These Gentle Wounds by Helene Dunbar Page B

telling you that whatever it is that scares you the most—giant spiders, or zombies, or guys with saws for hands—will be in your house, right under your room, and there isn’t anything you can do about it.
    I don’t realize I’m shivering until Kevin throws a blanket at me.
    â€œI’m sorry, Ice. I really am.”
    We spend a lot of time apologizing to each other. I’m pretty sure that’s not normal brother behavior.
    I should tell him it’s okay. That I know it isn’t his fault. That I appreciate everything he’s ever done for me. I should tell him that I know I’m really lucky he’s my brother, that I don’t know what I’d do without him.
    I should tell him all of those things. But I can’t.
    All I can do is to sit here and think about next year, and about being normal, and try to pretend none of this is happening.

Eight
    I learned a long time ago that you can hear whatever’s going on in the living room through a vent in the upstairs hall. The voices coming through the floor are so loud I wouldn’t even have to lie flat on the metal to hear them, but I do anyhow.
    Their words circle like birds. Kevin’s is an eagle—strong, clear, and determined. Jim’s is more of a seagull, grasping at scraps and not knowing what he’s getting until it’s in his mouth. My father is the vulture, dark and rumbling with an agenda all his own that serves no one but himself, looking to destroy anything and everything in his path.
    I have to focus really, really hard to keep the voices straight in my head, to keep them from carrying me away with their sharp claws. I hook my fingers onto the metal of the vent and hold on tight. The harder I squeeze, the better my chances are of staying focused.
    â€œIt doesn’t matter what you think. The law says I’m entitled to see him,” I hear in raspy vulture tones. There’s no point in trying to keep my other hand from seizing up at my side. Instead I focus on breathing and trying to keep my brain from seizing up too.
    â€œI swear to God, if you lay one hand on him—” This is from Kevin, who’s cut off by Jim, although I can’t hear Jim’s words.
    I must miss something else, because my father’s answer isn’t to Kevin.
    â€œJim, this has nothing to do with you. You’ve stepped in and given him a home and I’m grateful. But he isn’t a child anymore.”
    Kevin laughs, but it isn’t his funny laugh. It’s sad and kind of mocking. It’s the kind of laugh that’s gotten him into trouble at school. He says the words “trust fund” and then there’s a sharp “shush” from Jim.
    We don’t talk about the money that people sent in after they read about what happened. I don’t really understand why they’d do that, anyhow, and Jim has barely mentioned it except to say that I’ll be able to go to college if I want to.
    â€œLook, that boy’s been through the ringer. You and Ava—”
    Jim has done the unthinkable. He’s mentioned my mom, and even though I’ve heard nothing from my father since the funeral, I know that isn’t going to go over well.
    â€œAre none of your business.” The vulture voice shuts things down and all is silent.
    I hold my breath expecting to hear a slap, expecting him to beat the hell out of Kevin like he used to.
    I press the side of my face into the vent until it hurts. I can feel each horizontal strip of metal pushing into my cheek like lines on a grill. But all I hear is nothing; if nothing has a sound.
    â€œLook, you haven’t even seen him in five years. What the fuck would you want with him now?” Kevin shouts. I hear stomping and Jim saying something. Then laughter swirls through the grate and around and around in my head. This laughter isn’t funny, either. It has razor-sharp edges, and teeth that bite and claw at me. I press my face