Page 1 of The Embers That Remain

Prologue

Lane

Age Six

“No, Dad!”

I scooted down from the dining room chair too fast, and the legs scraped the floor, making that sharp noise that made Dad’s jaw clench. My socks slid on the shiny wood, and I almost fell, but I didn’t stop. Dad’s hand was already squeezed around Snuggles’s arm, pulling it long and thin like it might tear off.

Snuggles didn’t like that.

Snuggles liked warm hugs and quiet. He liked being tucked under my chin when I slept and being squished against my chest when I was scared. Dad yelling made him scared. I knew that because when Dad yelled, my stomach hurt and my hands got all shaky, and Snuggles always felt those things too. He always felt everything I did.

“Dad, please,” I said, running toward him. “He doesn’t like it!”

I wanted to tell Dad that Snuggles would be good. That he wouldn’t come to the table anymore. That I’d leave him in my backpack or under my bed. Dad would only be mad for a short time, is what Mama always said. Mama said when Dad got loud, we just had to stay out of the way until it passed over. Then he’d buy me ice cream or a new toy. And everything would go back to normal.

We just had to be patient. I hated waiting.

I slipped on the floor before I got to him. My feet flew out from under me, and my elbow slammed against the rug on the wooden floor. It burned, but I didn’t cry because crying made Dad get even more mad and louder.

Mama’s arms wrapped around my shoulders before I could get back up. She smelled like the puffy flowers that grew along the iron fence outside. Pink ones that bent down in the wind but never broke. Mama always smelled pretty. Even when Dad didn’t.

“No son of mine is going to carry around a stuffed animal at six years old!” Dad shouted.

His voice was big. Bigger than the room. Bigger than me.

I turned and pressed my face into Mama’s side and watched Snuggles swing from Dad’s big fist. His button eyes caught the light, and for a second I thought he was looking at me, like he wanted me to fix it, but I didn’t know how.

“I can’t believe you let him carry that trash in his backpack, Diana!” Dad said.

Trash.

Snuggles wasn’t trash. Trash was sticky and smelled bad and got thrown away. Snuggles was soft and warm and knew all my secrets that I’d whispered at night after Mama tucked me in under the quilt she made and kissed my forehead.

“He’s never going to be a man if he’s always acting like a sissy!”

I didn’t know what a sissy was, but I knew it was something Dad didn’t like. Dad didn’t like a lot of things.

Mama’s arms locked around me, her fingers digging into my back like she was holding on so I wouldn’t disappear. Her chest moved fast under my cheek. I could hear her breathing, quick and shaky, like she’d just run a long way.

Dad stood in front of the giant fireplace. The fire was already going, the orange and yellow light flickering shadows on the walls. The fireplace was pretty at Christmas, and I liked it when Dad let me help carry the wood in for it. I didn’t like it now. With a quick flick of his wrist, the most important thing in the world to me went up in flames.

Snuggles was there—and then he wasn’t.

The fire jumped up and made a loud crackling sound. Something smelled wrong and different. My chest felt tight and my throat hurt because I wanted to scream but couldn’t find the sound. So I did what I knew to do when Dad showed his disappointment in me. I stayed quiet.

Mama made a small sound, like air leaking out of a birthday balloon. Her chest shook once. Her pretty painted pink nails pressed into my arm so hard it hurt, but I didn’t tell her to stop. I didn’t want her to let go.

She cried silently, the way Mama always did. Dad didn’t like loud crying. After a few minutes, Dad’s shoulders dropped. The room grew quieter, as if the walls were holding their breath. Dad reached for Mama’s hand and squeezed it. Mama winced, and then she smiled. It was her too-perfect smile. The one that said everything was okay even when it wasn’t. Dad liked that smile.

Later that day, Dad bought me a baseball glove.

It smelled of leather and new things. He told me I’d be a man like him someday. Dad didn’t say he was sorry because he didn’t think he had to. Grown-ups didn’t say sorry to kids. That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. My arms felt empty and too light.

Snuggles wasn’t there.

I wondered if he was still scared or if he was mad at me for not saving him. I wondered if Mama was right—if Dad’s love was just “different.” I wondered if Dad would tire of me and toss me into the fire too.