The Breaking Point (5 page)

He knew this pain well. Bruised ribs. Maybe even cracked. Well, what did he expect? He’d taken the brunt of the assault in his midsection this time. But better that than his face. Bruised ribs hurt like crazy, but at least they’d heal. And so long as he was careful how he moved, no one would know. No one would stare.

Gabe straightened, locking his mind against the pain, and started to grab a handkerchief to wipe at his eyes and nose, then winced at the pain. He moved more slowly, picking the
handkerchief up. Despite the cold of the room, sweat drenched his forehead. This time Gabe let the frown come.

Weak. That’s what he was. Weak and fearful, no better than a little kid. Hadn’t he heard it for as long as he could remember? “Be a man. Show no fear.” Yet here he stood, sweating out his near-panic like some sniveling little baby.

He crushed the handkerchief in his hand and let it fall to the floor, then grabbed his jacket and slipped it on, ignoring the protests his body made against the actions. Moving as quickly and quietly as he could, he eased out of his room, down the hallway. At the open door to his parents’ bedroom, he paused, held his breath …

Snoring. They were asleep.

He went to the stairs and made his way down. He knew every creak and groan on the stairway, every spot to avoid. He wanted to hurry but he knew better. The pain in his midsection was duller now—a constant but tolerable reminder:
Don’t be stupid. Take your time. Don’t wake anyone.

Stupid. He reached the front door, edged it open, and stepped outside. That’s what he’d been, all right. Stupid. What made him think he could stop what was happening? What always happened. Especially on nights like tonight.

Christmas Eve. He hated Christmas Eve. And Christmas. And any day like them. What was the point? All that garbage about peace on earth and joy to the world.

Christmas had nothing to do with peace or joy. Not by a long shot.

Gabe clamped his sore lips against the string of oaths begging to be let loose into the frigid night air. He didn’t dare give in. He was too close to the upstairs windows, and for all that his dad’s booze-enhanced sleep was deep, there was always the chance he would wake. And then he’d come looking for whatever had disturbed his rest …

Heaven knew the man needed his rest. You couldn’t teach everyone else in the world how
they
should act and think and
live if you weren’t rested. Of course, when no one wanted to listen to you, when they treated you like you were some kind of rigid jerk, that left only one place—home sweet home—to prove you were best. Strongest. Not to be ignored.

The desperate need to get away, to be as far as he could be from this house assaulted Gabe. He started down the street, his feet seeming to know where he was going before he did. But that was okay. His feet had the right idea. He knew where he wanted to be … what he wanted to see.

It would help, even if it was only for a moment.

But was it too late? He glanced at the sky to see how high the moon had risen—and only then did he realize it was snowing. Big, fluffy flakes that floated down, dancing on the wind like frozen puffs from a dandelion. Gabe tipped back his head, watching the gentle descent, and let his eyes close, just for a moment, as he felt the tiny flakes land and melt on his face.

What he wouldn’t give to be one of them …to just drift out of the sky, not caring where he landed. After all, snowflakes were only around for a heartbeat. One frozen moment of existence, one easy freefall, and then it was all over. They were done. Gone. Nonexistent.

The thought made him smile, but he regretted the action almost immediately. He reached up to rub his mouth, his jaw. So he hadn’t taken it all in the gut. Just most of it.

He liked the way the heavy blanket of snow on the sidewalk scrunched under his shoes. So what if the wet was seeping in through the holes and soaking his socks? The cold felt kind of good … like an ice pack. Wasn’t that what you were supposed to put on bruises? Ice packs?

His lip curled. Well, then, he was doing exactly what he needed to. So what if it was from the feet up?

He looked up again. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a warm glow on the empty streets. Good. It wasn’t too late.

Gabe liked being out here like this, after dark, when everyone else was hiding away in their houses. He liked being alone. He especially liked not having to watch anyone, to study every nuance of expression or movement for a warning.

Like he should have been watching earlier tonight. He still couldn’t believe he’d let himself get distracted. He was thirteen years old. Old enough to know better. Hadn’t he told himself tonight was a night to be extra careful? He’d even gone out to shovel the driveway, just to make sure there wasn’t anything left undone, anything to get Dad upset.

He had worked hard and fast, determined to finish before his father’s car pulled in. He hardly dared believe it when he did so, and he stood for a moment staring at the cleared concrete. Amazing. One moment it was buried, unseen beneath the mounds of white. The next it lay there, clean, free of obstacles … exposed.

Gabe chewed his cold lip, then turned from the oddly disturbing sight of that cleared driveway and stomped his way inside. He knocked the snow from his boots as he came into the kitchen, looked up to find his mother and tell her the job was done—and stopped cold.

If the empty driveway had been unsettling, what he saw now was positively surreal. Like some crazy Christmas card or commercial come to life in the most unlikely place in the world: his home.

Mom was standing there at the kitchen table, white apron tied in place, smiling and stirring, looking for all the world like those sweet-faced moms on TV. She was making cookies.

Gabe blinked once, twice. But the image remained.

A sweet fragrance hung in the kitchen, filling the room as completely as it filled his senses. Chocolate-chip cookies. His mouth watered just thinking about them.

His sister, Susan, was helping Mom. Her main duty apparently was keeping Mikey from grabbing fingers full of the dough from the large glass bowl. Mikey was a cookie
dough fiend. He’d rather eat the stuff raw than cooked, and Gabe didn’t think it was because he was only eight. He figured Mike would be snitching dough when he was forty. Or eighty, for that matter.

Susan was too fast for the little guy, though. She nabbed both his hands midsnitch, and as Gabe shed his coat she dragged the kid, kicking and screaming, into the living room. Gabe closed out the sound of Mike’s frustration. It wasn’t hard to do. He’d learned a long time ago how to block out unpleasant sounds.

It didn’t take Susan long to come back, taking up her post at the kitchen table, measuring out this ingredient or that as Mom directed. Gabe grabbed a glass from the drainer, rubbed it clean on his shirt, and filled it with water, then went to perch on a chair and watch the proceedings.

Susan was always helping in the kitchen. She might be only two years older than Gabe, but she loved to play second mom, cooking and taking care of the little ones. The kitchen was where she smiled. Where you hardly even noticed the dark circles under her eyes … or the blank, empty look that came to cloak her face more and more often lately.

With the odd sense that he’d stepped into some alternate universe, Gabe watched his sister and mother as they worked. He perched on a chair, resting his chin in his hands. He liked the way they were together, the way they seemed to communicate without even talking. He liked that they accepted his presence without seeming to take notice of it. Just one smile sent his direction and then back to the task at hand.

He lost himself in the moment, watching his mother’s hands as she added ingredients, stirred the mixture with a large wooden spoon. He inched closer to the bowl, bit by bit, careful not to let them see his movements.

Mikey wasn’t the only one who liked the dough.

“Forget it, Gabriel.”

He looked up to meet Susan’s firm stare. If it had been his
mother using his full name like that, he’d know he was in trouble. But Susan always called him
Gabriel
. Sometimes he wondered if that’s how she reminded herself who he was, as though using a nickname would somehow make him someone different.

“No snitching dough, Gabriel. I wouldn’t let Michael do it. I can’t let you.” Her one arched brow told him she wasn’t kidding. Normally he would have just given in. But tonight … things were different. They were different. He was different. And he wanted to play.

And tonight, though he wasn’t sure exactly why, he knew that would be okay.

He gave her his best puppy-dog face, wide eyes and all. “Aw, come on. I’ve been working hard.”

She didn’t reply. Just lifted a wooden spoon and held it in her fisted hand, just above the bowl, the message clear:
Go ahead and try … if you dare.

Gabe didn’t. Play was one thing, but he knew from experience how fast Susan could be with a wooden spoon—and how long it took for bare knuckles to stop smarting.

He’d wait for the cookies to come out of the oven.

With a sigh, Gabe slid from his chair and made his way to the living room. Bill was sprawled in one of the chairs in front of the TV. Gabe couldn’t help it. He stared. What was his older brother doing here? Gabe went to take a look out the front window, then he frowned. Bill’s old clunker of a car was there by the curb. So he hadn’t wrecked it or anything. The question returned: Why was he home?

Since Bill got his license a year ago, he was hardly ever home. He usually disappeared with his buddies as soon as school was out. Which was exactly what he’d done the first day of Christmas vacation, and Gabe hadn’t seen him since then. Until tonight.

He almost said something, almost asked Bill if all his friends were busy or gone or if he’d just felt like slumming at
home, but he kept his mouth shut. He liked it that Bill was home. Whatever the reason.

Mikey was sitting on the floor next to the baby. Not that Lisa was really a baby. She was seven, but she was the youngest, and everyone called her that:
the baby.
Like she didn’t have a real name or something. Which was okay. She didn’t seem to mind. It was as though she knew, even at that tender age, what a blessing it was to be a nonentity.

Gabe glanced at the TV and saw they were all watching some goofy Christmas special. He moved to the couch, settled into the worn cushions, and focused on the TV screen, letting the story take hold, pull him in. Without even thinking, he eased out of reality and into the fantasy. He took his place on the screen, saying the well-timed dialogue, playing the part to perfection.

Amazing how easy it was, stepping out of himself and becoming someone else. He remembered the first time he’d done it. He’d been standing in front of his fifth-grade class for show-and-tell. He hated show-and-tell. Hated how everyone stared at him. He could see they didn’t like him. Thought he was stupid. Well, that day he’d had enough.

He stood there and looked at the faces until he came to Robbie Niedermeyer, the most popular kid in class. Suddenly Gabe knew what he would do. As though it were the most natural thing in the world, he made the change—let Robbie’s customary self-satisfied smirk ease over his own stiff lips, let the boy’s swagger settle over his own body like the soft quilt that hid him at night …

He straightened, faced his enemies, and became Robbie Niedermeyer. He’d been funny. Teasing. Just smug enough to stir respect in the other kids, yet unpretentious enough to bring approval to the teacher’s features. When he finished, turning to her with a flourish, she actually stood and came to place an approving hand on his shoulder. Her glowing words still sounded in his ears: “That was wonderful, Gabe!”

He’d thought so, too, and as he made his way back to his desk, he knew he made a discovery Being Gabe Roman was nothing. Worse than nothing. So he wouldn’t be Gabe Roman any more than he had to. Instead, he’d become whoever he wanted. And it worked. Most of the time.

Except with Susan. She could always tell when he stepped into a part. “Quit acting, Gabriel,” she’d always say. “I want to know how you really feel.”

He hated it when she did that, blew his cover that way. Thank goodness she only did it at home.

He shifted on the couch, no longer interested in the TV show. It was too unbelievable, even for playacting. He let his attention wander back to the kitchen. He could just see Susan and their mom—hands buried safely in large oven mitts—as they slid trays of golden-brown cookies from the oven. They were talking quietly, and Mom was laughing. The aroma of freshly baked cookies seemed to swirl in the air around them, then travel out to tickle Gabe’s nose.

He closed his eyes against the confusion clawing at him. Who were these people? It was almost like they had taken his lead and were playing a part, something straight out of TV—like they were one of those make-believe families Gabe and his siblings usually laughed at. “No one is really like that,” they’d say with a snort.

But here they were.
His
family. Making cookies and watching Christmas specials on TV

It was all too much. Gabe sank to the floor, huddling next to his younger brother and sister. Maybe
this
was who they were. Maybe that other family was the illusion … just some kind of dark dream that had finally gone away.

That’s what he told himself anyway as he gave in to the TV special, letting the images capture and woo him, bring a whisper of joy to his face and heart.

That’s what distracted him. What kept him from realizing what was happening until it was too late. Exactly when his
father came home he didn’t know. But there was no doubt he was there. Because the talking and laughing in the kitchen stopped.

It was the silence that warned Gabe. It pricked at his ears until awareness jolted through him and he jerked away from the TV, surging to his feet. But not in time. Even as he moved to the kitchen the silence exploded.

Obscenities. Screaming. A hand hitting flesh; fists pounding, crushing.

Things were back to normal.

He didn’t enter the kitchen. He knew better. He came to the doorway and looked in. Susan was in the corner of the room, hunkered down. That blank look was back, and the emptiness in her frozen expression made Gabe shudder. She held her arms crossed in front of her like some kind of shield as she watched their father making a point with their mother.