Dear Diary

17. SHARING THE BLAME

D E R E K

"Your mom and I are going out for lunch," Dad says as I descend the stairs into the living room. He and Mom are sitting on the couch, him with a newspaper and Mom reading a magazine. "Care to join us?"

"I'm good," I say.

"Staying in all the time isn't healthy, son. Being out and about is a fine way to get over depression."

The anger flares quickly. "My sister was murdered and you want me to get over it? Another girl from my school was killed too—a girl I knew. Yet you want me roaming the streets so you don't have to see me looking sad?"

He puts the paper down as Mom's eyes flick up at me. "That's not what I meant. Derry, we're all trying to cope. We have to work past it as a family. That's the point of grief counseling."

"You're a family man now?"

"Derek!" Mom hisses, slamming her magazine shut.

"It's okay, Eva," Dad says. "He's hurting right now, he doesn't know what he's saying."

"Bullshit," I spit. "Work always comes first for you, and you know it."

"That's not true."

"Are you trying to convince me or yourself?" I'm tired of holding it in. I've wanted to call them out for so long, but never mustered the courage until now.

I only wish I'd done it before I lost my sister.

"Where were you when Sidney won her volleyball tournament a couple years ago?" I ask. "Where were you when she needed help with school projects or when she wanted to talk to you? Where were you for guidance? Where were you for anything?"

A hard edge creeps into his tone. "Sidney was independent. She never needed me to hold her hand."

"No, she stopped needing you to hold it when it became clear you couldn't give a rat's ass. Now she's dead and you're trying to use me as your parental redemption."

"That's enough!" Mom barks, standing to her feet and walking over to me. "You will not disrespect your father."

Dad tries to step between us. "Eva—"

"No, Lance," she says, "he needs to understand there's a way the child addresses their parents and this isn't it."

"You and Sid got into plenty of fights. What'd you ever do to put her in her place, huh?" I say, turning the tables on her now. "Neither of you could care less."

Her mouth hangs open. "What's gotten into you?"

"Someone killed your daughter!" I yell. "We can't stand here and act like we were a perfect family who didn't get what was coming to us. You let Sid run around here like she couldn't be touched. You failed to act like parents and look where you got her!"

The slap she gives me comes hard, fast and—more than anything—as a shock. I shake it off, though, glaring at her. "Did I strike a nerve?"

"You know what," Dad starts, "if you want someone to blame so badly, why don't you look at yourself? We asked you to stay home with your sister for once, but you had to be a delinquent—drinking when you're underaged, partying with a bunch of kids going nowhere in life! Ever think you could've saved her if you listened to the parental guidance you claim is non-existent? You want to blame us, but what about you?"

"You're right, Dad," I say, voice cracking in the process. "I should take some of the blame. I'm the shittiest brother alive . . . At least I know for sure you think the same."