The Winner's Game(26)

And me?

I’m the queen of scars. Chest, heart, and soul…





              Chapter 10





Cade




IT’S LATE. Past my bedtime on a normal night. But Dad left tonight, so Mom’s been kinda letting us do our own thing. The girls are both upstairs. Last I checked, Bree was sketching in her art pad, and Ann was writing in her journal-diary thingy. Maybe they’re both asleep by now.

I’ve been alone watching the fuzzy television. Mom’s been tucked away in her bedroom, probably reading. Eventually she peeks out and says it’s time to go to bed. “You’re sleeping in my room tonight, right, Cade? Dad’s bed is all made up for you.”

I’m old enough that I like sleeping by myself, but not so old or dumb that I would turn down a comfortable twin mattress over Grandma’s old couch, even if that mattress is in the same room as my mom. “I guess so.”

Actually, I’m not really ready for bed yet, but I can’t tell her that. How do I tell her that I’m superworried about her and Dad? How do I explain the bazillion things I was worried about while I was watching that lousy TV for the past two hours?

No, there’s too much on my mind to go to sleep, but I can’t talk to my mom about it, so I just lie awake in the dark for a long, long time. I wish I could turn my brain off. I keep replaying the things my mom and dad have said to each other lately. All their fights and stuff. I don’t like thinking about it, but it’s hard not to.

What’s happening to our family? It’s like every bad thing possible is going on at once. We’ve all been worried about Ann for a really long time; worried that she might not make it. And now I have to worry that my parents might not make it either. If they split up, it will probably feel just as awful as Ann dying. It already feels awful sometimes, like when they’re yelling at each other. Or worse, ignoring each other.

Maybe the death of a marriage is just as bad as the death of a person. Maybe it’s actually worse, because when someone dies, you still love them, love the memories. But when parents divorce, the love is gone. Not buried, just gone.

I wish there was a surgery or something—medicine, maybe—that could fix marriage problems!

My best friend, Sam, his parents got divorced last year. He gets way more presents now than he used to because his dad likes to send him stuff when he’s not around, which is pretty cool, but Sam gets sad a lot too, because he doesn’t get to see his dad very often. Right now, my dad is gone too. Not for good, like Sam’s dad, but he’s not with the family at the beach, which still bites.

I wish he was here. I wish he was sleeping in this bed instead of me. I’d gladly sleep on the couch for the rest of my life if it meant that my parents were happy and not fighting.

When Ann first got sick—back when she almost died—I told my dad it wasn’t fair. He agreed and told me that life isn’t fair. Well, he’s right. And the fact that he and Mom can’t just get along and be happy is the most unfair of all. Life isn’t fair.

Nothing’s fair.





There’s a nightstand with a lamp and a phone on it separating my bed from Mom’s, kind of like in hotel rooms. Even though I’m not right next to her, I can tell that Mom isn’t sleeping either. Every so often she rolls over, or sighs, or makes little whimpering noises. At one point I wonder if the whimpering has turned to crying, but the sound of it is muffled by waves crashing on the beach.

My eyes finally start getting heavy right about the time the bedroom door opens. “Mom? You still awake?”

It’s Bree.

“Of course, honey. Come in. What’s going on?”

“I can’t sleep. Ann has the lights on.”

“Why is she still awake?”

“She’s writing in her diary.”

“Ah. Well, that’s important too. You want to cuddle with me for a while?”

Bree’s dark form crawls over Mom to the nightstand-side of her bed, making the bedsprings squeak. A minute later she asks the very thing I’ve been thinking since dinner: “I know Dad said you guys aren’t getting a divorce, but…?”

Mom doesn’t answer right away. “We want to avoid that at all costs, Bree. Marriage just…isn’t always easy.”

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated.”

“I’m almost fourteen, Mom. Cade might not understand, but I would.”

I’m dying to tell her I heard that, but I’m not sure they realize I’m still awake, so I figure it’s better to kept quiet, or Mom might clam up.

“I don’t want you to worry, sweetheart. We’ll be fine.”