Chapter 9 #2
The staff brings blankets, pillows, and a second couch cushion wide enough for Heath to use as a bed on the floor.
He refuses the couch beside Erin, refuses the one across from her, every option that doesn't put him between her and the door. I don’t argue.
I help arrange the cushion where he wants it and pretend not to understand the habit.
“Are you staying?” Erin asks me once she is bundled on the couch with Mr. Buttons tucked beneath her chin.
“For a while.”
“How long is a while?”
“Until Omar kicks me out.”
“That may be soon,” Omar says from the doorway.
I look at Erin. “He’s emotionally fragile.”
“I am armed.”
“See? Defensive.”
Erin giggles sleepily.
Heath doesn't laugh, but he stops watching the doorway long enough to glance at me.
The room settles in layers after that. Lights dimmed.
Hall quieter. Omar outside the door instead of inside it after Erin complains his staring makes the room “too awake.” Heath lies on the floor cushion with one arm tucked beneath his head, eyes open, body angled toward Erin’s couch.
I sit on the carpet with my back against the low table.
“You can sleep,” I tell him quietly.
“I know.”
“You’re not doing it.”
“You’re talking.”
“I’m breathing. It’s different.”
“You breathe loud.”
“I do not.”
He looks at me.
I lower my voice. “I do not.”
Erin mumbles something in her sleep and rolls onto her side.
Heath’s whole body tenses.
“She’s okay,” I whisper.
He waits.
Erin settles.
Only then does his breathing change.
I do not tell him to relax. Adults say that to children when they want their own discomfort eased. Relax. Calm down. Don’t be scared. As if fear is a switch and not a room someone else locked you inside.
So I sit there and say nothing.
Minutes pass.
Maybe twenty. Maybe forty. The house gets softer around the edges. My thoughts begin to drift in dangerous directions. Stefano’s mouth. Stefano’s hand. Stefano’s voice in the car telling me to say it again. I press my fingers against my own palm until the memory recedes enough to be useless.
Then Heath makes a sound.
Small.
Broken.
I look at him.
His eyes are closed, but his face has changed. Tight. Drawn. One hand grips the blanket at his chest. His feet shift once against the cushion like he is trying to push away from something in his sleep.
“No,” he whispers.
I sit forward.
“Heath.”
He doesn't wake.
His breathing turns fast. Too fast. His head moves against the pillow, and the whisper becomes a choked sound that drags straight down my spine.
“No. Don’t take her.”
Erin stirs.
I move closer but keep my hands to myself. “Heath, you’re safe.”
He jerks upright so fast I nearly reach for him on instinct. I stop myself before I touch him.
His eyes are open.
He is not seeing me.
He scrambles backward, heel catching in the blanket, one arm flung out toward Erin’s couch.
“No,” he gasps. “No, I said me. I said take me.”
Omar appears in the doorway.
I throw up one hand without looking at him.
“Stop.”
He stops. Erin wakes with a frightened whimper. “Heath?”
That makes him worse. He shoves himself between me and the couch, small body shaking, arm stretched toward Erin as if he can hold the world back by refusing to lower it.
“Don’t cry,” he says, voice cracking. “Don’t cry. They’ll hear you.”
Every violent thing in me goes quiet.
Not gone.
Quiet.
The way a room goes quiet before the first shot.
I lower myself fully to the floor. No sudden movement. No reaching. No soft pity. Heath doesn't need pity. He needs proof that this room is not the one in his head.
“Heath,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Look at me.”
His eyes dart to mine.
There is no recognition in them.
Only threat.
“You’re not there,” I say. “You’re in Stefano’s house. Erin is on the couch. I’m on the floor. Omar is at the door looking unpleasant.”
Omar says nothing.
Bless him.
Heath’s breathing stutters.
“Count the windows,” I say.
He shakes his head once, panicked.
“Count them.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. How many windows?”
His eyes flick once. “Three.”
“Good. Lamps?”
He swallows. “Two.”
“How many fingers?”
I raise my hand.
His gaze locks there. “Four.”
“What color is Erin’s blanket?”
“Blue.”
“What color is Omar’s suit?”
His eyes move to the doorway.
Omar stands very still, looking like a man deeply uncomfortable with becoming a therapy object.
“Black,” Heath says.
“Good. You’re here. Not there. No one is taking her.”
His arm lowers by one inch.
Only one.
Then Erin reaches for him.
He flinches.
Not away from her. Away from being caught needing her.
“I’m fine,” he says immediately.
His voice is hoarse.
“You’re not in trouble,” I say.
“I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
“I am.”
“Okay.”
He glares at me because he knows I do not believe him.
I let him have the lie.
Erin wipes her face with the stuffed rabbit’s ear. “You were dreaming.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were.”
“No.”
She looks at me, scared and uncertain.
I give her the smallest shake of my head.
Let him keep what he can.
Heath drags the blanket up around himself and turns his face toward the window, shoulders shaking beneath fabric he clearly hates needing.
Erin looks like she wants to crawl down beside him, but she waits.
Maybe because he is prickly. Maybe because she has learned the same thing I have: sometimes helping Heath means not making him admit he needs help.
I sit beside the cushion, not close enough to trap him.
“Does that happen a lot?” I ask.
“No.”
Omar’s silence says yes.
I glance at him once.
His expression gives nothing away, but his eyes do.
Enough.
“Did it happen last night?” I ask.
Heath says nothing.
“Okay,” I say.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You don’t have to.”
His fingers tighten around the blanket. “I don’t need you to fix it.”
“I know.”
“You can’t.”
“I know that too.”
That makes him look at me.
“I can sit here,” I say. “That’s all.”
He stares like the offer is suspicious. Maybe it is. Maybe every adult offer sounds like bait when the adults in your life have used kindness as a hallway to punishment.
“For how long?” he asks.
“As long as Omar allows.”
Omar makes a sound that is almost suffering.
Heath’s mouth twitches.
Tiny.
Exhausted.
Still there.
“Why?” he asks.
Because you are Alice’s son.
Because no one sat with her.