by Brea Brown
“Hey,” I greet them, smiling sheepishly.
Hank says, “I had no idea you had a boyfriend, Libby.”
“I had no idea you had a brother,” Jude states.
“Uh… now you do?” I try, crossing to my dresser and pulling out the first clothes my hands touch. “Jude, this is Hank, who didn’t tell me he was coming up for a visit. Hank, this is Jude.”
“I thought I’d surprise you.”
“Oh, you did that, for sure!” I chuckle nervously, taking my clothes into the bathroom. Before I close the door, I say to them half-kiddingly, “Don’t talk about me while I’m not in the room.”
I dress with my ear practically pressed against the bathroom door. I’m terrified about what Hank might say.
I barely hear Jude ask, “So… are you going to visit your parents whilst you’re here?”
I’d whimper, but I don’t want to miss Hank’s answer, which is a hesitant, “Uh, I might swing by there, but it’s not really my style.”
“You don’t think they’d be happy to see you?” Jude presses.
Hank pauses, then says, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I don’t believe in that shit.”
I barely have my jeans over my hips and my shirt tugged down before I crash back in on their conversation. “Hey! Uh, we should do something together later today, just the two of us,” I say to Hank as I zip my fly and button my pants.
“Jesus, Libby,” he gripes, looking away. “You could have finished getting dressed before coming back out here. It’s a little early in the morning to be seeing my sister’s snatch.”
Jude’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he grabs his keys from the counter. “I’ll get out of your way, then.” Quickly, he finger-combs his hair.
If he’s expecting me to object, he’s overestimated my ability to act coolly under pressure. All I can think about is getting these two away from each other, and his voluntary departure fits well into that plan. When he spins his keys noisily around his index finger, I say meekly, “Call you later?”
He raises his eyebrows on his way past me. “Whatever,” he replies. “Good meeting you, Hank.” With that, he’s gone, the slammed door vibrating the walls.
“Leave it to you to find a weird one,” Hank remarks in Jude’s wake.
“He’s not weird,” I say to defend him.
“He has an interesting notion of the afterlife, that’s for sure.”
I busy myself making coffee as my little brother takes a seat on one of the barstools at the counter. “He doesn’t know they’re dead,” I say matter-of-factly. “Let’s keep it that way for now.”
“You’re such a freak,” he grumbles.
Whirling around, I object, “No, I’m not!” At least not as much as I used to be.
“Then why don’t you just tell him, for Christ’s sake?”
“I will, okay? I just have never found the right time.”
“‘Dude, my parents are dead.’ How hard is that to say to someone? It’s a lot easier than keeping it some big stupid secret.”
I roll my eyes at him and change the subject. “So, what brings you to town?” I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt and not come right out and ask how much money he needs.
The goofy grin he shoots me reminds me of what he looked like when we were kids, and I realize I’ve missed him.
“Just thought I’d take a week off before the fall semester starts, come up here and check on my big sister. I didn’t think you’d be… busy.”
I pull two cups from the cupboard and set them in front of him. Leaning on my elbows on the countertop and wiggling my butt, I smile devilishly. “Yeah. Well, normally I’m not. But I have been lately. Very busy.”
“Took my advice to get laid, huh?”
Instead of being touchy, I stick my tongue out at him. “Maybe. But not because you told me to. You’re not the boss of me.”
He reaches across and pulls my hair. I playfully slap his face.
After we go back and forth like that a few times, I turn and grab the carafe of freshly brewed coffee. As I pour each of us a cup, he says, “You’re a lot different than the last time I saw you. I like your hair like that. Did you hire a life coach or something?”
“A what?”
“Life coach. Someone who works with you on your issues and kind of gives your life a makeover.” He sips his coffee, then dumps about seven tablespoons of sugar in it. “A miracle worker, in other words. At least in your case.” He pokes his tongue out of the corner of his mouth and stifles a smile, waiting for me to object to his diagnosis.
Instead, I simply ask, “There’s such a thing?”
He nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, man. I’m thinking of becoming one.” He stirs what must be something close to coffee syrup.
“I thought you were studying to be a pharmacist.” I cross my arms.
Keeping his eyes on his swirling drink, he replies. “Yeah. Well, I don’t know. I can’t imagine counting pills for the rest of my life. And giving old people advice about how to stay regular.” Then he looks up at me and smirks. “You’re just disappointed you won’t be getting any free dope.”
Suddenly I realize I never combed my hair after my shower. I walk into the bathroom to do so, saying, “If I’m disappointed about anything—which I’m not; it’s your life—I’d say it’s that you’re changing your major—again—right before what would be your senior year. Are you ever going to graduate?”
“What’s it to you?” he says loudly, so I can hear him. “It’s not your money.”
I pause mid-stroke as I drag the comb through my hair. I don’t want to fight with him (he fights dirty, for one thing), but I can’t resist pointing out, “I just want you to have some money left to get settled after you graduate. That’s all.”
“Just because you live like a nun—well, strike that. Anyway, just because you have some kind of oddball thing against spending the money our parents left us doesn’t mean I’m wrong because I don’t have a problem with it.” Sulkily, he adds, “It’s not like I’m out buying fast cars.”
“No, just pissing it away on fast women,” I blurt. I come out of the bathroom with my hand over my mouth. “Sorry,” I muffle, meaning it.
He grits his teeth. “Whatever, Libby. If I didn’t have to beg you for every cent, you’d never know, and it wouldn’t be any of your business what I spent it on. It shouldn’t be, anyway. I’m an adult.”
In two steps, I’m next to him, putting my arms around his shoulders and squeezing. “I’m sorry. Really. It just slipped out.”
Reluctantly, he replies, “Yeah, yeah. I know you only nag the shit out of me because you care.”
“Exactly. Let’s not fight. What do you want to do today?” I let go of him and return to my cup of coffee.
“What about your boyfriend?” he asks. “He seemed pretty pissed off when he left.”
My stomach clenches at the thought of Jude being mad at me, but I say lightly, “All the more reason for me to avoid him for a while.”
17
It was fun for an afternoon to pretend like Hank was really in Chicago to see me. We talked over lunch, and I even allowed him to reminisce a little bit about the days before the accident. But he got sick of hanging out with me at about the same time I wrote him a big, fat check (“for books and shit”).
So after he leaves to go catch up with some of his old high school buddies, I sit alone in my apartment, staring at my cell phone, wondering what I’m going to say when I call Jude.
“Hey, my big-mouthed kid brother’s gone, so it’s safe for you to come around again.”
Probably not.
In the end, I decide to call and pretend like nothing’s wrong. When in doubt, denial works wonders.
He seems completely normal until I say, “So, you wanna do something tonight?”
“Is this what you Americans refer to as a ‘booty call’?” There’s no mistaking the chill in his voice.
“Of course not,” I an
swer, twirling a piece of my hair nervously. “Huh-huh. One track mind.”
“So we’re going to go out somewhere with Hank, then, I take it?” He waits for me to answer, and when I don’t, he adds, “Because I’d like to get to know him better. Or at all. Now that I’ve adjusted to the fact that he exists.”
“Are you finished?”
“Finished what?”
“Passive-aggressively chewing me out.”
“Is that what I’m doing?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re a shrink now? Because one would have a time with you.”
This is the first time he’s ever been seriously mad at me. I don’t like it. He’s… he’s… “You’re mean,” I finally manage after swallowing and trying to steady my racing heart.
“I’m sorry,” he says sarcastically. “Do you have the monopoly on that today?”
“When was I mean to you?”
“How about when you tossed me out on my arse this morning?”
“I didn’t mean to be mean. You said you were going to leave; I didn’t stop you. That’s being mean?”
“No, first you very deliberately excluded me from your plans; then you were obviously relieved when I said I’d leave.”
“You can read minds?”
“It was written all over your face! You didn’t want me in the same room with your brother for another minute. Afraid he might tell me your big secret, whatever the hell that happens to be?”
Quietly, I ask, “Why are you being like this?”
“Because I’m sick to the back teeth of women who refuse to be upfront with me, maybe.”
“I’m not your ex-wife!”
“That’s about the only thing keeping me from jacking it in when it comes to you!”
“What does that mean? Speak English!”
“It means I’m going to put down the phone now, before I say something I regret. I’ll see you Monday at work.”
My phone beeps at me to let me know I’ve been dropped, in more ways than one.
“Asshole,” I mutter to the phone. Well, I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit around my apartment all night, alone. Unfortunately, I don’t have any other friends to hang out with.
Impulsively, I grab a jacket and my keys and head for a place I haven’t dared visit in nearly six years.
The face. That’s what I’m dreading most when I tell him the story. Because I will tell him the story, I promise myself as I sit on the ground in front of my parents’ double headstone. It’s the first time I’ve seen the large piece of granite. I haven’t been here since the day I was released from the hospital and had to watch them lower the caskets into the ground. And I didn’t bother coming back after that, even when they told me the headstone had been installed. As a matter of fact, I almost couldn’t find the gravesite today, because it looks so different now than it did that awful day. Other grave markers have popped up over the years, not to mention that there’s grass here now. And that tree over there is a lot bigger than I remembered.
Anyway, now that I’m here, I wish I’d never come up with this stupid idea. Because now I really have lied to Jude. Before, I could get off on a technicality. “I don’t talk to my parents.” Well, that’s not true now. I’ve been sitting here talking to them like a crazy person for the past two hours.
At first I was unsure what to say. “Hey. How’s it going?” is a ridiculous thing to say to two dead people, no matter how unclearly one is thinking. Then I jumped right in, like we’ve been having an ongoing conversation for six years, and I was just continuing where we left off last time. I talked about Dr. Marsh like he was an old family friend they’d know. I let them know that Hank was visiting and looked good and that he was thinking of changing his major… again. I told them about Jude and how I thought they’d have liked him.
“Anyway,” I say now, shivering a little in the cool dusk, “I’m dreading the face. You know the one. The ‘oh-my-gosh-I’m-so-sorry’ face, the ‘you-poor-dear’ face. It seems like only recently I’ve finally stopped running into people who know me from back then. That’s why I don’t tell anyone. It just makes everyone uncomfortable.” I sigh and pick at the grass. “And I know—well, hope—that Jude will be different and won’t treat me like the poor, pitiful orphan, but… why can’t he just let it be? I mean, isn’t it enough to know I don’t want to talk about it?”
I throw a handful of grass at the headstone. “You guys really fucked me over, you know that? I wasn’t kidding when I told him you haven’t been there for me. You haven’t. And you got your way, by the way. I’ve never been anywhere. Just how you wanted it. I spent the semester I wanted to spend overseas undergoing surgery after surgery. And by the time I was finished and ready to go back to school, Hank had been in foster care long enough. I had to get my diploma and get a real job. To support the two of us. Like some kind of tragic heroine in a book, only there’s been nothing heroic about my life. It’s just been pathetic.”
I pause and sigh. “Until recently, I’ve been pretty ambivalent about life, actually. If it weren’t for Hank, I probably wouldn’t be here. What’s the point?” Annoyed at my own theatrics, I mutter, “Oh, who am I kidding? Even if it were just me, I’d still be here. I’m too squeamish to kill myself. Even with pills. The closest I’ve gotten to suicide is with my reckless driving. You’ll probably be glad to know that I drive a lot more carefully lately. Not as much of a death wish now that Jude’s around.” I consider that for a second and don’t say anything for a while.
“Miss!” someone calls, making me jump. I look over my shoulder. It’s a security guard. As I stand, he says, “Cemetery’s closin’. You got to leave.”
I brush my hands against my damp butt. “Okay!” I call back. To the marker, I say, “Well, I guess I should go home and figure out how I’m going to make it up to Jude for being so… me… this morning.” I go to leave, then turn around as I say, “Bye. Again.”
Before I let that statement get to me too much, I jog for the gate, where the security guard is waiting.
18
The shiny black keys blur and merge, blur and merge in my unfocused stare as I widen and narrow my eyes repeatedly. Blur and merge. Blur. Merge. Jude’s office was dark and locked when I arrived at work a little earlier than usual. I’ve been sitting here staring at my computer keyboard for at least ten minutes, willing myself not to turn around every thirty seconds and check to see if he’s arrived yet. I still don’t know what I’m going to say to him anyway.
Part of me is really hurt and pissed off at some of the things he said on the phone Saturday. Part of me knows I deserved it.
Yesterday was hell. It felt like I had stepped into a time machine and transported myself six months into the past. I think Sandberg was diggin’ it, but by the time I’d flipped through all 260 television channels for the twenty-fourth time, I was ready to scream my head off. I don’t live in the best neighborhood, though, so I was afraid someone would call the cops if they heard a woman screaming. And then I’d have to explain myself to one more person.
Suddenly, someone is standing behind me, rubbing slightly against my right shoulder. “What are you looking at?” he whispers.
I turn around, and Marvin takes a step back. “Get away from me!” I snap. “What the heck is wrong with you?”
He looks hurt. “Wha…? I was trying to see what you were staring at!”
“Why do you care?”
“I dunno. Sheesh!” He glances over his shoulder as if he’s looking for someone or making sure they’re not around. “Yo. Not cool what you did to Jude this weekend. Not telling him you had a brother, then dissing him so you could hang out one-on-one with your bro? That’s cold, man.”
At my crazy, angry-eyed expression, he says, “I know, you’re probably pissed that Jude told me all that, but he was hurtin’! Came to work to see how I was coming along on that thing I was making for him, that’s how desperate he was for something to do to take his mind off it.”
I’m going
to kill Jude. And I’ll be on the news… again.
Oblivious to my thoughts but not to my twitching eye, Marvin continues, “And he wouldn’t have told me anything, babe, but we went out for drinks Saturday night, and he had a few too many—although it’s amazing how well that skinny dude holds his liquor—and that’s when he told me why he was such a loser, being at work on the weekend, which I didn’t take offense to, you know, considering I was at work, too.”
“Shut up!” I hiss. “Just… shut… up, Marvin.”
He puts his hands in front of himself and backs away. “Peace. Man, you are one scary bitch,” he calmly declares as he turns and strides down the hall away from me.
Funny, now I’m not at all unsure about what I’m going to say to Jude when he gets here. First off, nothing. I refuse to have some kind of public lover’s spat for all the gawkers to witness, especially those like Leslie who have been hoping for us to fail spectacularly. Next, if he comes to me to try to start a conversation, I’m going to coldly tell him that he’ll have to wait until after work. Then… well, let’s just say I hope he knows something about self-defense.
I almost get through the entire day without him trying to say anything to me. Without anyone trying to say anything to me, actually. I think I have “Bite me” written all over me. But at 3:00, he’s lurking at the vending machine, knowing too well my addiction to the late-afternoon Kit Kat, especially when I’m stressed out or upset. Instead of being smart and turning right back around when I see him leaning up against the machine, holding an already-purchased Kit Kat as a peace offering, I continue in. But I don’t take the candy bar from his hand. Instead, I feed my own money into the machine and press the button to buy my own.
“Now, what’s the point in that?” he asks dolefully.
Ignoring him, I rip open the wrapper and turn to walk out.
“Libby!” he beckons.
I stop in my tracks, turn on my toe, and shoot him the dirtiest look I’ve ever given him (and that’s saying something, going back to his first few months of employment here). He brings his head back, his face wary.
