THEN, suddenly, weeks go by. Charlie and I fall into a rhythm: I go to her apartment Mondays and Thursdays. Sometimes she comes over for dinner. Sometimes one of my brothers or my mom babysits, and we go on a date.
And the weirdest part is that it isn’t weird at all. It doesn’t even feel different, it just feels… more. It feels like this is the way things always were, or at least this is the way things always should have been.
Best of all, we don’t hear a single peep from Crystal.
“THAT ONE’S PRETTY INTENSE, especially with a pack,” Caleb is saying.
He and Charlie are on the floor of the living room, the coffee table pushed out of the way, maps spread across the floor.
“It is?” she asks, leaning in for a closer look.
“Yeah, that part up to the Twins is all crazy switchbacks across a rock face,” Caleb says. “Hold on, I’ve got the USGS topo here somewhere.”
He turns to one of the filing crates he brought with him. They’re both indexed and sorted by color, each folder clearly labeled.
Say what you want about the Loveless Boys — and plenty of people have — but we can keep our shit in order.
“Here,” Caleb says, handing her a green folder.
They both bend over the folder. I’m on one of the couches, reading, half-listening to them plan our backpacking trip for later this summer. When they first started this, the plan was for three days and two nights, but Caleb keeps suggesting longer and longer treks into the wilderness, and Charlie keeps agreeing.
At this rate, I’m going to be gone for a week. When I get back, Rusty will be half-feral and my mom, who’s agreed to look after her during the trip, will be completely out of bourbon.
“There,” Caleb says, pointing at a spot on the map.
Charlie head moves slightly toward him. They’re both sitting cross-legged, both wearing jeans and t-shirts with no shoes. They’ve even both got top knots, though Charlie’s is all wild curls and Caleb’s is wavy and messy.
“Does that really say two thousand feet elevation gain in a mile?” Charlie asks.
“Yeah,” Caleb drawls. “Plus, when I did this hike two years ago with a buddy of mine there was nowhere flat enough to sleep for a good six miles, so by the time we found somewhere we could even lie down it was dark and we were hiking by flashlight. I don’t really recommend it, even though the views are amazing.”
“All right, we’re not doing the Twins,” Charlie says, pushing the map to one side and reaching for another one. “What else?”
Caleb sighs, takes the map, and puts it neatly back in the folder, and I smile to myself because I know exactly how he feels right now.
“If you don’t mind starting the trip with a long day, we could head to the Crystal Grotto,” he says, just as the front door opens and Eli steps through carrying two big canvas bags, one of which has a froth of greenery sticking out the top.
“Hiking?” he says, looking down at the people and maps spread across the floor.
“Caleb’s taking us backpacking for secret reasons,” Charlie says.
“The same secret reason I owe you meatballs?” Eli says, hoisting one of the bags over his shoulder. “Do I even owe you those, now that you’re actually f—”
I clear my throat and glare at my older brother.
“— dating?” he asks, throwing me a look.
“A deal’s a deal,” Levi’s voice says from beyond the still-open door.
“There’s always negotiation,” Eli says.
Boots cross the wooden front porch, and then the door pushes open further, revealing Levi, wearing work pants and a t-shirt, standing there with a bundle of long sticks over one shoulder, a cast-iron dutch oven hanging from his other hand.
“Just make the meatballs,” Levi says.
“That’s easy for you to say, you didn’t get a task.”
“Seems I’ve got the task of listening to you bellyache about—”
“Out!” my mom calls from the doorway to the kitchen. Five heads turn as she comes into the room. “Levi Beauford, you know better than to bring a mess of kindling into my house,” she goes on. “Take it around the side.”
“It’s not kindling, it’s a spit roast,” he says.
“Around. The. Side,” she repeats, then looks at Eli. “You too.”
“It’s groceries,” he protests. “The ducks need to go in the fridge.”
“Ducks?” I ask as Levi sighs and turns back through the door.
“Have feathers, go quack,” Caleb supplies.
“Thank you,” I deadpan, and Charlie snorts.
“Please tell me they’re already butchered,” Mom says.
“They’re already butchered,” Eli says dutifully.
“All right, you can stay, I guess,” she says, and steps back out of the room.
“You’re spit roasting ducks?” Charlie asks.
“Wait, that’s today?” I add.
“You two have gotta pay attention,” Eli drawls, a slow smile coming onto his face. “Yes, today is Rusty’s Little House on the Prairie feast extravaganza. Levi’s been crafting the roasting mechanism for days.”
“Where is Rusty?” Caleb suddenly asks, stretching his legs in front of himself and leaning back on his hands.
We all look around. It’s been quiet for at least half an hour.
Too quiet.
“I think she’s in her room,” I say, suddenly suspicious. “I’ll go tell her you guys are here.”
I heave myself off the couch and head for the stairs. I know she’s probably just reading a book in her room, but one of the very first things I learned as a parent was that noise is suspicious, but quiet is extremely suspicious.
“Hey, munchkin,” I call out. “Your uncles are he—”
I stop short when I reach the top step. There’s something on the floor between Rusty’s room and the bathroom, four or five drops of dark liquid.
It takes me a second to realize what it is, and then my stomach leaps into my throat.
“Rusty!” I shout. I reach her bedroom door in one step, slam it open. It’s empty and in the second it takes me to scan the room, I also see her desk chair pushed back, a sharp stick on her desk next to a bright red smear, the drops of blood on the floor closer together here.
I’m at the bathroom door in another second. Locked.
“RUSTY!” I shout, rattling the knob, shoving at it. I slam my hand against the door, full-blown panic blossoming through my chest even as I tell myself that it’s not that much blood, just a few drops, she’s not in there bleeding to death.
Nothing happens. She doesn’t unlock the door and it doesn’t magically unlock itself. I try the knob again, as hard as I can, hoping that maybe the old mechanism will break and when it doesn’t, I slam my shoulder into the door. It’s old, solid wood, as old as the house and it shudders but doesn’t break.
“Hit it again,” Caleb’s voice says behind me. Pain spikes through my shoulder as I do and the door shudders, gives slightly, and then when I slam it one more time with my shoulder the frame splinters and the door comes open and I half-fall into the bathroom.
“Rusty,” I gasp.
She’s there, sitting on the toilet with the lid down, legs dangling, a mass of toilet paper pressed between her hands, bloody strands of it littering the floor.
Not covered in blood, not lying broken on the floor. There are no head wounds or severed limbs, no sliced arteries.
“I’m sorry!” she says, looking at me wide-eyed, her face already tear-stained.
I’m already on my knees in front of her, her hands in mine even as I’m still checking her over: head fine, body fine, legs fine, one hand hurt.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Shh, sweetheart, it’s okay, what happened?”
She sniffles, another sob breaking through as she holds out her left hand.
“It slipped,” she whispers as I peel back the wadded mass of toilet paper, the last few layers soaked through with blood, until I can see the wound.
She flinches as I unstick the paper, more blood welling up from a two-inch gash in her palm, right through the meat below her thumb.
“Ow,” she whispers.
“I bet that hurt,” I say, trying to commiserate while my heart is still beating wildly, every nerve in my body still rattling even as I hold her hand, trying to assess the wound.
“It was an accident,” she says, her voice still small, hurt.
“I know, honey,” I murmur.
Sniffle. More blood wells up as I try to examine her blood-stained hand as well as I can. I don’t think it’s deep enough to need stitches, but it’s hard to tell. Every time I touch her hand, she jerks it away slightly, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks.
I’m rattled. My heart is still pounding. I’m still sweating, still half-imagining the worst things that could happen, even though they haven’t, and I take a deep breath and try to concentrate.
“Here,” says Charlie’s voice, and I realize that she’s kneeling next to me on the bathroom floor, a first aid kit open next to her. “Can I see?”
“I don’t think she needs stitches, but I can’t tell,” I say as Rusty holds out her hand to Charlie. I rub my knuckles across my forehead, trying to tamp down the quake making its way through my core.
She’s fine, I tell myself. She’s fine. It’s a cut.
What the hell happened?
“Okay, Rusty, I need you to hold your breath for a few seconds because this is gonna hurt,” Charlie is saying. She’s got a pad of gauze pressed to the wound, holding Rusty’s small hand in both of hers, totally calm and patient and in control. “Ready?”
Rusty nods and sucks in a breath, eyes still wide.
“Here we go,” Charlie says, and pulls the gauze off. Gently, she touches Rusty’s palm, pulling the edges of the wound apart. Rusty’s turning pink, her feet kicking against the toilet.
“All right,” Charlie says, completely unfazed. “Good news, kiddo, I don’t think you need stitches.”
Rusty exhales in a rush, then sniffles.
“Okay,” she says.
“We’ll bandage you up and have you out of here in no time,” Charlie says. “Can you be brave again for a little while?”
“I think so,” Rusty says.
Charlie coaxes Rusty to the sink, has her hold her breath again while she rinses out the cut and I slump on the bathroom floor, back against the bathtub. Rusty whimpers and I close my own eyes for a moment, listen to Charlie soothe her slowly, calmly.
She’s always been good at emergencies. It’s the strangest thing, because in the rest of her life she can be scattered, a space cadet, but the moment something goes wrong she’s completely on top of it. Once we saw a car accident while we were getting coffee during Rusty’s ballet class, and I swear Charlie was the first person out there, calming down the drivers and ordering me to call 911 and telling the other onlookers to direct traffic, all before anyone else had managed to stand up.
When they’re done at the sink Rusty comes over to me, sits in my lap while Charlie bandages her up: gauze, medical tape, a big bandage to hold everything in place. By the time they’re finished Rusty’s smiling again, even though she’s got the hiccups from crying.
“Plus, you’ll have a cool scar,” Charlie is saying. “You can tell everyone that you got into a knife fight and won.”
“Don’t encourage her,” I murmur.
“What’s a knife fight?” Rusty asks.
“It’s a fight with knives,” I tell her, resting my chin on her head. “They’re very bad.”
“Oh,” Rusty says. “It wasn’t a fight, just an accident.”
Charlie finishes wrapped the bandage, presses it against itself.
“What happened?” she asks Rusty.
Instantly, Rusty goes silent, her little body suddenly tense in my lap.
“I wanted to help Levi make roasting sticks,” she says quietly. “And my knife slipped.”
Her knife?
“What knife?” I ask, just as Charlie’s head snaps up and she looks at Rusty.
“The knife I borrowed,” Rusty whispers. Now she’s squirming in my lap, arching her back, trying to get up.
“Borrowed from where?” I ask.
Charlie’s eyes meet mine, wide and hazel, guilt written all over her face. I swallow hard, fighting the rising tide of anger, because I’m pretty sure I know exactly who gave my second grader a goddamn knife.
“Charlie’s workshop,” Rusty finally admits. Charlie’s gone pale beneath her freckles and her gaze drops from mine.
I take a deep breath, jaw clenching, and wonder what the fuck Charlie was thinking.
“I said you couldn’t take that knife,” Charlie admonishes her, gently, glancing at me again. “Did you take it anyway?”
“I just borrowed it,” Rusty says. “I was going to give it back. I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t want you to take it because I didn’t want you to get hurt,” Charlie says, her voice sharper now. “Rusty, if you take something without permission that’s stealing.”
Rusty’s breathing picks up and moments later a sob breaks through. She rubs her eyes with the backs of her hands, flopping sideways against my chest like she’s trying to burrow in.
“I’m sorry, Charlie,” she says. “I didn’t mean to.”
Charlie opens her mouth, looks at me, and shuts it again. I hold Rusty, sniffling and sobbing, against my chest and shake my head at Charlie.
I’ve got questions for her, starting with why the fuck did she have a knife in the first place and ending with how easy was it for her to take it? But I don’t ask them right now, not while Rusty’s having a breakdown on the bathroom floor.
“Just go,” I tell Charlie, my voice tight, clipped.
“I’ll clean up,” she says, touches Rusty’s shoulder one more time, and then she’s gone.
I close my eyes, hold my kid, let her cry, and wonder if any of the parenting books I own cover this situation.
