The Family Photo That Didn't Have Me In It novel · Chapter 16 of 24

Chapter 16: Home Port

"I came home because you asked," I said. "Amelie drove because Dad handed her the keys."

"Mom says..."

"Mom poured wine down my throat while you were bleeding on the gravel, Dillon."

He flinched.

"You ran in front of that car to stop her," I said. "It's the only thing anybody in this family did right that night."

He started to cry.

My big brother, who used to hold me down and drip spit over my face until I screamed.

He cried without making any noise, with his hands lying useless on the blanket.

Ten years ago, after the driveway, he'd left half a peanut butter sandwich outside my door and never said a word.

I had thrown it away without tasting it.

I sat with him until he fell asleep.

Then I left.

I didn't tell him what to say to the police. That had to be his.

On Sunday night Raegan walked me to the station and stood with me under the departures board until the northbound was called.

"Text me when you cross the state line," she said. "And tell my brother he's allowed to cry. He won't. Tell him anyway."

Down the track the train sounded its horn, one long ugly note.

"That's a sharp B flat," she said, wincing. "Go. Before it ruins my whole week."

Somewhere past the state line I did the arithmetic.

The note was dated four years and nine months from now.

My family had reached the driver's door with nearly five years to spare.

They were ahead of schedule, and I didn't know if that meant I'd changed it or only moved it.

I told the window what I'd told the train in August.

I was not going to be the girl in that seat.

The northbound got into the harbor town at seven in the morning.

It had snowed in the night.

The lake was steaming under the cold, and the lighthouse was white on white.

Bo was standing at the far end of the platform with his hands jammed in his coat.

He didn't come toward me.

I walked the whole length of the platform to him, boots squeaking on the snow, and he watched every step.

He took my bag off my shoulder.

Then he took my hands and turned them palm up in the cold.

He looked at them, and at me, all of me, like he was counting.

"Ten," he said, about my fingers.

"Bo."

"You hung up. I heard the brakes and you hung up."

"I had to call..."

"I know. You did right. I'd have hated you if you'd stayed on." His jaw worked. "I hated it anyway."

"I'm okay."

"Yeah," he said roughly. "I can see that. Walk."

Neither of us said anything else all the way up the hill.

The path to the Annex had been shoveled down to the brick.

On my doorknob hung a foil package, still warm, with fried potatoes inside.

The cook had written on the foil in grease pencil, in block capitals.

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