
Grunting, Jackson pushes another canvass over, smaller than the last. There’s a huge paint blob stuck to the floor, more dried than the rest. He swears under his breath, then looks at his wife. “Shit. It’s gonna take a while to get this off. Sadie, you wanted to help?”
I nod.
“Do us a favor, we’re planning to spend the night here anyway with the car in the shop, but Ginger’s got a doctor’s appointment the day after tomorrow. Dee’s place is closed for New Year’s. Probably won’t have time to grab our other vehicle. Can you swing by again? Just park the truck for Ginger while I’m at work, and she’ll pick it up?”
“Sure can.” I smile. I like feeling useful. “Just text me the time and place. Blank check, too, if you want me to square it away with Dee.”
“Beautiful. I owe you one, sis.” He returns my look, the new understanding we cultivated over the past hour still there. “Oh, and I’ll keep my distance. I’ll leave the vehicle trade off to Ginger. If that means you’ve got to bring along the Castoff or his kid, so be it.”
Ouch. I haven’t contemplated how I’ll handle that. Especially with Marshal ramping up for his mystery trip, supposedly ASAP after the holiday blows over.
“No worries. I’ll be by to grab it. Anything else?”
My brother shakes his head. Ginger hands me the keys and thanks me again. Then I head downstairs, casting a quick glance at dad, still licking his wounds in the guest room. He’s sitting on the bed.
I worry about him. It hurts that I’m not here anymore to share the punishment, but I gave it six months. I had to move on. Medicine and this nanny gig are a future. They’re also the first time I enjoy getting out of the house because I’m accomplishing something.
But still, I can’t help it. Guilt burns like napalm in my chest.
I stop, staring at my father’s silhouette. Why does he look so small and alone?
I take a few steps inside, rapping at the door gently. “You’re sure you’ll be okay?”
He turns, a fake smile on his pale lips. “It’s nothing, babe. Just another day. Your mom will be better tomorrow, and so will I.”
I try to return his warmth, but it isn’t easy. What he really should say is, nobody knows.
Mom’s moods are near unpredictable. Avoiding her triggers isn’t easy. Nothing helps enough, short of taking her away from the only thing she loves. No matter how hard this gets, none of us have the heart to force her into a facility.
