All We Left Behind

by Ingrid Sundberg

  “Okay.”

  “Yeah, so . . . what is it?”

  Conner laughs again. “It’s—” He pauses, clearly amused. “Look, it just means you’re in. Don’t sweat it.”

  “In for what?”

  “In for nothing. Just in.”

  “What does—?”

  “It’s a party.”

  I want to hang up the phone. Of course it’s a party. What else would it be?

  “Right,” I say, releasing the latch. It snaps back violently, stabbing my thumb.

  “Look.” Conner pauses, and I put the bruised finger in my mouth. “Just come, all right?” His voice is kind, almost genuine. “Just come.”

  He hangs up before I have a chance to ask about Kurt and find out if he put him up to this. I consider inviting Lilith to the party, not sure if that would be okay. It probably is, but the thought of Lilith being there feels wrong. I don’t want her in my head. I don’t want the advice and the sideways glances, like she’s all grown up and not sure why we’re still friends.

  A knock clicks lightly against my door.

  “Marion?” It’s Dad, only his voice is soft and uncomfortable, like he isn’t sure he’s allowed to knock.

  “Yeah?” I say, hiding my phone under my pillow, along with the paper Conner gave me.

  There’s a pause and then he tries the knob, but it jangles and thuds. Locked. There’s an awkward pause before he tries the knob again, twisting the metal back and forth like he wasn’t sure he did it correctly the first time. I started locking that door after the barbecue, not sure what I was trying to keep out or in. It didn’t erase the memory of belt buckles against my chin.

  “Are you okay in there?” he asks, but the question sounds more like an apology for knocking and I’m sick of him always tiptoeing around me. I swing open the door, with my throbbing finger pressed to my lip.

  “What’s up?”

  He squints at my hand but doesn’t ask. He never asks. Instead he peeks over my head like he’s looking to see if someone else is in the room with me. I lean against the door so it opens.

  “Just me,” I say indignantly, the room in view. It’s a joke, but his eyebrows arch.

  “Should I be worried about that?” he asks, his eyes focused deliberately on me, and not on what might be in my room.

  I almost say yes, to see how he’ll react. God, what would he do if there was a boy in this room? Would he see me then?

  “I trust you,” he says, his voice serious, and cold reeds through me. I hate it when he says that, like it’s all up to me. Did he say the same thing to my mother, before she left with that lawyer guy? Did he trust her? Shut the door? Refuse to see?

  “I know,” I say quietly, pushing the door open completely, so he can look if he wants to.

  “You’re a good kid,” he says, stepping back and pulling off his glasses. He cleans them on the front of his shirt and looks to the kitchen. “Do you want pizza?”

  Hot, sticky pizza sliding down my throat? No, not really.

  “Sure,” I say, slipping past him and heading for the kitchen. I’ll pick off the cheese.

  I leave my door open behind me in case he wants to look and see if anyone’s there. I secretly hope he will look. But when I glance back, he pulls the door shut.

  * * *

  A week after the Fourth of July barbecue, Dad came into my bedroom without knocking.

  I didn’t have a lock then.

  My hair was gone, cut off and thrown in the Dumpster, and there were crumpled tissues littering the floor. The pink wastebasket next to my bed didn’t smell pink anymore and my whole body ached from puking. I couldn’t get rid of the taste of meat and muddy water under my tongue.

  Dad’s weight sank into the mattress as he sat next to me, and I pulled my vomit-stained comforter up to my chin. Slats of sunlight peeked in through the blinds, and my broken flip-flop lay on the carpet. The thong between the toes torn free from the rubber.

  “Lilith’s been calling,” Dad said, pressing a hand against my forehead to check for a fever. “She wants to know if you want to go to the beach.”

  I closed my eyes and felt the warmth of his hand. I didn’t want to go anywhere.

  “You don’t have a temperature,” he said. “You should call her back.”

  “I—”

  “Nope,” he interrupted, removing his hand from my cheek. “I know you’re embarrassed you cut your hair off, but it’s time to stop pretending you’re sick.”

  “But—” I pointed to the pink belly of my trash can.

  “No buts.” He stood up and took the end of my comforter. “This needs to be washed.”

  He swept away the fabric in one quick motion and air flooded me.

  “Lunch is in the kitchen,” he said, crumpling the blanket into a ball and heading for the door. “I expect you to join me in ten minutes.”

  Something caught his foot. He looked down and a yellow clump of fabric was wrapped against his shoe. My skirt. The one with embroidered daisies along the hem. Drenched daisies that dipped in and—

  Rose hips caught in my throat.

  Did he recognize it? It was the same yellow fabric that had stuck to my legs. Flip-flop broken. Meat wrapped in foil.

  He clutched the puffy-white comforter in his hand, the fabric pillowing through his fingers like dough.

  “Ten minutes,” he repeated, shaking the yellow fabric off his shoe. “You’re not sick and this is the last I want to hear of it.”

  He kicked the yellow skirt under the bed, into the dark, and after that day he never once barged into my room again. In my mind I could see that man at the barbecue smiling, with my kiss hidden under his tongue—

  Where no one could see it.

  Kurt

  It’s dark when I drop Vanessa off at her house and drive home. I pull up to find Dad’s truck parked diagonally across the driveway. I park by the curb and think about the unemployment form I saw sitting on the counter this morning. It answers the big question. The fact that his truck’s moved means at least he got off the couch.

  On the front step, I pull out my keys, but my practice bag hits the door and it inches open. Unlocked.

  That isn’t like Dad. That’s a Mom thing to do. I cringe at his carelessness and wonder how long this unemployment bullshit is going to last. How I’m going to put up with sharing this place with him.

  “Get off me!” a woman’s voice shrieks from inside the house, and my stomach drops. “Get your fucking hands off me!”

  I drop my keys and I throw open the door. Voices argue, but everything’s dark, and I can’t tell where the voices come from. There’s a rushing sound, like the shower is on, or a pipe’s busted. A dim light glows down the hall and a scream pounds my stomach to my throat.

  I run toward the light, shadows slashing against the wall.

  “Come on! You have to—”

  It’s Dad’s voice.

  But the woman shrieks and drowns him out. The noise is feral, like an animal. And then there’s a crash!

  I speed forward.

  “Dad?” The word shoots out of me like vomit and the yelling stops.

  “KURT!!!”

  Her voice curdles the silence. Josie’s voice—tearing through me like a thousand razors.

  She can’t—

  This can’t—

  It’s not possible.

  But what I see through the door frame tells me different.

  The bathroom mirror is smashed. The shower head roars and beneath it is my sister. Hunched over. Fully clothed. Wet.

  Behind her is my father, clutching her wrists, holding her under the water with all his weight. He’s fully clothed too, and it almost looks like he’s hugging her. Almost.

  I don’t move. Not sure what to make of this.

  Josie’s black eyes glare at me, mascara streaking her cheeks, and when I don’t come to her rescue she starts to buck against my father. She screams, trying to dislodge him, and that animal noise—it’s her.

  “He
lp me!” my dad hisses. “She’s detoxing, Kurt! Get over here and help me hold her down.”

  Josie’s hand slips from his grip and she claws at his face. “I hate you,” she screams. “I fucking hate you! I hate both of you!”

  Her palm smacks his nose and red smears over Dad’s cheek.

  I’m moving now.

  Josie swings at me, but I wrap myself around her, pushing down with all my might. Dad does the same. I’m half in the tub and half out when she screams. Bites my ear.

  Hot pain flashes through me.

  White pain.

  “Jesus fuck!” I stumble, but I don’t let go.

  Water thrashes. Pounds over us. It floods the floor and the tile and the hall. We don’t stop. We squeeze tight and hold. Hold all that we have.

  * * *

  The lights are off in the hallway. Dad’s in the bathroom mopping up the water from holding Josie down, and I’m on the floor, sitting across from Josie’s room.

  The screaming has stopped. Even after we got her to calm down in the shower, she started again. Made sounds behind that door like there were bugs hatching out of her skin. Sounds I won’t ever forget.

  Light creeps up the hall and Dad steps out of the bathroom, two bloodstained tissues hanging from his nostrils. I’m surprised he isn’t holding a cigarette. I consider getting him one, but I don’t dare leave this door. He glances at me from the door frame and I can’t tell if he’s angry or sad. Mostly he looks tired.

  “Where did you find her?” I ask, and he removes one of the tissues and breathes deep, dabbing his nostril with the back of his hand.

  “Nowhere good.”

  My jaw tightens with the implication and I glare at the padlock on Josie’s door. The one on the outside. Our side.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, be happy she’s here.” He shoves the tissue back in his nose and slaps the mop on the tile.

  I stand up and grab the padlock. I yank the metal and it bangs, making the door smack against the frame. But I don’t have the key.

  “Hey!” Dad rushes me. “She needs her sleep. Let her rest.”

  “How long are you going to keep her in there?” I get in his face. “Why isn’t she in the hospital?”

  He snorts and a bitter laugh drops out of him. One of his tissues falls to the floor, and I smell dried blood.

  “You got money for that?”

  “I could get a job,” I offer, but he shakes his head, not bothering to pick up the tissue.

  I smack the padlock, hating this.

  “So that’s it?” I say. “We lock her up, like a prisoner?”

  He nods at me calmly and I want to hit him.

  “That’s it.”

  I curse under my breath and he walks away, tossing the mop into the bathroom, where it smacks loudly against the tile. So much for quiet.

  I slump onto the floorboards and wonder if he gets that he’s the reason she stays away. The last time Josie was in this house it was Christmas Eve. She came home from BU after her first semester, only she looked like shit. She hadn’t gained the freshman fifteen. She’d lost it. She and Dad were decorating the tree when I heard a loud bang! I came out of my room to find them screaming at each other. Broken ornaments all over the floor. It was dark, except they both had fists full of glowing tree lights, strung taut between them.

  “I’m a fucking adult,” she hissed.

  “Yeah? Who’s paying for those classes you’re not attending?”

  “You can’t tell me—”

  “No, I can tell you exactly what to—”

  “Fuck those classes.” She yanked on the lights and the tree wobbled like it might fall down. “I didn’t sign up for next term. So keep your money!”

  “You what?” He yanked on the string and the lights ripped from her hands.

  “You’re impossible!” She threw her arms in the air and stalked away from the mess.

  I could barely make out her eyes when she looked up and saw me. But they went dark.

  “What?” I glared at her, standing my ground.

  “God, you love having this house to yourself, don’t you?” she snapped.

  “I don’t miss this,” I said, pointing to the shattered glass.

  “No, but you would have loved picking up the pieces if I was Mom.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You thought she was such a saint!” She shook her head at me. “You do know she was only ever nice to you when she was drunk. You know that, right? You know that being drunk was the only way she could pretend she wanted this life!”

  “Knock it off!” Dad boomed, moving forward in a shadow of anger. I cowered against the wall, but Josie glared at him. Unflinching.

  “You think that scares me anymore?” Her voice was eerie calm. “You think the truth scares me anymore? At least I can look at it.” His fist clenched and she laughed. A mean laugh, gutted from some dark place inside her. “Why don’t we all admit that we loved it when Mom was drunk. She was fun. It was easier.”

  “You’re full of shit,” I snapped, but she looked at me so hard it felt like she’d kicked my kneecaps in.

  “Am I?” she said, and I wanted to punch her for all those lies. “You’re so naive, Kurt. I bet you didn’t even know she was fucking around on Dad, or that he kept on handing her beers so she’d keep on laughing and playing music on the back porch. Like that music was going to fix anything!”

  Dad slammed the lights to the ground. They sparked violently and slashed out. Cold crawled up my arms and darkness cast over both of them.

  “Get out.” His voice was so black I stopped breathing.

  “You think—”

  “Get out!”

  I couldn’t tell if she was scared, only that she shut up.

  I heard footsteps against broken glass—hers—walking away from him.

  “You don’t live here anymore,” he said, and my throat felt thick with ash. “Get your things and don’t come back.”

  She didn’t take a suitcase, or even her coat. There was only a black shape walking out the door.

  On Christmas Day she called. But when he heard her voice on the other end of the line, he hung up.

  * * *

  In the morning I wake up in the hall. I must have fallen asleep outside her room. It’s quiet and I don’t hear Dad or Josie. But when I look at that padlock—

  It’s open.

  I shoot up. Push through the door, but there’s no one in there. Fear streaks through me, but a hand grabs my side.

  “Hey—” It’s my father.

  “Where’s Josie?”

  “She’s in the kitchen,” he says, holding up his hands to calm me. “She’s eating breakfast. Give her some space.”

  I shove past him, but when I get to the kitchen I slow. Not sure I’m ready. Where has she been? Will she be that animal I saw last night?

  Through the door I see her hunched over a bowl of Froot Loops. Her legs poke out from baggy shorts revealing skin over bone, and the oversized sweatshirt she wears doesn’t hide how little of her is underneath. Scabs cover her legs. Her hair is chopped short on one side, and I swear there’s a bald spot above her ear.

  Her spoon scrapes against the bowl. Scrapes again, going round, chasing the last Froot Loop. Only she never catches it. Never raises the spoon to her mouth.

  She’s only been gone ten months, but I would have walked right past this person on the street and never have known it was her. My sister. I would have been looking for someone else. I hate how that makes me think of Mom. How I liked seeing Mom happy and playing her guitar. How I didn’t want to see her when she wasn’t drinking.

  “You gonna stand there like a pervert and stare? Or you gonna come in?”

  Her body’s thin, but her voice isn’t.

  I walk to the fridge. She tilts her chin up at me, and yellow skin stretches over the tendons of her neck. I yank open the fridge and force my eyes inside. Rotted KFC. Green Powerade. Bread.

  She’s got
a carton of milk on the table, but I’m not going near her.

  “You look good,” she says, as I pull out the bread and untie the bag. “Big-boy soccer champ, taking on the world.” She opens her mouth, like she’s trying to smile, but her tongue juts into an empty space between her teeth. It writhes around like it knows the tooth is missing, but looks for it anyway.

  “You—” I start, but I pull out slices of bread.

  “Me what?” she fishes.

  I keep pulling out slices until I have five in front of me and nothing to do with them. I grab them all and head for the door.

  “Kurt.”

  Her voice catches me. I scrunch all the bread in my fist and don’t want to look back at her. Everything she says is a trick.

  But when I do, she doesn’t say anything mean. She just looks tired.

  “It’s good to see you,” she says, and it’s not a joke.

  I nod, but my throat is tight. “Yeah,” I say. Not sure I know how to look at her. How to see her this way. “It’s good to see you, too.”

  “Yeah,” she agrees, and I want to ask her about the scabs and where she’s been. But maybe those things are too personal. Maybe they’re none of my business. She shakes herself suddenly, like a reflex, and her hand flies to her nose. She starts huffing through her nostrils like she’s trying to blow her nose without actually blowing it. It’s rhythmic. Again and again and again.

  I watch her, but she’s lost in it. Like she can’t make it stop.

  I go to my room and change my clothes. I need to run. Get out of this house and—

  But I hear Dad padlock Josie in her room. I lean against the wall and try to hear her through the wall. I listen for wheezing like in the kitchen, wheezing like I was watching something already broken. Something that can’t be fixed.

  But I don’t hear a thing.

  No screaming. No scratching. No nothing.

  I listen harder, knowing this wall is thin. When Josie was in high school, I could hear her talking to her girlfriends through this wall, or playing music. I even heard her having sex with her boyfriend once when our parents weren’t home. But after Mom died, things got different.

  Muffled.

  I knew something was wrong. I could hear her, crying. But I wasn’t going to knock on her door. There was a wall between us.