Candy Colored Sky, стр. 43

She adjusts her grip around me, holding tighter. She isn’t heavy, and even if she were, I could hold her like this forever if I had to, if that’s what she needs.

I look to her sister again, waiting for a command or advice. An explanation at the very least. But instead, she backs away and lets the door slam closed, leaving the garage wide open for the world to see and steal from.

“Let’s get you inside,” I say at Eleanor’s ear.

My mom has made her way to our door, prompted by my abrupt exit. I carry Eleanor to my house and my mom opens our door wide as I enter. We make eye contact and do our best to communicate without words. This is a gift you’re left with when you lose someone you love; you can say volumes to those who understand just by the shape of your eyes. Mom’s are heavy, sloped down with concern and panic of what to do and how to fix this. Mine are probably the same.

“You want to go to my room?” I ask.

Eleanor is wordless and too distraught to even bother to nod. Her entire body is quaking and the tremors get stronger with every ragged breath she sucks in.

“Can you bring up some water, or tea maybe?” I hold my mom’s gaze for a few seconds as she looks to Eleanor then back to me. I can tell that Mom is trying to piece together the cause of this and drawing tragic conclusions. Her eyes start to water, and I don’t think I can handle her falling apart now.

“Mom?” I snap her to attention and she runs her sleeve over her eyes as she swallows down her worst thoughts.

“Tea, yes. I can do that.” Mom nods toward the stairs and I take her direction, climbing them slowly so I don’t drop Eleanor. I am not Jake, and this is not a position I have ever been in before, except maybe the time I gave Tabitha Worley a piggyback ride in fourth grade because she dared me to. I dropped Tabitha.

I kick my door open and carry Eleanor to my bed, sitting on the edge, unsure of where she wants to be and whether she wants me to stay here or leave her alone. Like the melting of wax, her arms unwind from my neck and her legs fold together as she moves to the space at my side, her entire body leaning into me until I scoot back enough to turn myself into a pillow for her to cry into and be held.

Hot tears roll from her cheeks onto my thighs, soaking through my jeans. Her chest is in a constant struggle for air, her mouth gasping between quivered lips. She is desperate to breathe.

“Shh,” I hum as I untangle wet strands of hair from her reddened cheeks with one hand while rubbing the other in circles on her back. This is what my mom used to do when I was sick to my stomach, and I don’t know . . . it just feels like the right thing to do.

Eleanor turns closer to me, her knees curling up and her balled fists tucked under her chin while she shakes. My mom walks in with the tea and I meet her gaze with my own, picking up in the exact same place we left off downstairs. Mom sets the tea on my night table and crouches down so she’s on Eleanor’s level at my other side. I’ve only seen this helpless look on my mom’s face once before, when she was told to come to the hospital where my dad had been taken. He was gone—gone—before she got there.

“Honey, would you like me to tell your parents you’re here?” My mom’s voice is gentle and measured. This territory is both new and familiar. Things are . . . fragile. For all of us.

Nearly a minute passes and my mom asks again.

“Eleanor?” she says, finally drawing a slight head shake from the broken girl glued to my lap.

“It’s fine. It’s okay. They’re doing the same thing, over there. All of them, it’s . . . it’s fine.” It’s clearly not, despite what Eleanor says. She rubs her clasped hands under her nose, then brings them to her forehead, shutting her eyes and shaking with a new round of sobs.

“I’ll make sure it’s okay that you’re here. You can stay as long as you want,” my mom says, meeting my eyes again as she stands. I give her a tiny nod and continue the pattern of circles on Eleanor’s back after she leaves.

“She wasn’t there, Jonah. They went to get her, but she wasn’t . . . she wasn’t there.” Quaking in my lap, Eleanor peels her eyes open and stares forward to the open door and dark hallway where my mom disappeared. Her words are a partial puzzle. This must have to do with the news my mom mentioned.

“I’m so sorry, Elle.”

My hand changes patterns, circling counter-clockwise now, as if that’s what will make all of this better for her.

“Elle,” she whispers, her eyes still fixed on the nothing in the darkness.

I breathe in slowly through my nose, and I’m sure she can feel my chest and diaphragm expand. I called her Elle. I’ve done it twice now. It seems right, as though we’re close enough for such things. I’m not quite sure why it’s the way her name came out, honestly. It just is.

“Yeah. I’m here, Elle,” I say, my voice nervous and tender.

Her tears slow, but the stroke of my hand continues. Eventually, her eyelids grow so heavy they can no longer fight the will to look out into the blank space in front of her. She’s asleep enough for me to move without waking her, letting me support her head and guide her closer to the center of my bed. I pull my old quilt from my closet and