by Lacey Dailey
I didn’t bother grabbing any when I took off. I figured if I was going to be sleeping in shady places, I wanted to protect myself as much as possible. Exposed legs made me feel too naked.
I pull a dozen more weeds, sweat dripping off the tips of my hair and running down my shirt. I roll my shoulders and pop my neck, my muscles screaming from the strain. Little pockets of fatigue are packed beneath my eyes. Weariness is tugging at me as I try to move on. I tug back.
It’s my first day on the job, and I can’t leave until I’ve mastered perfection. It isn’t that hard to yank some asshole weeds from a few gaps in the concrete, and I’m not about to wimp out on two people who took a chance on me as a favor to their daughter.
I owe them more than a bucket of weeds.
By the time I’m done, I feel like I submerged myself in a pool of sweat. There’s an ache between my shoulder blades and I’m so tired my nerves are throbbing.
I press my fist against my thigh, popping all my knuckles. My legs feel like two overcooked spaghetti noodles when I move to stand up. I stare at the overflowing bucket of weeds, waiting for the sun to set them on fire.
My muscles do some sort of dance as I wobble toward the shade, collapsing in my new favorite chair.
“Take this.” Reggie’s holding another bottle of water, eyes dropped low in annoyance. “Moron.”
I snuff a laugh and grab the extra water, partially wondering when he got up to get it but also not caring. I chug half of it and dump the other half on my head.
I crunch the empty bottle in my fist.
“It’s missing the hand.” He nudges his chin at the prosthesis covering my nub. “What good is a prosthetic hand that doesn’t come with a darn hand?”
I laugh out loud. “You’re a blunt guy, Reggie.”
“I’m too old to beat around the bush, kid.”
“The hand isn’t functional, and it’s creepy looking. The socket gets the job done just fine.”
His eyebrows pinch. “Socket?”
I lift my nub, knocking on the blue carbon fiber base that covers it. “Socket.” I twist the small knob on the side, loosening it. Sliding it down my nub, I hand it to him. He inspects it with fraught eyes, running his crooked finger along the edges.
“This looks painful.”
“Nah.” I wave my nub. “I have a sleeve to put on first. I’d take this off too but it’s neoprene and drenched in sweat. I’m sure it smells like a hamper.”
“What good does it do if you don’t have the hand?”
“See that?” I point towards a silver plate at the bottom of the socket. “If you pop that off, it’ll reveal a hole for me to screw my hook into. The silver plate is just an attachment to keep dirt or something else from getting inside. I use it for when I want to put pressure on my socket. Like push-ups or crawling on concrete to pull weeds.”
He pops the plate off and looks down the hole like it’s a microscope.
“The myoelectric hook is actually ten times more practical when it comes to holding things for cooking or building purposes."
Reggie’s gaze is anchored to the device in his hand, shaky fingers fiddling with the knob, expanding and contracting the sides of the socket. “How does that work?”
“The hook? Simple." I lean over the arm of my chair and point to the power button right above the knob. "I'd have to screw it in first, but then once I turn it on, I flex my forearm muscles and that's what open and closes the hook."
"Well, I'll be jiggered. This is fancier than the car I drive."
I chuckle. "It took six months to make. The goal is to have this one for the rest of my life since I should be done growing. It's why it's so high tech."
And the reason I never let my dad buy me a car.
“It must be hard for you, having to do everything with one hand.”
I catch the socket when he tosses it to me, sliding it back into place. The knob clicks each time I turn it, compacting the sides so it's snug against my skin again. “Not really. I mean, it’s all I’ve ever known. Some people are born with two hands and then lose one and have to adapt. I’ve been adapting since the day I was born.”
My dad always told me I lived a normal life in a remarkable way.
I’m not sure if I’ll ever believe my nub and socket make me remarkable. Living life with one hand is basically the same as living life with two. The only difference is that I had to learn my limitations and blessings in life at a much earlier age than most.
“The worst part is when people look at me like I’m contagious. Like if they are around me for too long their hand will fall off.”
He grunts. “People are dipshits.”
“My dad told me God left me one hand to flip off the assholes with.”
“Your dad sounds like a great man.”
Pressing my lips together to keep them from trembling, I right my posture so I don’t collapse. Too much mention of him sparks suffering in parts of my body I didn’t know existed. Like a scar on my soul that keeps reopening. A wound that won’t heal.
I’m not sure I want it to.
“He was the best.” I manage to say.
If Reggie picks up on my use of past tense, he doesn’t mention it. He clamps his boney hand on my forearm and gives it a squeeze like he’s passing along strength he shouldn’t know I need.
“I bet Alma loved that contraption,” he says after a beat. “With her obsession for random objects.”
“Treasures,” I correct him, appreciating his attempt to change the subject. “Alma would not tolerate you calling her treasures objects.”
“That’s precisely why I do it, son. Riling that girl up is the extent of my old age entertainment. A man can only watch so much Wheel of Fortune.”
My small laugh is somewhat therapeutic. “She did go nuts over it. She tried to ball her hand into a fist and try it on.”
Her little nose crinkled with displeasure when she couldn’t get it over her wrist. Slim shoulders shook while she puckered her lips in a pout. I think she was trying to look like the Incredible Hulk but she really just looked like a more adorable version of Grumpy Cat.
“That girl is a weirdo.”
“No, she’s not.” My jaw goes rigid. “She’s fine the way she is.”
More than fine.
“Relax your face, son. You’ll have double the wrinkles I do.” His grin grows when he scans me, ocean eyes lingering on the fist I’ve got clenched so tight, my veins are bulging prominently from my skin. “The whole family is a rowdy bunch and I wouldn’t change any of them. Though I could do without Jackson carrying that dog everywhere.”
I try to stifle my laugh. “I feel like it’s always watching me.”
“Jackson or the dog?”
"Both." I recline back and prop my foot on my knee.
“So, you’ve met the rest of the clan?”
“Yeah, a few nights ago. I’m not sure Shepherd likes me very much.”
“Of course not. You’re a male hanging around his younger sister. It’s in his nature to worry.”
“I can respect that.”
After learning that kitchen sink night is the actual cause of diabetes, I decided to partake in it anyway. I ran around the Underwood kitchen, helping Alma and her siblings collect every dessert item in the house and toss it into a Rubbermaid tub that looked like it could hold about ten gallons. When we successfully emptied the cabinets of anything that might contain sugar, Shepherd dragged it into the living room and we all sat around it, eating the strange mixture with serving spoons. There were several times throughout the night when I wasn’t sure if I was loving the taste or completely repulsed by it.
Jackson asked me hundreds of questions about my nub that night, ranging from how I hold a pencil to why I chose the color blue instead of a color that matched my skin.
Answer: because blending in was never going to work for me.
Shepherd didn't bother to join in on the conversation, or even glance in my direction for too long. I tried to put myse
lf in his shoes, consider how I’d feel if I came home to find a teenage guy living in my little sister’s room.
It only made me angry he thought I’d somehow hurt Ace. As if hurting her wouldn’t completely wound me.
“Shepherd has been the alpha of that crowd since they were kids. He used to tuck them all in at night, lay with them if one had a nightmare. He was the parent when Harrison and Clare were here working. He wouldn’t ever admit it, but it was a struggle for him to move to Ann Arbor. Less than an hour away and to him it probably feels like he’s across the ocean.” Reggie turns to look at me. “You have someone like that?”
“I don’t have any siblings.”
He bats his hand. “Not a sibling. Just somebody who’d knock down a brick wall with a hammer if you asked them to.”
I immediately think of Josh.
My insides burn like somebody just poured a pitcher of acid down my throat. My stomach squeezes, unable to handle the torture.
“No,” I lie, closing my eyes and forcing my chosen brother from my brain. “I don’t.”
Reggie drums his wrinkly fingers against the arm of his chair. “Because you moved?”
“No.”
“Ya know, kid, the strange thing about abandonment is that we spend so much time fearing the response of the one we left behind, we forget to consider what we’re doing to ourselves.”
I crack my eye open.
“By walking away from a person like that, we walk away from a part of ourselves we found peace in. Sometimes we’re okay and sometimes we’re not.”
I am not okay.
“The interesting thing about walking away is that there’s always a path to take you back.”
Who the hell gave this old man a crystal ball?
I watch his movements from the corner of my eye. “Sometimes it’s just too late.”
“With the right friendship, it’s never too late.”
His words drape me in a sense of longing so substantial, my throat starts to shrink. I breathe through my nose violently, my heart knocking around in my chest. The absence of my brother is an ache that comes and goes. I forget… but only long enough to remember again.
There’s a man on my shoulder, scolding me and telling me what I already know.
I lost two best friends when my dad died.
One is gone forever. One I can get back.
I want my brother back.
“Do you ha–" I clear my throat and start again. “Do you have a phone I can borrow?”
His smile is slight. “Sure thing, kid. There’s one on my desk. Just press star and dial any number.”
Pushing myself out of my chair takes five big breaths and a pep talk from Alma I make up in my head.
I feel heavier with each step I take. The air conditioner makes me shiver when it blasts me, turning the droplets of sweat across my body to ice. My hand shakes as I reach for the phone. I pick it up and put it back on the receiver seven times. It slips off my shoulder and dangles over the edge of the counter. I almost give up right then and decide strangling myself with the old phone cord would be easier than pressing the damn star button.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
My eyes watch the phone swing back and forth, the dial tone haunting me–– moving through me like the after effects of a bad dream. It’s my new least favorite sound and I rush forward and hit the star button just to make it stop.
I’m on autopilot as I type in the nine digits, fingers numb and tongue thick.
My lungs stop working when it starts to ring.
“Hello?”
The sound of his voice is like a rock in my ribcage.
“Hello?”
I pound my chest, a sound eerily close to a bark escaping my chest.
“Who is this?”
Say something!
“Josh?” I sound like somebody sanded down my vocal cords. “It’s me.”
There is a hitch in his breath and a noise that sounds a lot like a sob. “Rumor?”
13
Tampons, Trash & Time
Alma
“I cannot believe I just climbed through trash for you.”
Lenox grins, clearly pleased with herself. “Dad is going to be so proud.”
“Uh…” My lips smack together. “Why?”
“This was his idea.”
“A giant trash pile on his back porch was his idea?”
“It was his idea for me to join the art club.” She drops cross-legged on the porch and starts poking at the mound of trash we spent two hours dumpster diving for. I smell like a skunk, and Lenox has a jelly-like substance in her hair. Not my first choice of a nightly activity but when my sister says she needs me for something important, I steal some surgical gloves from Jackson’s room, shove a tampon up each of my nostrils, and dive in.
“All this for the art club?” I squat down and use two fingers to lift some packaging for Fruit of the Loom underwear. “I’m not sure how this translates.”
She swats the package out of my hand. “Our first task was to create art out of something unusual, and what’s more unusual than trash?”
Girl has a point.
“Are you going to help me sort this or what?”
I arrange myself so I’m sitting on my knees. “How does one sort trash?”
“I’m not sure yet. We can definitely ditch all the food items. Those won’t work. Maybe by plastics and paper?”
I recoil at the way she rubs her glove covered hand over her chin in thought.
Trash germs. Ick.
“Ya know.” She tosses an apple core into a trash bag. “I figured you of all people would be excited about this.”
I jerk. “Why me?”
“Because you collect treasures and this is practically the same thing.”
I throw my hand over my heart, germ-filled glove be damned. “How could you even begin to compare my treasures to this heap of garbage?”
This girl has the nerve to roll her eyes at me. “It’s all stuff nobody wanted.”
“Because who wants this?” I lift an empty carton of fat-free vanilla yogurt. “There’s mold in the inside.”
“We just have to find the right thing,” she says, sifting. “You know the saying ‘one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.’ Huh.” Her lips purse. “Maybe that’s what I should call my project.”
“Lenox, none of this is treasure. It’s all trash.”
“What about this?” She flings something at me.
I dodge it quickly, pressing my lips together to keep any trash molecules from soaring into my mouth. An object thumps against the side of the house and rolls across the wood pallets of the porch, spinning and spinning in circles until I reach out and snatch it.
My fingers tighten around the object once I get a good look at what’s in my grip.
Treasure.
“I stand corrected.”
Lenox chuckles. “You can keep it.”
“Her,” I correct, suddenly wide awake and feeling much more exhilarated than I was two minutes ago.
My new treasure is a doll head. She has porcelain skin and long blonde hair I run my hand down. The little plastic crown on her head deems her a princess. She winks at me every time I tilt her, only one eye opening and closing the way it should. Flipping her over, I give her a good swat on the back of the head. Sand falls from her eyelids and sprinkles the wood below us. The wires coming from her neck tell me she used to have a voice box before someone or something decapitated her.
She’s perfect.
I set my princess aside carefully, my brain already running through the endless possibilities of her past. Her story will have to be a tragedy. Something morbid and filled with misfortune. I’m thinking toy maker gone rogue after facing an event that could only be described as an utter calamity.
“Alma!”
I jerk, blinking to bring Lenox back into focus. “Huh?”
Her smile is smug. “Still think everything in here is trash?”
I flick an old bottle ca
p at her. “Keep digging. Maybe we can find her body.”
What a story that would be.
“I think I want to keep all the shoes and ditch everything else.” She yanks a red suede stiletto from the heart of the pile. It’s missing its heel and covered in a dark liquid. “There’s a story about the woman who wore this shoe.”
“That’s an idea.” Plucking a banana peel from the edge of the pile, I toss it back into the trash bag it came from. “Maybe you could make some kind of sculpture with all the shoes, representing different walks of life and what not.”
She beams, hugging her shoe to her chest. “I’m an artistic genius.”
“Dad will be so proud.” I free a blue tennis shoe with missing laces from the pile and hand it to her. “Why’d he encourage you to join the art club, anyway?”
“It wasn’t art club specifically. I told him I was struggling to decide what I wanted to study in college. He suggested I find a creative outlet.”
My knees aching against the unforgiving wood, I shift to sit on my butt. “You think art club is going to give you some insight into your future?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” She shrugs. “If anything, it’ll be something fun to keep me busy.”
“Why’s everybody so stressed about the future?”
Her nose twitches. “Why are you not?”
“I guess I am on some level, but I also don’t want stress to be the only thing I feel for the next year.” I flick something brown off my arm. “Look at Arthur. We are less than two weeks into school and he’s already losing it because his parents won’t stop badgering him. He came to school this morning and announced he was an octopus.”
“An octopus?”
“Because apparently, octopi eat themselves when they get stressed. Poor guy is one family dinner away from putting himself in the oven.” I pull my knees to my chest. “I don’t want to eat myself, Lenox.”
“Well I’m not about to start blending my limbs or anything, A. I think of it more like an adventure.”
I crack a smile. “An adventure?”
“Yeah. High school is sort of like the map for the rest of our lives. I’m just having trouble choosing which road to take.” Her fingers find a bald cap and she pulls it free, dangling it between us. Eyes matching mine gleam with laughter. “Which road do you think this bald cap is telling me to take?”
