The Places Alec Forgot

Chapter Four

It has been several days since I last went to therapy, and I have since been hesitant to return next week. I know this must be a one-time thing, that my tension and his persistence will not last until our next meeting, but I cannot help to feel distaste at the idea of going again. Eventually, the feeling will pass.

I thought being home would comfort me after the events of that night, and thus far it has not.

There is a tension in the house, a thickness to the air, the likes of which I cannot put my finger on. I think it comes from Mother, whose answers to any and all questions as of late are brought with a heavy tone and sharp sounds. Avoiding her has been my answer to the problem.

Today, I've resorted to reading as my pastime, finding that it is the best way to spend my time. I have no texts from Michael or anyone else for that matter, and there is no better way to pass the time.

Soon, I find myself thirsting for something to drink. I drag on the last lines of the chapter, enthralled by the manners of medieval fantasy, and dog-ear the page.

I worry that my mother is in the kitchen, and it causes me to hesitate. Placing down my book, I climb off of my bed, cringing as the frame squeals in protest.

At first, I breathe a sigh of relief, as the kitchen appears to be empty, but my relaxation is short lived.

"Alec," calls my mother. I look to my left, where she sits at the dining table. Beneath her hands, she holds a thin wooden box. Its edges are stained black by fire, her palms by the soot. The icy look in her eyes chills my skin.

"Yes, Mama?" I answer, curving my path to stand by the table. I cannot look away from the box, wondering what it could be. When I attempt to discreetly eye the box, to figure out what it may be, Mother's hands cover the top.

"We need to talk. Please, go get your sisters."

"Yes, Mama." I shiver, and once I am sure I am out of sight, turning into the hall, I wrap my arms around myself.

My sisters answer quickly to my knocks at their door. It is Jesse who has opened the door, and she offers to me a smile. While the rest of the house has felt dark and heavy, she still manages to be a little wisp of light during it all. Perhaps, however, that is favoritism speaking.

"Mama wants to talk to us," I say, wishing I could smile back at her. There is just something holding me down, something preventing me. Perhaps it is my fear of what Mother wants to talk about.

Jesse mimics the nervousness that I feel. She nibbles on her lip and nods. "We'll be out in a second," she says, and Jesse shuts the door before I can say more.

With a feeling of dread hanging over my heart, I return to my mother. She looks at me expectantly. "Well?"

"She said they'll be out in a second," I reply. At my waist, I clasp my hand together. Though I look down at the wooden floorboards, I think Mother is still staring at me. Her gaze burns.

What is likely thirty seconds drags on into an hour. My legs begin to shake. This level of fear for our conversation is, I know, unwarranted. Mother's fingers tap, tap, tap on the box impatiently.

Then the girls come down the hall, Jesse led by Jamie, the latter with furrowed brows. It is only when she sees the box clasped beneath Mother's hands that young Jamie's expression relaxes. I think it's a look of defeat over anything else.

Mother removes her hands from the object, revealing beneath the dust and dirt that it is the same talking board that the girls used several nights prior. I begin to wonder why, of all people, I'm being dragged into this. It seems so impossible that she would know I was out there that night, and even then she cannot blame me: I did not play.