Wednesday morning, I woke early and stumbled downstairs for a cup of coffee with my parents. I’d slept fitfully and really wanted to see my dad before he headed out to check on Sebastian.
Around 7:30 AM, George called to speak to my father, and I knew before Dad got off the phone what he would tell us. Foster had died in his sleep last night.
“I’ll be in my room,” I whispered, and then I slipped upstairs, closed the door, crawled under my bed like a little girl, and sobbed into the pillow I’d dragged under there with me.
I wept because I was sure in my heart that if I had told my parents about Foster, if I’d insisted he go to the ER or come home with me instead of letting Sebastian talk us into leaving the poor man in a ditch so he could catch pneumonia and die, Foster would probably still be alive. I cried because Pete would never see his beloved human again, and I didn’t know if the joyful mutt would ever get his mojo back.
I cried because I should have spoken up way back in March when I just knew something was terribly wrong in Sebastian’s life. If I had at least mentioned it to Mr. Hyde, maybe he or even Heather Finch, who seemed to have cared about Sebastian deeply, could have stepped in and helped out. Instead, I kept quiet and pouted in my corner. I cried because surely Heather Finch must have known something, too. Why didn’t she step in? I cried angry tears at my dad because he’d let Sebastian leave our home Sunday night to go back to that apartment of horrors where he lived with the devil incarnate. Dad had seen Sebastian’s eye—he should have stopped him. Made him stay with us. Forced him.
I mourned over the little boy who’d run to his mother to give her love… and instead, had caused the worst kind of pain imaginable to everyone. How had he lived with that knowledge his whole life? Had Nathan Jeffries held his wife’s death against Sebastian all these years? I raged at the man who had turned on his own son in the end. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t bring himself to kill Sebastian. What he’d done to him instead might have been even worse.
I cried because I’d discovered through Foster and Sebastian a world I didn’t even know existed beyond the brilliant one in which I lived. A place of fear and pain, of loneliness and suffering. Where people wanted nothing more than to be invisible. A place of darkness.
And I cried because I’d been counting stars my whole life, never quite understanding that without the night’s darkness, we couldn’t fully appreciate the glory of the starlight.
I considered long and hard what Dad had said about being responsible for our own actions and reactions. Had I done everything I could to help Foster? Had I given up too early when I should have been pushing him to go to the hospital? Had Dad done all he could to help Sebastian? Had he settled too quickly by letting him go home to a volatile situation because he’d promised to attend a self-help class? Could we have done more? Done differently?
But Foster had refused medical treatment. He’d refused police interaction. He’d chosen to stay invisible. So where was the line that transferred the responsibility from my shoulders to his? And Sebastian had refused to sleep in Eric’s room Sunday night. He had insisted on going home, on keeping his secrets. He, too, had chosen to stay invisible. So where was the line that transformed the responsibility from Dad’s shoulders to Sebastian’s?
I hated being a grown up. I hated it.
Mom texted me from downstairs, asking if I wanted company.
JollyRockerTBird: I really need some water and a box of tissues.
AllTimeStella: Be right there.
She knocked, but didn’t wait for an answer. I had my back to the bedroom door, but I knew she’d figure out where I was. Her footsteps didn’t even pause as she came around the end of the bed to the other side where she lowered herself to the floor. She didn’t try to join me or even peek under the bed. She just sat there and slid the flowery Kleenex box under the bed to me. “I brought you a straw if you want your water under there, too.”
I could hear Jordan’s remark from a couple of weeks ago. “She already knows. She’s Mom.” It was too tight under the bed to drink normally, but a straw would work just fine. My parents were both heroes.
“Thanks,” I croaked, taking the glass from her.
“Would you like me to stay?” she asked after a few minutes of silence.
“Aren’t you going to work today?” It suddenly occurred to me that she wasn’t usually home in the middle of a Wednesday morning.
“I called in and took off, honey. I wanted to be here for you. The plants will grow fine on their own today.”
I wasn’t going to cry again. It was so good to know that even if I was responsible in any small way over the way the events had played out, my parents loved me and were going to do everything they could to see that I came out the other end of this intact. But the disparity between my world and Sebastian’s once more reared its ugly head.
“I’m okay, Mom. You don’t have to stay. I’ll come down in a little bit, okay?” She reached under the bed without looking and patted her hand around until I reached out and took it.
“I love you, Titia. You text me if you need anything else, okay? I’ll be right downstairs.”
I didn’t leave my room until around noon when I knew Dad had promised to come home from the hospital for lunch.
“How is he, Daddy?” I asked before he even sat down.
He took a long drink of iced tea and dropped into his seat. “They’re keeping him at least another day. Last night, he started throwing up again, and they’re not sure if it’s a result of the concussion or if he’s reacting to the pain meds or what. They want to make sure he’s stable first.” He eyed Mom across the table. “He’s insisting on going home alone. Says he doesn’t need any help. His dad’s in jail so in that regard, he’s safe.”
“He can’t go back to that place!” Mom declared.
“Hey, what about his job? Has anyone called Stodders?” Even though Sebastian had a few days off this week to compensate for working the weekend, I was sure they were missing him by now.
“I called,” Dad nodded. “They were very appreciative, very supportive. Talked about how great a guy he is and had no problem with him taking the time he needs.”
“Honey, he can’t go back to that place,” Mom repeated, not allowing us to get sidetracked. “You have to convince him to come home with you. We have plenty of room for him here.” I caught them exchanging glances, that wordless communication thing they did that kinda freaked me out sometimes, and then Dad’s eyes darted to me. Ah. Worried about hormones and such. “Temporarily, at least,” Mom amended. “Until he gets his feet under him again.”
“What about the Clarks?” I asked. The idea had come to me upstairs under my bed. I knew it was a long shot, but if anyone would benefit from having Sebastian in their home, it would be Ron Clark and his wife, Beatrice. Maybe having someone else to take care of, someone who needed their help, would give them a little joy in the middle of their discouragement over their missing daughter. Mrs. Clark was such a sweet woman, so tender, so loving, and although Pastor Clark sometimes got a little spirited behind the pulpit, he was a good man. Something Sebastian had sorely lacked in his life.
Dad leaned forward and eyed me curiously. “You know, Titia Danielle, I think you might have hit on a great suggestion. What do you think, Stella?”
“I love the idea,” Mom replied. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself. It’s perfect, really.”
And in a matter of minutes, the two of them had scarfed down their meals, made a phone call, and were headed down the block to talk to the Clarks. I sat in a bit of a daze, hoping against hope that Sebastian would agree to it. I don’t know why I was so certain, but I knew the Clarks would say yes.