Heavenly Read Free

Brad Pitt falling from the sky.
    "I wish, just for once, that you could tell me what happened at the park."
    "Park! Park! Park!" I'd said the blasted word. Now she was chirping like a parakeet. Crap. I looked at her through the rear view mirror. She was flapping again.

    The oddity of the situation at the park didn't leave me, even when I saw the safety of home. Our grey-brick house with
    black shutters and white trim used to be my refuge from any and all things I couldn't deal with. But lately, peace was harder and harder for me to find—even at home.
    We lived on a street slivered out of the mountain bench, in a neighborhood sprinkled with pines and aspens at the
    fringe of forest behind us. Luke, my brother, was out front, his blonde head of hair buried beneath the hood of his latest car, an ancient blue Suzuki Samurai.
    I pulled into the driveway, parked, and got Abria out. As was her custom when we arrived home, she ran to the door,
    pushed it open and vanished.
    Though I tried to forget the brush with the stranger, I couldn't, and not telling my parents about the incident left me
    feeling like I was keeping a secret. But then I was, and Abria and I were the only ones in on it.
    "How's the car, bud?" To get my mind off the incident, I strolled over to Luke. He was greasy from fingers to elbows.
    A black smudge slashed across his cheek where he'd probably scratched himself.

    "I can't figure out where this cable goes." My brother's voice was so low it scraped the street, a characteristic that made him sound years older when in fact his round, baby face and big blue eyes made him look like a little boy even though
    he was just two years younger than me.
    "Better wrap it up soon, looks like it's gonna rain," I told him. The clouds over head were so angry; I shivered at the ominous layers and devouring formations.
    "Can I borrow your car if I can't get this thing fixed?" he asked without looking away from the puzzle of wires and cables. "I have some plans."
    I started for the house. "Only if I don't hang with Britt."
    Silent, Luke continued to work. His patience amazed me. I could never obsess over details like he did without
    yanking my hair out.
    I went inside.
    The house smelled of baking bread. Rather than be thrilled by the aromatic scent, at the Rachael Rayness of it all, my
    stomach turned. Mom only punched her fists in the dough when she was under stress, which meant I needed to find a way to
    get out of the house as soon as possible. I turned around and made a beeline for the door. "Zoe!" I stopped, sighed.
    "I heard the alarm Zoe, don't ignore me." Out of necessity we'd had an alarm system installed to monitor Abria's
    comings and goings so that every time she tried to open a door or window, we'd be alerted. Never mind that the rest of us felt trapped.
    "I could have been Luke," I told her, sulking into the kitchen. Abria was at the kitchen table with a giant bag of potato chips.
    "He's been out front for an hour." Mom wiped an already spotless counter. Stress drew a line between her brows and
    deepened the creases at the sides other pinched mouth.
    I didn't want to ask her how her day had been. The lame day was written in the surrender in her eyes, the tense way
    her body moved in a jagged effort to appear normal. Our family hadn't been 'normal' since Abria was diagnosed.
    Abria's light mutterings drew my frustrated gaze to where she sat— eating—in her usual oblivion. She caught me
    watching and began to climb on her chair.
    "Get down!"
    "Don't yell at her," Mom snipped.
    Abria climbed on anything and she climbed over and over again. It didn't matter how we told her not to: patiently
    lifting her from harms way or yanking her down. Screaming or whispering. Begging or demanding. She went back to
    climbing as if driven by an unseen force.
    "Oh, so you can but I can't?"
    Mom stopped wiping the counter and closed her eyes as if praying for patience. "We've all done our share of yelling,
    but that doesn't mean we