Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 83186 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83186 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“Teagan…” He paused. “I killed my sister.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
* * *
CALEB
I’d never uttered those words aloud. I hadn’t planned on ever admitting it to anyone here, least of all Teagan. But after what happened today, I felt I owed her an explanation. A part of me wanted to tell her, not only to explain things, but because her own honesty had inspired me to want to open up to her, too. It just didn’t happen as organically as I’d hoped. What took place in the theater had robbed me of that opportunity, leaving me no choice but to force it out.
“Okay,” she said after a moment. “Still not judging you, by the way. Just so you know.”
I loved her for saying that, because it gave me the courage to continue speaking.
“It’s hard for me to talk about, because talking forces me to have to think about it. And when I think about it, I shut down.”
“It’s okay if that happens,” she said. “There’s no rush.”
I took a deep breath and exhaled until there was no more air left in me. “My little sister’s name was Emma. She and I, we were thick as thieves as toddlers. We were only one year apart. Even though I barely remember her, I have little glimpses—enough to know she was really there and I really loved her.”
Despite the tightness building in my chest, I continued. “My parents left us with a sitter one afternoon. We were four and three years old at the time. The two of us were typically easy kids to watch. We had each other, so we just played together.”
Teagan clung to every word, a look of fearful anticipation on her face. She nodded silently.
“We had this toy chest, a large wooden box my mother had inherited from her grandmother.” I closed my eyes briefly. “I thought it would be funny if I emptied out all of the toys and my sister got in while I closed the lid. Then she could jump out like a jack in the box. And we’d laugh about it. We had so many toys inside that the chest always remained open.”
Teagan blinked faster as she seemed to understand where this might be going.
“I assumed I’d just be able to open it and let her out after a few seconds.” I swallowed. “But once she got in, the heavy chest locked, and I couldn’t get it open.”
Teagan gripped my arm as I closed my eyes. There was no turning back now. I had to tell the rest.
My voice cracked. “My sister was kicking and screaming, and there was nothing I could do because it was just…locked.”
Teagan squeezed my arm.
“I panicked—ran to find the babysitter. Because we were supposed to have been napping, the sitter had gone outside for a ciggy. I screamed and screamed until she finally heard me and came back in.” I paused. “We ran back upstairs, and she couldn’t get the chest open, either. By that time, my sister had stopped...” My words trailed off.
She squeezed my arm again. “You don’t have to say it.”
Feeling exhausted, I nodded, accepting her permission not to continue.
We sat in silence for a bit until I said, “There’s no way of predicting when something will trigger the memory. That scene in the movie obviously did it. But I’ve seen similar things before and haven’t had a problem. For some reason, I couldn’t control my reaction today.”
“I completely get it now.”
“I try so hard to block it out and not think about it. Even after years of therapy, it’s not something I can get over.”
Teagan looked into my eyes. “I know on some level you know this…but it wasn’t your fault.”
I’d heard that before, but I could never accept it.
“I closed the lid. I told her to get in. Even though I didn’t intend for her to die, I caused it. It was my idea, and so it was indeed my fault, Teagan. It wasn’t my intention, but it will always be my fault.”
She seemed at a loss. How could anyone argue? I couldn’t blame them for trying, but the fact that I’d caused my sister’s death was not up for debate.
“For the longest time as a child, I wasn’t able to look at photos of Emma,” I told her. “Part of my therapy was to learn to tolerate it. I would sit there and cry and suffer through every agonizing second of having to look at her beautiful smile, realizing I had caused the end of her. I was never able to handle it outside the therapist’s office. Eventually, my mother gave in and took most of the pictures down. I only hope wherever Emma is now, she can forgive me.”
“Did you stop therapy?”
“I went from the time I was five until around twelve. It got to be too expensive. But I’m starting to think going back might do me some good.”