Chapter 4

Powerful Medicine

When Mom comes home later, there is no trace of a man having been here, although I can still smell him. The back room retains the faint odors of pepper and cheese, which might reflect what he ate for a recent meal. But Mom doesn’t notice it, because she doesn’t have my exquisitely sensitive nose.

Mom fries flounder for dinner, and I get leftovers in my bowl. The white slivers of fish are buttery and flaky, melting on my tongue.

Gretel has some fish too. She will eat just about anything—and I mean anything. She once ate paper money off a side table. Mom was angry, but perhaps more than that, she was shocked. Because what creature on earth eats paper money?

Gretel’s hunger gets the best of her.

After dinner, Dad calls Mom on the phone, I suppose to tell her how the children are doing. Mom listens patiently, but I can tell she is exhausted. She closes her eyes and holds a hand to the side of her head. And, later that night, we sleep soundly in the quiet cottage.

* * *

When the kids get home on Sunday night, I’m excited to see them. I’m waiting on the front step, and I hear Gretel give a woof! from inside the house at the sound of the car engine. Dad gets out of the car to hug Victoria and Kevin good-bye, and the two oldest children jog past me to get inside. Charlie starts to follow them.

“Charlie. Wait.” Dad puts his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

Charlie stops in his tracks.

“No more leaving school, okay? We need to know where you are at all times.”

“Why?” Charlie’s voice quavers. “Why are you so paranoid? What do you think I’m going to do?”

Dad shrugs, and kicks at a stone on the driveway. “Nothing bad. But we still need to know where you are. It’s not you I’m worried about so much as other people. You’re only fourteen.” Dad looks over his shoulder, out at the river, toward the dock where the boys launch their sailboats. “I don’t get it. Kevin never gave me a hard time when he was your age.”

Charlie rolls his eyes. “I’m not Kevin. I’ll never be like Kevin.” The sun is setting, and the temperature dropping. Our small patch of lawn is deep green, darkened by the shadows of the pine trees. I want Charlie to come inside so we can get ready for bed.

“I know. I just worry about you, all the time,” Dad goes on. “You know that I—”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have gotten kicked out of the house, then.” Charlie whirls around to face his father. “Maybe if you still lived here, you’d know where I was.”

Dad’s face darkens. “Charlie. Please don’t turn this around on me. We’re talking about you.”

“Not anymore.” Charlie resumes his walk up the driveway and sees me on the stairs. “C’mon, Lil,” he coos to me, and I stand up to follow him. Before we go inside, I look back at Dad. He and I stare at each other a moment.

I’m sorry, I wish I could say to him. I know you want to come home. I can see the longing on your face. I wish you still lived here. Gretel does too.

Last spring, something happened to Dad. Something that made everyone very worried and upset. I know Dad was injured and had to be rushed to the hospital, which is a place where humans go when they need care, like Vincent’s wife. When Dad came home, he was stuck in bed for a week and Grandpa came to help out. Father brought home with him some powerful medicine—pills that he took every day.

But by the time summer arrived and Dad was back to work, Mom said enough was enough and he needed to stop taking those pills. Dad said no. Absolutely not. He was sure he still needed his pills. He told Mom he needed those pills for three reasons:

1. For the pain.

2. To forget.

3. In order to get through every day without fear.

But Mom didn’t buy it. She flushed the pills down the toilet.

Dad was stunned. I will never forget the look on his face as he watched her do this, eyes wide. He started to shudder, standing there, realizing what she had done.

He soon found a new medicine, a special water he poured every day from a large glass bottle. My eyes stung when I sniffed the bottle, and there was something strange about it. One time, Dad spilled it on the floor, and Gretel took a lick of it. But she hacked and coughed it back up, unable to stand the harsh, bitter taste. Clearly, this water had powerful healing powers.

Mom did not like his new medicine either, and insisted he needed to stop drinking it. She would make demands and then stare at Dad, waiting for him to answer. But he only dropped his gaze, unable to look at her.

We could all see he was still in pain. He craved silence sometimes. He would go sit on the deck, even when it was bitter cold outside. Sometimes he forgot his hat and gloves. It was as though he couldn’t sense the cold until it was almost too late, and he would hustle back inside with hands turned purple. I think it contributed to his overall fatigue.

It seemed that Mom always wanted Dad to do or not do something. Finish his chores. Stop going out at night with his friends. See the doctor about his stomachaches. Think about finding a new job, something not so stressful.

Mom suggested all of these things at one point or another. Sometimes he’d hang his head and promise to try. But the most important thing she asked him to do, the one thing she always asked, was: stop drinking.

Yet this is the one thing he would never agree to do.

* * *

When we get in the house, Charlie runs straight up to his bedroom, and I follow him. He lays on the bed and stares at the ceiling for a long time.

“Hi, sweet baby.” He rubs my head.

How was your weekend? I want to ask him. What’s the matter?

Sometimes I cannot reconcile the dad I know with the way Charlie reacts to these weekends away. Charlie does not seem to enjoy himself, and I’m not sure why. Dad is not mean to Charlie.

Perhaps Dad has not always understood Charlie. It is true that sometimes he seems confused by his youngest son.

There’s a knock at the door, and Mom peeks in. “Charlie? Are you okay?”

Charlie sits up and we make room for Mom to sit on the bed. “Yeah.”

She puts a hand on Charlie’s arm. “Everything go okay this weekend?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. I guess so. But Dad’s on top of me all the time. He won’t let me do anything. He doesn’t trust me. He thinks I’m like . . .” Charlie wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “He thinks I’m a bad person.”

“That’s not true.” She gives him a small smile. “He just wants to protect you. You know that’s your dad’s calling in life. He watches over people. He saves people when they need saving. Don’t you remember how we met?”

Charlie looks up at her. We’ve heard this story before, many times. But Charlie still chews on his lip and asks, “Something about your bike, right?”

“Yes. My bike broke on the side of the road—the chain came off. And I had no idea how to fix it. I got grease on my hands and I was so upset I was practically crying. It was your dad’s very first day of work, and he was running late, but he still stopped his car to help me out.” She reaches up to tuck a strand of his hair behind Charlie’s ear. “Your dad is the type who likes to come to the rescue, you know. He’s just overprotective.”

Charlie smiles. He enjoys a good dramatic story. “He was your hero. He said he saw your red hair in a ponytail and had to pull over. He said it was love at first sight.”

Mother laughs. “Well . . . maybe it was. I don’t know.” She pats Charlie’s elbow. “Right now, your dad wants to take care of you. The problem is, he’s having trouble taking care of himself.”

Charlie’s smile fades. He nods.

I suppose that the changes going on in the family are making Charlie sad. And Charlie himself has been changing. Growing. Becoming a young man. That must be difficult to deal with too.

I wish Charlie would be honest with Dad, show him the bruises, and let Dad get involved. I think Dad would be very effective at finding and punishing Charlie’s bully. After all, Dad hunts down bad people at work. So he is probably the right person to help Charlie.

After Mom leaves the room, Charlie grabs his backpack off the floor. He does work on his laptop, plays with his phone, and listens to music. We stay holed up for hours, and no one bothers us. Charlie doesn’t talk to me, but he doesn’t need to. Just the touch of his hand on my back makes me happy.

When Charlie changes into his nightclothes, I scrutinize his body. I look for new injuries.

But I don’t see any at this time. That, at least, is a relief.

We head to the bathroom so Charlie can brush his teeth. He gazes into the mirror, pulling strands of his blond hair this way and that. I jump up to the counter to bump my head against his tummy, and he runs a hand down my silky fur.

“How do we look, sweet girl? Is my hair really okay? Did I make a mistake?”

I blink at him. No. We look amazing.

After Charlie gets into bed and checks his phone one last time, I knock my head into his hand over and over, until he scratches between my ears and fluffs up the fur under my chin. When I look into his sad eyes, I tell him: You’re a good boy. Don’t worry. I’m going to help you.

When I start to lick his salty hand, Charlie whispers, “What am I gonna do, Lil?”

I don’t know, but I’ll help you. I promise. No one has the right to hurt you. And I won’t let anyone send you away. We’ll figure this out.

I’m not sure how much he understands, but he gives me a kiss before turning out the light.