The Family You Choose Read Online Free Page B

Richard’s uncle, Tom.
Richard and Michael were always a little quieter around him, and
she saw Michael make a mean face one time after Tom left the room.
It was one of the few times she didn't think Michael was being
bad.
    But Tom couldn't have been all bad, Miranda
thought, because Josie was so nice. She wouldn't be married to
anyone bad. And Jessie was so sweet—how could she have a bad
father? And yet...Josie was quiet around Tom, too, and she always
asked Richard or even Michael to take Jessie if Tom walked into the
room.
    Miranda did not like Tom, but Alex did. Alex
was everything to her, and if he liked Tom...well, maybe he knew
something about Tom everyone else didn't. Of course, Alex must have
been smarter than Michael, and Josie was so much younger than the
other adults. That must be it. But...then why did Richard dislike
him so much?
    Miranda made up her own mind about Tom when
she was nine. She had been playing outside with Michael and
Richard. Michael had pushed her so hard that she had fallen and cut
her knee. By that point in their lives, he didn't even pretend that
it was an accident, although he mumbled "Sorry" for Richard's
benefit. Alex wasn't home just yet, of course. Miranda always
seemed to have the most accidents when Alex wasn't home. She had
scowled at Michael and stumbled into the house. She had heard
Richard yell at Michael, but she didn't care. She just wanted to
clean up and get a bandage on her cut.
    She was in the bathroom and had just grabbed
some cotton balls when she felt a shadow pass over her. She looked
up and saw Tom looking at her.
    "What happened?" he said, not moving from the
doorway.
    "I fell," Miranda said simply. She suddenly
had no desire to get Michael in trouble.
    He stood there as she wiped her knee with
alcohol, and didn't move to help her get the bandages. Miranda
tried to move slowly, afraid of having to speak to him when she was
done.
    She took a deep breath and turned off the
water. "Josie isn't here," she said, making herself look at
him.
    Tom almost smiled. "I know. I'm here to see
Alex."
    "I think he'll be home soon." Now she just
wanted to leave, but he was blocking her way.
    "I know." Now he wasn't smiling. Miranda felt
the tiny hairs on her cheek stand up. She wanted to run—she could
probably push past him—but she wasn't going to move first.
    "Tom." Miranda let out a sigh as Tom turned
around to see Richard. He was now almost full grown, but his uncle
was still taller. Richard looked at Miranda. "Are you okay?"
    "Yes," Miranda said, working hard to use her
normal volume. "I just needed a bandage."
    "Okay, good." Miranda could tell that he was
thinking. "I couldn't find you, and then I asked Keith, and we've
both been looking for you for the last five minutes."
    "What a conscientious young man you are." Tom
curled his lip. "But we've got it all taken care of, don't we,
sweetie?"
    Miranda felt a little sick. "Yes, sir. Thank
you."
    "Good," Richard said, and held out his hand
to Miranda. She clasped it quickly and said, "Excuse me," as she
went past Tom. Richard half-dragged her down the stairs in
silence.
    "I’m going to tell Alex," she said quietly
once they were outside again.
    Richard shook his head. "Don’t."
    "Why?" Miranda asked angrily.
    "Because you might make things worse."
    She was shocked. "What things?"
    "Grown up things," he said quietly. Miranda
didn’t understand, but she trusted Richard and didn’t say
anything.
    Soon enough though, it didn’t matter. Tom
Bartolome had passed away too. Oddly, Miranda noticed that Josie
was much more nervous than she had been before Tom’s death. She
still brought Jessie over to play, but now Richard had to be there
as well, and while Josie would still sit for tea with the dolls,
she never played the same way again.
    The next year Josie was gone too. Alex had
told her that Jessie’s mother had passed away, but he never
answered any questions about how or why. Richard had also refused
to answer any questions.