I pause, not wanting to bring this up, to drag the day down into my past problems, but Finley is watching me with those fathomless eyes, curious and sympathetic and nodding for me to continue.
I move my gaze to the flames flickering in front of us. “A couple of times, she stopped taking her meds because she thought she was better. She thought this time, she could stop taking them and it would be okay, but that’s not how it works. One of those times, she took off for over a week. I was twelve. I had no food, no money. I snuck into the landlord’s apartment to steal some peanut butter, and he called CPS when he realized I was alone. That’s the summer I went off to camp.”
“Archer.” Her face is stricken, eyes wide, mouth open.
“It’s fine.” The phrase is rote, and it doesn’t fool Finley.
She stands up and, without preamble, steps over to my chair and sits in my lap, wrapping her arms around me.
And suddenly, I’m not alone. Not anymore.
She presses her face into my neck, her nose cold against my skin, but the rest of her is a warm, sweet weight. I wrap my arms around her and hug her to me.
“It was okay. She got better. She got back on her meds eventually, although that was a nightmare by itself.”
“Why?” The word is a warm puff of air against my neck.
“She lost her Medicaid and started self-medicating. Unfortunately, it’s easier to get high than it is to get help. It took a while to get things sorted, for her to stabilize enough for them to send me home. She had no support system. No friends or family.”
I squeeze her a little tighter, gathering the courage to continue.
“Eventually, we were reunited. I was lucky. I didn’t have a terrible experience in the foster system. It wasn’t ideal, but it could have been worse. And my mom loved me. She tried her best. Obviously, my childhood wasn’t ideal, but there are so many kids who had it so much worse—including Oliver. Even though he never really opened up about his experiences, even to me, I heard enough to get the gist.”
“I don’t care about Oliver. I care about you.”
My chest squeezes. “You do?”
She pulls back to look at me, one hand on my shoulder, the other in her lap. “Of course I do. And Oliver’s experiences, even if they were worse, don’t negate yours. That must have been terrible.” Her gaze on mine is searching, waiting to see if I’ll share more, but I don’t. I reach for the hand in her lap and take it in mine and say nothing.
I don’t want to talk about having to make sure Mom continued to take her meds, the terror that would grip me if she forgot, the continual anxiety of her slipping again, of ending up back in the foster system with families like the one Oliver got stuck with. Not to mention the fact that I had to start working at fourteen to make sure we could keep a roof over our heads and food in the fridge.
“You’re a survivor.” Her fingers squeeze mine.
“So are you.”
She huffs. “I don’t feel like a survivor. I feel like a flounderer.”
I grin. “I don’t think that’s a word.”
“It should be.”
I tighten my grip on her hand. “You are a survivor. Jacob said you basically raised all of them.”
She leans her head against my shoulder. “I guess that’s true. But I had Dad and Mindy too. They worked just as hard.”
“What about your mom? You said she left when you were eight?”
She shifts a little in my lap. “Only a year after the twins were born.”
“What?” The knowledge knocks me back. “She left all of you, all six kids, with your dad?”
“Yep. Haven’t heard from or seen her since. Dad didn’t tell me until I was older, but she struggled with depression pretty bad, and having all us kids right in a row probably didn’t help. She felt trapped by us, I think, even though she wanted kids so badly. She always wanted a big family, but then once she had it . . .” She shrugs.
“And you were so young when she left. Did you ever try to find out what happened to her?”
Her jaw flexes. “No. Dad did, I think, but he never told me anything. There might have been other things going on, but since we haven’t seen her, and since Dad died, I don’t know much.”
“I’m sorry.” I rub her back, wanting any excuse to touch her, even if it’s a friendly pat. Although considering she is sitting in my lap, I’m not sure how platonic this is.