Signs of You Read Online Free Page B

it is I’m having, but it’s worth a try. I grab my cell and turn on the f lashlight app to light my way down the hall. But then I see that Dad’s light is on in his room.
    I quietly make my way to his door and peer in. He’s in bed reading with the covers tucked neatly around him, the bedside lamp casting a soft, sad glow on his aloneness. He sees me and f lashes one of his I-swear-I’m-happy smiles that I can see right through. Then I see Mom’s favorite Sleepytime Tea mug on her bedside table. She always had a cup before bed. I wonder how long it’s been there, if I’ve seen it there before and not noticed.
    â€œMom’s cup,” I blurt out, pointing.
    â€œOh,” Dad says, glancing down at the mug with the picture of an impossibly comfortable-looking bear in a nightcap on it. “Huh. I guess I put it there and forgot? Sometimes I put things of hers on her side. Makes the room feel a little less empty.”
    What’s that noise? Oh, right. That’s my heart. Breaking.
    Seeing the sadness in Dad’s eyes, seeing Mom’s mug on her bedside table as if she set it there to steep and will be back any minute to take a sip, I nearly lose it. I can feel it rising in my throat, this need to shout, I SAW MOM, I SAW HER.
    But I shake it off. I can’t tell Dad about this; I never tell him anything but the good stuff, the I’m-f ine stuff. I always try to f ly just under his radar. And I know that’s sort of sad or lonely or whatever, but when you’re the kid who wrecked everything, the kid who ruined her mom’s life and then caused her death, your personal philosophy goes something like this: Sit down, shut up, and try not to take up too much air. You’ve caused enough trouble already.
    â€œI was on my way to get some milk. Want some?”
    Dad nods and gets out of bed. But when we get to the kitchen, he doesn’t go for the milk. He goes for the skillet.
    â€œEggs?” he asks.
    â€œAt 3 a.m .?” Dad looks disappointed that I’m about to turn him down. So I backtrack. “I mean, yes. Eggs. Sounds awesome.” I attempt an I-heart-eggs smile that I hope looks real.
    He smiles, too, and his blue eyes shine like freshly lit gas burners. He picks up his spatula and f ires up the stove. I don’t know why I was shocked that he wanted to make 3 a.m. breakfast. My dad communicates through his food. It’s not that he’s terrible at talking to me; he actually does a pretty good job. He bites the bullet every once in a while and asks me about embarrassing things—boys, school dances, my plans, my hopes. But it’s hard for him. What comes easy is the cooking.
    â€œWhy can’t you sleep?” he asks, as he cracks an egg against a bowl.
    I’m crazy. Paranoid. Freaking out about a cross necklace. I must be dying. Brain tumor. Something.
    â€œNothing,” I say.
    My father doesn’t respond but gives me “the look.” He started giving me “the look” after Mom died. It always makes me feel like the stuff we smash between little glass slides in biology and then shove under a microscope. Or like one of the houses he inspects for damage. That’s part of what my dad does for a living: he works for a real estate company and appraises and inspects houses before people buy them. He checks out the roof, the plaster, the foundation, looking for defects only the trained eye can see. The more damaged the house, the less it’s worth.
    Now, he peers at me like that, like he’s studying the insides of my brain, looking for hidden areas of damage or disease. I try to act normal, like everything’s okay, but I wonder if he can see the cracks in my foundation.
    â€œI’m f ine , Dad,” I lie again. “Just tired.”
    He gives up on the inquisition for the moment and goes back to cooking. I can tell he’s whipping up what he calls a Special Plate Breakfast. He f inishes the